The Princess of Celle

Epilogue

‘THE PEOPLE OF Ahlden could scarcely remember what life had been like before the coming of their Princess. They would see her often riding out in her carriage, always surrounded by her guards, gracious, charming, beautiful, and infinitely sad. She was becoming a legend – a Princess about whom a spell had been woven. She was the Queen of Ahlden but a prisoner. There was a boundary beyond which she must not pass, she was shut away from the world that she had known. It was as though a magician had set an impenetrable forest about her domain and all that she loved best in the world was on the other side of it. The magician was George Lewis her husband.

He had divorced her and declared to the world that he no longer considered her to be his wife.

Sometimes they saw her at the window of her apartments standing looking out over the marsh lands across which the river Aller wound its way. In summer the sun touched the river to silver and the scene in golden light had a certain strange beauty; in winter when the land was flooded and winds howled across the marshes it was gloomy and full of foreboding.

But when she drove herself in her cabriolet in summer, she was a magnificent sight for she dressed as though she was attending a state occasion; with her dark hair flowing, diamonds sparkling in it, her gowns of velvet or satin cut in the French fashion which she loved, she was a colourful figure and the people ran out of their houses to watch her. In winter she was driven in her closed carriage – riding like a Queen, none the less grand.

They curtsied to her; they cheered her; she had the gift of making them love her.

Six miles from the Castle of Ahlden was the boundary beyond which she was forbidden to go. The guards were there to prevent her and, resigned, she would return to her prison.

In the beginning she had been listless, but after a while she noticed the people in the cottages who came out to curtsey to her; and now and then she would stop her cabriolet or order the carriage to be stopped and ask them questions about their lives. Their poverty shocked her; it was the one misery she did not have to endure, and she found that by interesting herself in them she forgot a little of her own wretchedness.

They must be helped she said; not only with food, clothes and fuel but their children should be taught. She set up a village school and it delighted her to watch the progress of the children and to attend the school on prize-giving day and award the prizes.

And thus two years passed and while she dreamed of escape the people of Ahlden told each other that life had become more pleasant when the lady of Ahlden had come among them.

Sometimes she paced through her apartments and thought of those in which she had spent her childhood at Celle. These were not dissimilar. From the two windows in her bedroom she looked over the gardens to the village, as in Celle she had looked on the moat; her bed was in an alcove and often during the first months, waking in the night from a dream, for a few happy seconds she believed herself to be a child again, that it was a birthday morning and that her parents would come through the door their arms full of presents.

Then she would rise from her bed and try to raise her spirits by planning a levee to which she would invite the nobility of the neighbourhood, the governor of the castle and her own ladies and gentlemen-in-waiting. Then it would seem to her that she had indeed made her own little court when, magnificently gowned, glittering with diamonds, she would receive them.

But it was a game of make-believe. No matter what she did, she was a prisoner.

The happiest days were those when she received a letter from her mother. The Duchess of Celle wrote frequently always assuring her that never would she relax her efforts to have her daughter released. The letters contained news of Sophia Dorothea’s children – the young George Augustus and the adorable little Sophia Dorothea.

‘They visit me often,’ wrote the Duchess, ‘and they talk eagerly of you. I shall never let them forget you. I am working, my darling, to have you brought to me. Keep up your courage. One day we shall be together.’

After receiving such a letter she would dress herself in her most magnificent gown; she would put the diamonds in her hair and would ride out through the village to the stone bridge which marked the boundary beyond which she could not go. And on such days she could believe that the future might bring some happiness back into her life.

Three years of captivity had been lived through when news came to Ahlden of the death of Ernest Augustus. George Lewis was now Elector of Hanover.

It seemed that Sophia Dorothea had little to hope for from her husband. He was content with his mistresses – Ermengarda von Schulenburg still held chief place – and made no attempt to marry again. He had his heir in George Augustus and now that his father was dead he was in complete command. He dismissed Clara to Monplaisir; his mother, too, was deprived of many privileges – a punishment for never having favoured him as she did his brothers. The Duchess Sophia spent most of her time in Herrenhausen watching events in England; Anne had a son, the Duke of Gloucester, who, if he lived, would be the King of England, for Mary was dead and William, it had been said for years, was half way to the grave; in any case he was unlikely to marry again and have heirs; only Anne then and young Gloucester, who had water on the brain, stood between Sophia and the throne of England. So in Herrenhausen she lived quietly, awaiting news from England. If I can die Queen of England, she said, I shall die happy.

