CHAPTER XXI.
THE CAMPAIGN AGAINST THE DANES.
There is not in the fierce world anything, Scorn, agony, stripes, bonds, fears, woes, deep shame, Kingdomless ruin, but with open hands, With joyous bosom open as to love, Yea, with soul thankful for its great delight, And life on fire with joy, for this love’s sake I would not embrace and take it to my heart. SWINBURNE.
The Princess came back to Hanover, and a few days later Königsmarck set out for the war, so their meetings were few and brief. She was expected to proceed to Herrenhausen, where the electoral court then was; but she lingered in Hanover, excusing herself on the ground that Prince Max’s apartments at Herrenhausen adjoined those set apart for her. The excuse was flimsy, for Prince Max had recently been staying with her parents at Celle while she was there; and though his gallantry had once threatened to exceed the friendship allowed to a brother-in-law, that was long ago, and he now treated her with only ordinary courtesy. But she had raised a similar objection successfully at Luisburg, and it served to delay her visit to Herrenhausen until Königsmarck left Hanover. His orders to march came suddenly, on his return from a visit to the Princess, and he had to start the same night without wishing her good-bye. He left her apartments piqued because she seemed to be in a hurry for him to go: in truth, she was conscious of being watched by spies, and snatched every moment of her lover’s company with a fearful joy. The first of the following letters of the Princess was written before she knew Königsmarck had left Hanover for the campaign; the next two or three describe an interview she had with Countess Platen, of which the most notable point is that the Countess tried to persuade Sophie Dorothea that it was not she, but the Electress Sophia, who had made mischief with the Elector about her intimacy with Königsmarck. The Princess’s letters end with reproaches to her lover for having left her so unkindly, and having sent her no word since he went away.
“[HANOVER,] _Monday_, _July_ 30/_August_ 9.
“It is four o’clock, and I can no longer hope to see you to-day. _Que je suis malheureuse! Vous n’êtes pas content de moi._ I fancy your good-bye was not so tender as it ought to have been. I am overwhelmed with many troubles. You are going away, and I shall not see you for ever so long. I am so distressed that I wish myself dead this very moment. I have not slept, I have a dreadful beating of my heart, and I am so grieved at not seeing you to-day that I am almost beside myself. Life is unbearable without you: how cruel of you to doubt it! I cannot forgive your cruel injustice last evening. Is it possible you think me capable of feeling joyous and gay on the eve of your departure—I, who would like to be dead all the days I spend without you, and only live when I see you again?
“My mother has written to me about Max. This is what she says: ‘_Je ne conseille pas, 201 (moi) de s’embarrasser du voisinage; si le voisin fait trop de bruit, il n’y a que faire passer votre lit dans l’antichambre; par là vous éviterez le bruit, et vous éloignerez du galant_’. I shall know what to do! My mother also tells me the Electress has thanked her for letting me come back, and said she was delighted to see me again. My mother says, considering the kindness the Electress shows me, it is the right and proper thing for me to have left my parents and pay her my court, but she hopes at some future time the Electress will be good enough to let me return to Celle. That makes me despair more than ever, for I dare not hurry my return home, since my mother does not wish it, and I have only just come back to Hanover.”
“[HANOVER,] _Monday, Eleven at night_.
“I have been to Herrenhausen. The Electress told me she had spoken to the Elector, and he thought it absurd for me to imagine such things about Max, and said: ‘It is only a silly excuse she is making. I’ll take care that Max won’t thrust himself upon her in any way.’ He also said many other things, too long for me to tell all at once. When he had finished talking, the Electress asked him if she were to repeat everything he had said to me. At first he said ‘Everything you like,’ but afterwards he said ‘No’. I asked if the Elector wished me to remain ignorant of what he had said, because then he wouldn’t understand my coming to Herrenhausen after saying I should stay in Hanover, and the Electress (who is by way of being very attentive to me) said she should write to me a note to-morrow with full instructions what I am to do, but, whatever happens, I shall now be here the whole week. The Elector will be obliged to start in a few days, and, from what the Electress says, Max will be one of the party.