Sophia Dorothea was apprehensive, for Ernest Augustus had always been lenient towards her; he had never hated her as George Lewis did, and had not felt vindictive towards her, but kept her imprisoned because it was politic to do so. George Lewis might keep her a prisoner for revenge.

Sophia Dorothea wrote to him begging to be allowed to see her children; her letters were ignored.

But the death of Ernest Augustus brought a great blessing into Sophia Dorothea’s life, for the Duchess of Celle refused any longer to be kept from her daughter; and confronting her husband, she told him that with or without permission she was going to her daughter.

George William who sighed often for the old days of happiness at Celle which he knew could never come back because Eléonore had ceased to love him and could only despise him for his conduct towards their daughter, now put no obstacle in her way and great was the joy of Sophia Dorothea when her mother came to Ahlden.

After the first almost unbearably emotional encounter they talked together and planned for the future.

‘Nothing now shall keep us apart,’ declared the Duchess. ‘I shall visit you regularly and we will find some way out of this trouble.’

‘Dearest Maman,’ replied Sophia Dorothea, ‘this is the happiest day of my life since …’

‘There,’ said the Duchess. ‘No more tears. This is a happy event. I must tell you the news about Knesebeck.’

‘Poor Knesebeck. I heard they had arrested her too.’

‘Poor child, yes. She was sent to Schwarzfels and imprisoned there. But that sister of hers, Frau von Metsch, is a bold woman. As soon as she learned where her sister was she determined to bring her out of prison. Poor Knesebeck was harshly treated – ill fed, ill clothed and kept in a cold dreary cell. The poor child must have been half demented. You know what she was for excitement. The prison is half a ruin, but this turned out to be fortunate, for when the roof collapsed a tiler was sent to repair it. Frau von Metsch offered the tiler a reward if he would help and while repairing the roof he lowered a rope down to Knesebeck which she tied about her waist; he then hauled her up and lowered her down the wall to freedom.’

‘My dear, dear Knesebeck! Was all well with her?’

‘Yes. Once free she made her way to Wolfenbüttel where they were only too glad to help her. George Lewis was horrified because at first it was believed she had been spirited away and the people were angry and said that George Lewis was being shown the error of his conduct. When he heard she was in Wolfenbüttel he was furious and doubled the guard here at Ahlden because he was afraid someone would attempt to rescue you.’

‘I hope she will be happy there.’

‘She misses you. She talks constantly of you all the time, how ill-treated you have been; she says that she will never cease to proclaim your innocence and call attention to the cruelty of George Lewis.’

‘It is good to have friends.’

‘Knesebeck will always be that. She was indiscreet; she was impulsive and I always feared she urged you to recklessness; but she will always be loyal.’

How quickly those visits passed, but there was the next to look forward to and they became the highlights of their lives.

In the next few years two events occurred to cheer Sophia Dorothea. Her son, George Augustus, coached by his grandmother the Duchess of Celle, became the champion of his mother, a state of affairs which enraged George Lewis and made him very harsh and unfriendly towards his son. Their relationship was impaired from that time and there was active dislike between them. George Augustus resembled his mother; he was handsome and had inherited her beautiful eyes. One day when he was out hunting he escaped from the company and rode with all speed to Ahlden, where he demanded that the drawbridge be lowered, and when the Governor asked who he was he called in a loud voice: ‘I am the Crown Prince of Hanover come to see my mother.’

‘The Governor refused to lower the drawbridge but the young Prince stood his ground and Sophia Dorothea came out to a balcony and for a long time mother and son stood gazing at each other.

‘I shall never never forget you!’ called George Augustus. ‘I shall always fight for your cause.’

And Sophia Dorothea stood, blinded by the tears which dimmed her vision of him.