“La Confidente went last night to La Platen’s, who talked a good deal about me. She said that people do not understand the retired life I lead, and every one is talking about it; but that is the least of my troubles, for I scorn the whole world so long as we love one another. I had hoped, as I can see you no longer, that I should receive a line from you to-day; I am much disappointed that nothing has come. I wonder I have the strength to write to you. I am distressed beyond words at your departure on this campaign. _Mon Dieu!_ why have you gone? What would I not give to scold you in person for the injustice you did me yesterday when you thought I wanted you to leave me sooner than usual? I would give my warm blood and very life to lengthen the moments we spend together.
“La Confidente says that La Platen asks to see me to-morrow; I fear she wants an explanation. I expect to be terribly lectured about my ways, but I will answer her as she deserves. Max is ill: I wish he were ill enough to change his quarters. I am ill too, but my sickness comes from loving you, and only you can soothe my pain and cure me.”
“[HANOVER,] _Tuesday, August_ 1.
“I cannot be comforted because I see you no longer. I am sad, too, at not having had a word from you; there may be some coldness, and I love you so passionately that I wish myself dead if you love me not likewise. I had a note this morning from the Electress, and she says: ‘The Elector told me over again the same things I told you yesterday—that it would be absurd for you not to come to Herrenhausen through such unfounded scruples, and he will answer for any slander they may circulate; Max will not force himself on you in any way, and you have only to lock the door. So it rests with you to come whenever you like, when you have quite done making a fuss.’ She adds to that much love. I will turn and twist as much as I possibly can, so that the Elector will have gone before I get there.
“I fear the letter I wrote to you yesterday has not the smallest amount of sense in it. I was in a pitiable state, for your abrupt departure shows that you are not pleased with me, and I was so ill I could hardly bear myself. La Platen is coming to see me; I will tell you our conversation before I go to bed.
“_Eleven at night._
“I have had a three hours’ _tête-à-tête_ with La Platen. The most important part of the conversation is that she knows the Electress lectured me last year about you, and said that so far from the Electress speaking to the Elector in the way she wished me to believe, _c’est elle qui lui en a rompu la tête, et que jamais l’électeur ne lui a dit un mot_, and afterwards the Electress told several people that she had warned me to change my conduct with you, as it did you harm. La Platen then went on to entreat me to alter my ways [_changer de manière_], saying I lead such a retired life that everybody wonders at it. People were complaining that I neither look at nor speak to them; I could not imagine all they say, because it was not natural for a woman of my age to turn her back so decidedly on society, and they are seeking to find the cause of it all. I answered that if I had made any difference between one and another, if I had not treated everybody in the same way, people would have had a right to find fault; but as I favoured nobody, they have no cause to complain. She spoke several times about you; she is only too pleased with you. At last we parted as intimates; no friendship could have been confirmed by more promises than she made me.
“I have not been out of my room to-day, and my journal will be very long. I am going to bed, as I am worn out, but I shall not be able to sleep. How can I, when I have such a big boy as you in my head?”
“[HANOVER,] _August_ 5.
“This is the sixth day since you left, and I have not had a word from you. What neglect and what disdain! In what way have I deserved such treatment? Is it for loving you to adoration, for having sacrificed everything? But what use to remind you of this? My suspense is worse than death; nothing can equal the torments this cruel anxiety makes me suffer. What an ill fate is mine, good God! What shame to love without being loved! I was born to love you, and I shall love you as long as I live. If it be true that you have changed, and I have no end of reasons for fearing so, I wish you no punishment save that of never finding, wherever you may be, a love and fidelity equal to mine. I wish, despite the pleasures of fresh conquests, you may never cease to regret the love and tenderness that I have shown you. You will never find in the whole world any one so loving and so sincere. I love you more than woman has ever loved man. But I tell you the same things too often; you must be tired of them. Do not count it ill, I implore you, nor grudge me the sad consolation of complaining of your harshness. I am very anxious for fear they have detained the letter you were to have written to me from Celle. I have not received a word; everything conspires to crush me. Perhaps in addition to the fact that you no longer love me, I am on the eve of being utterly lost. It is too much all at once; I shall break down under it. I must end this to-morrow; I shall go to Communion.”