‘But very soon the rest of the company came riding after him and he was put under restraint and taken back to Hanover to be severely punished by his father.

‘But it was an occasion to be remembered in a sad and lonely life.

‘French and Polish troops invaded the country and came close to Ahlden, and the Duchess of Celle declared that her daughter was unsafe there and implored George William to write to the Elector and tell him that his daughter was being brought to Celle where her family would keep her in captivity.

‘George William hesitated, but Eléonore was firm and at last he relented.

‘That was a day of mingling happiness and sorrow. To stand in the old rooms where she had known such joy – to be home … as she had always longed to be.

‘But she was still a prisoner and George William would not see her.

‘Do not fret, Maman,’ said Sophia Dorothea. ‘For I feel that to see him would only bring pain to us both. I prefer to remember the good papa of my childhood whom I loved and trusted. He changed towards me on that dreadful birthday … and I do not want to think of him as he is now.’

‘So they tried to make the most of this respite; and the Duchess pampered her daughter and sought in every way to make her happy.

‘If I could have my children with me here at Celle, I could happily spend the rest of my days with you, Maman,’ she said.

But of course such happiness could not last. George Lewis did not care to have her so close. Moreover, the people at Celle knew she was there and they demonstrated their affection for her.

‘Don’t trust that Frenchwoman,’ warned the Duchess Sophia.

Sophia Dorothea must return to Ahlden, commanded George Lewis.

‘She is too ill,’ replied the Duchess of Celle. ‘I must nurse her back to health.’

Duchess Sophia at that time became obsessed by one idea. The little Duke of Gloucester, the son of the Princess Anne, had died; now between her and the throne of England there was only Anne, for she did not believe that the English would ever have the son of Catholic James to be their King. She referred to herself as the Heiress of England. William was a sick man; Anne had to be carried almost everywhere on account of her gout and dropsy. Neither of them could produce an heir. ‘I shall die happy yet,’ declared Sophia.

So the time passed and Sophia Dorothea spent a year in Celle, although during that time she never spoke to her father – nor did she see him. And then George Lewis would listen to no more excuses.

She must go back to Ahlden.

That stay in Celle had affected George William deeply. He had felt cut off from his wife and daughter and because Sophia Dorothea was in her old home, because he heard the sound of voices in her old apartments – and sometimes laughter – he brooded on the happiness of the long-ago days when there was no one in his life who mattered to him but his wife.

She was beautiful still – but how remote. He remembered how her eyes used to shine when she smiled at him. Now her gaze was cold. She had said she would never forgive him for the manner in which he had behaved towards their daughter, and she meant it. He felt lonely. Ernest Augustus, the brother for whom he had had a special affection, was dead; and as the years passed he saw how much happier he would have been if he had behaved differently. No longer did he discuss with Eléonore the affairs of Celle; she was aloof and expressed no interest in them. For days he never saw her, yet he was deeply aware of her; and some occasions when he felt particularly old and weak and the melancholy settled on him, he wished that he could go back to that birthday morning now more than twenty years ago when because of his weakness he had ruined his own happiness and that of his wife and daughter.

Bernstorff was still his chief minister yet George William had never learned that he was in the pay of Hanover; he still listened to him; he could still be persuaded. He was too old, he believed, to change his ministers now.

But he turned more to his wife; and although he would not admit his remorse he spoke of their daughter.

‘Poor child,’ he said. ‘My poor little girl.’

Eléonore turned to him eagerly but he knew that it was not his friendship, his companionship, his love that she wanted; it was only his help for their daughter.

He added a codicil to his will and showed it to his wife.

‘When I die,’ he said, ‘our daughter will be one of the richest heiresses in the world.’

‘It will do her little good while she is a prisoner,’ was Eléonore’s answer.

He grasped his wife’s hand and looked at her pleadingly. ‘I am going to do everything I can to bring about her release.’

He saw the pleasure in her face; he wanted to put his arms about her; he wanted to see her joy because everything was going to be between them as it had been when they were young.

But he knew that she was not thinking of him; this change in his attitude pleased her only because of the good it could bring to Sophia Dorothea.