This is the last of the Princess’s letters preserved in this correspondence; she ends as she began, full of love and tender reproaches. The remaining letters are written by Königsmarck, and we have to invoke the aid of external evidence to fill up the blanks. Unfortunately this is meagre, for Colt (whose entry book has been a trusty guide) had left Celle on his last diplomatic mission early in July. His orders were to attend the Elector of Saxony during his campaign on the Rhine. The fatigue of the long marches was too much for him, and he died suddenly at the Saxon headquarters, in August, a martyr to duty if ever there was one, leaving his widow, who was at Celle, very badly off. He was succeeded by Cresset, who did not take up his duties at the courts of Celle and Hanover until the following January.
The campaign against the Danes does not appear to have come to a regular engagement; the object of the northern Powers was rather to frighten the Duke of Celle and the Elector of Hanover into submission than to drive them to open warfare; and even when the two armies were in sight of one another, separated only by the Elbe, a truce was being negotiated. Königsmarck gives a brief account of his march to the Elbe, which seems to have been from Hanover to Celle, thence to Lüneburg _viâ_ Epsdorff.
_Königsmarck to the Princess._
“[ON THE MARCH,] _Saturday, August_ 5/_Tuesday, August_ 15.
“I hope you had my letter yesterday; it was sent by express, but I fear it may not have been delivered to you. I went to dinner at Celle. Their Highnesses asked me if Madame la Princesse were still in Hanover. I told them I had the honour of playing cards with her and Madame l’Electrice on Saturday, and since then I had seen neither of them. Bülow gave me so much to drink _que j’avais une bonne raidis_. Later they took me to Madame Boidavis’s; but I don’t remember what I did or said there, and as I had to return to my quarters, I did not stay very long. Monsieur Goritz arrived after dinner. He talked a long time with Monseigneur le Duc, and I had the honour of conversing with Madame la Duchesse. We talked of serious and pressing matters, but I had so much wine afterwards that I have clean forgotten the conversation, wherefore I am very sorry. Thus the day ended. Wednesday and Thursday went by in marching, hunting, and being very badly lodged. Friday, August 4, I had your letter. Don’t think I had forgotten you; all the time I was thinking of you, whatever work my regiment may have given me. I even forgot my duties dreaming of you; you are the only being in the world who would make me forget them. My great anxiety is lest you should be at Herrenhausen. You know what that means: Prince Max is there.... I cannot forget how you hurried me out of your apartments last Monday—God knows for what reason. But, _ma chérie_, don’t think I suspect you of any mean design—no, I believe you are incapable of any such thing; it was because it was absolutely necessary that I should go, lest we should be discovered.... Adieu, _mon ange_. Think of him who worships you, and don’t let him go out of your thoughts for one moment. Believe me loving and faithful and proof against all. Hell and its torments will never make me change. I will be faithful until death, and after death.”
“[ON THE MARCH,] _August_ 6/16.
“Your letter clearly shows that you will always remain a child and let every one govern you. Your mother orders your movements more than you do yourself. Because, i’faith, she tells you the Electress is so kind that you should pay her great attention, you are let in for staying at Herrenhausen and Hanover, in spite of your wishes and mine. Pull yourself together, and remember you are a woman and no longer a child. Don’t let them lead you by the nose in this way. It is shameful! Such childish fears do not become true-born hearts. Follow your own inclinations, not those of others. I daresay if La Platen ordered you to live in a particular way you would obey her, especially if she told you the Elector thought it right. He has only to say it is ‘absurd’ for you to change your plans, and forget in a moment all that you have sworn a thousand times to me. Say to your heart, ‘Courage, heart of mine’.”
“[FROM THE CAMP,] _August_ 6/16.
“I hope my two preceding letters have reached you. This morning I received yours of August 1. I hope you will be satisfied with what I told you. I did not fail to remember you, but I could not help my letter miscarrying; I swear that I sent it by that peasant.... I vow by all that is holy my love for you has not lessened. If my conduct has altered, it is because I saw you so different that I hardly knew you. While I see you so timid and troubled what am I to think? You will not run the least risk for me. If what La Platen told you be true, the Electress’s favour will please you mightily. Remember what I have told you about her. I doubt whether the Elector ever spoke to the Electress, or if she ever troubled him on the subject. I know you must be careful. La Platen may be right about that coincidence; there is much likelihood, for the Elector’s haughtiness does not agree with what the Electress told you. I wonder you still cringe to the Electress as you do; she will be your ruin sooner or later. I should send her to the devil if I were in your place; but you count her as one of your best friends. She has told you so many untruths that she may not have spoken at all to the Elector about Prince Max, and I firmly believe she has not done so.
“If you had followed my advice, you would not have given any explanation at all to La Platen about your conduct. You would have answered curtly, ‘I do as I please’; and it would have been better. If she be pleased with me, it is because I disapproved of my sister’s conduct and pretended to keep in with her. I don’t disapprove of your making up your quarrel with her, but I hope you will be wise enough not to tell her anything that might do you the least harm. God save you from her. You must look upon her as one of your greatest enemies. I am not in the least surprised she spoke to you of me—she is brazen enough for anything. I should like to have seen you together—a haughty mistress like her with so timid a child as you! I am surprised you saw her alone. I defy her to tell you the least thing about me which might shake your trust. If I have said anything pleasant to her, it was only on very indifferent matters, and at a time when I quarrelled with you. Do not complain about my temper, I implore you; no one could be gentler than I am, and I am learning to be patient. You know I hate La Platen with a deadly hatred, and it is indifferent to me whether she comes here or not. I am too much occupied in thinking of you. I love you, I adore you now with as much ardour as I have ever done. Had I not written to you, you would have been right in saying that I don’t love you, but this is the third letter I have written on the march. I could not do more, for I have only been at villages where the post does not pass near by leagues. I don’t in the least deserve your reproaches, though I read them with some pleasure; for I see tenderness mingled with the anger. Ah! if you loved me as I love you, how happy I should be! But, _ma chérie_, our last evening together was not all that I would have wished. I could not write before I left Hanover, for when I got home I found everything packed up and ready to start, and I was in such despair I jumped on my horse and rode out of the town as fast as I could.... Farewell. My superior officers have arrived—Prince Max also.”
“[BY THE ELBE,] _August_ 17/27.
“We are hard pressed here, and the truce is broken; it looks as though we shall bang away at one another to-morrow. Should anything happen to me I have given orders for your letters and portrait (which I have sealed in a packet) to be burned. I want to die less than ever, for your letter gives me hope and courage, it is so tender and unconstrained. I am delighted with it; it makes me happier than the gods. I am more in love than ever. I have plenty of time to think of my passion, for I am patrolling day and night. You are always before my eyes; I think of you from the crown of your head to the tip of your toe. I reflect I am the only possessor of the jewel, which fell into my hands in so marvellous a way, and count myself the happiest man in the world. Should I die, if the good God has decreed my death, remember I die your true slave and faithful lover; and if one can go on loving in the other world, I vow that I will declare myself to you, and all the beauties of Paradise will never lure me from thee. Adieu.”
“[BY THE ELBE,] _August_ 20/30.
“My letters are so short that I fear you may be angry; yet it is not through negligence, but the calls of duty. We have so few officers that I cannot get a moment’s peace. It is now between ten and eleven o’clock at night, and at twelve o’clock we go on guard, which lasts till morning. From three to seven I sleep, and at seven Le Felton gives me work for half the day. Our plans here change every day! I cannot tell you what will happen. I had a talk with Buccow about many things. Among other things, I said your mother was rapidly wasting away. He contradicted me flatly, and swore he would wager three thousand crowns in solid silver against me. If he be right you will be happy. Buccow told me that when you were at Celle the Duchess bathed on the ramparts in the great vats that are there. Do please tell me if this is true, for he said you did the same.”
While negotiations were pending between the King of Denmark and the princes of Brunswick-Lüneburg, the Danish general took the law in his own hands, bombarded Ratzeburg, and destroyed the fortifications. It was urged that he misunderstood his orders and acted too soon; but there is little doubt this excuse was merely a diplomatic ruse; and, the ostensible _casus belli_—the fortifications of Ratzeburg—having been removed, the King of Denmark signified his willingness to make peace on his own terms. As the only alternative was invasion, which they were ill prepared to resist (and which later happened under the Duke of Lauenburg), the Duke of Celle and his brother had to put the best face they could on the matter, and the next two months were taken up in negotiations for the treaty. All this time the Hanoverian army was compelled to remain by the Elbe, and Königsmarck with it. Fever broke out among the troops, and Marshal Podevils, the commander-in-chief, was seized with it, and had to be taken to Lüneburg.