He would visit Ahlden. He would go to his daughter; he would tell her that he had failed her as a father and that was all changed now.

Bernstorff pleaded with him. Was it wise? Should he not first consult with Hanover? Not only would George Lewis be against him but the Duchess Sophia.

George William hesitated. He was feeling ill, for he was after all an old man, being seventy years old.

‘Wait at least, Your Highness, until the weather is more clement.’

‘I will wait a while,’ said George William. ‘But I am determined to free my daughter.’

Bernstorff bowed his head. Hanover did not want interference from Celle. He reported to George Lewis. The Countess von Platen was of no importance now; she was at Monplaisir, never seen abroad, suffering it was said from a terrible illness which racked her body with pain and which had already blinded her. He had heard that she walked about her house through the rooms in which she had once entertained so lavishly, murmuring the name of Königsmarck.

George William never went to his daughter. While he was planning his visit he caught a chill; he became very ill and Eléonore nursed him.

He died begging her forgiveness for his weakness.

She kissed his cold face and thought of the handsome lover he had once been, of the long-ago happy days, and she was overcome with grief, not so much for him, she realized, but for the loss of an ideal and the knowledge that her daughter had lost all that the long-denied support of her father could have given her.

Shortly afterwards Clara died. For weeks before the end she lay in her bed at Monplaisir and although she was totally blind she cried out that she could see Königsmarck at the foot of her bed. His face was pale, his clothes blood-stained and he was calling her ‘Murderess’.

She must tell everything, she cried. She must tell the story of that night for that was what the ghost of Königsmarck was urging her to do.

So she told the story – of hatred and jealousy, of cruel revenge, missing nothing; and those about her bed remembered it and some wrote it down that the mystery of what happened on the night Königsmarck disappeared might be solved.

So died Clara.

It is all deaths and marriages, thought Sophia Dorothea. That was because when each day was like another although the days seemed long, the years flew by. It was her mother who came to tell her that her son George Augustus had married Caroline of Ansbach and that Crown Prince Frederick of Prussia had fallen in love with little Sophia Dorothea and although his father did not approve of the marriage, Frederick was determined to have her.

‘Good matches, both,’ said the Duchess of Celle.

Twenty years after the night of Königsmarck’s murder the Duchess Sophia died, her great wish ungranted. She had said that she would be prepared to die if only it could be as Queen of England. All through the last years of her life she had studied the news of England; she had read of the illness of Queen Anne; she had sat at Herrenhausen hoping that every messenger who came to the castle brought news from England.

But death came instead; and two months later Queen Anne herself died and George Lewis of Hanover became George I of England.

Now she, Sophia Dorothea, was the Queen of England, but she remained the prisoner of Ahlden.

The last years were made a little happier by her daughter who wrote to her and would have visited her had she been allowed to.

It was comforting to know that her children remembered; and she herself was growing old now.

The greatest tragedy of those years was the death of her mother, and Sophia Dorothea herself lived only three years longer.

On a misty November day in the year 1726, she took to her bed, and in her delirium she talked of the past.

She thought she was sixteen and it was her birthday and that she was sacrificed to a monster like a child in a fairy tale.

Her hair, now streaked with white, fell about her shoulders; her eyes were wild.

‘No,’ she cried. ‘Don’t let me go to him. He will kill me. He will destroy me …’

Then she began to weep pitiably.

‘George Lewis,’ she cried. ‘How dared you condemn me. You will never forget … though I am gone.’

Those about her bed shivered. The curse of a dying woman was to be feared.

Then she rambled again, called to her mother, to the Confidante, to her dearest Philip, to her babies… .

The mist from the marshes crept into the palace like a grey ghost, like death.

And she lay back on her pillows in the room which had been her prison for more than thirty years; when she had come to it she had been young and now she was an old woman of sixty.

It was a wasted life, said those about her bed. Poor cruelly treated lady.

In the village of Ahlden the bells began to toll and the people wept openly and told their children how she used to ride about the countryside with her black hair streaming over her shoulders and the diamonds gleaming in it and about her throat – the fairy prisoner Princess of Ahlden who was in truth not only the Duchess of Hanover but the Queen of England.