The Princess meanwhile had left Hanover for another visit to her parents at Celle, where doubtless she renewed her prayers for money. She could not have chosen a worse time, for the exchequer of Celle was very low, and she was met with stern refusal. This, joined to the desperate state of Königsmarck’s affairs and the general hopelessness of the situation, preyed on her mind so much that she became seriously ill. When Königsmarck heard the news, his first thought was to get leave and go to her at Celle; but on reflection he saw the thing was impossible, as his presence was required at the camp. All this is made plain in the following letters:—
“[FROM THE CAMP,] _August_ 27/_September_ 6.
“At this very moment Bülow is crossing the Elbe with the news that Ratzeburg is bombarded; it is in ashes. His mission is to testify to their Highnesses that General Vaidel has bombarded the place a day sooner than he ought to have done, for the King gave him orders to wait till Monday, meaning all day Monday; but Vaidel, too delighted to open fire, began on Monday at six o’clock in the morning, and at noon the town was all in flames. When the King heard of it, he ran to cry a halt, for he had promised to do nothing before Wednesday. I let you know this because the King is sending a message by Bülow to express his regret and to make an offer of peace[210], on the basis of the last terms proposed on his side. So it now depends upon our masters whether there shall be peace or war. In the latter event I shall not see you for a long time, and you may be obliged to flee for safety to Berlin or Amsterdam.”
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Footnote 210:
Here we have another proof of the authenticity of the letters. Königsmarck’s account of the sending of the Danish Commissioner Bülow is in complete agreement with that given by the Electress Sophia in her letters now preserved in the Prussian National Archives. The sending of Bülow is mentioned nowhere else.
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“[FROM THE CAMP,] _August_ 28/_September_ 7.
“Danger is over for the present; and I do not exert myself much, for there is no longer any prospect of advancement for me. So it seems you will probably see your lover safe and sound, unless the sickness all about should catch him. Do not therefore be any longer uneasy about me. The courier who went to Flanders was only sent to make the thing look more important. I firmly believe that they will not make the troops come back, for they are really talking about patching up this affair: rather a difficult task, but our side must make a virtue of necessity. That is how things stand.
“Your assurances of tenderness fill me with rapture; you say you would love me without arms or legs. Surely you wish me to give up the ghost altogether for very joy. You are my idol; I worship you, and my love will only end with my life. I am passionate, tender, faithful; my only joy is to think of your lovely eyes and the fire which darts from them—that sweet fire which burns my heart. But I cannot understand why you went to see La Platen before you left Hanover; for three years you have not been near her, and now you begin. I know you are very timid, but why should you go to see her? Sometimes we must worship the devil lest he should harm us.”
“[FROM THE CAMP,] _August_ 29.
“I can see from your letter that you are ailing, for I found in it nothing to move me. I won’t scold you, for I want to know if you are really very ill. Don’t alarm me if it be not so, and I implore you, don’t eat fruit,—there is nothing so bad for one; lots of people fall ill through that. Dysentery is raging everywhere. _Dieu!_ if such a misfortune were to fall on me, I couldn’t bear it. I am raging to know how you are. I wanted to leave my post and go to Celle; but then it would all have burst, and we should be ruined in reputation. Alas! poor lover! do you consider your reputation when your beautiful one is ill? No, no! let me risk everything. If I do not hear to-morrow evening that you are better, expect me. I will fly to your side, and won’t budge an inch until you are well. I beg your pardon, my beautiful one, for all I have ever said to wound you. Do not refuse forgiveness, I entreat you; take care of your health, my life; rest, and spare yourself. What shall I do if a great sickness seize you? I shudder when I think of it, and death looms before my eyes. If I could only be at the foot of your bed to take care of you, it would comfort me a little! But how can I manage it? Perhaps I should not see you at all, for you will be surrounded by your women if it be true you are really ill. Marshal Podevils has been carried off to Lüneburg, and that gives me more work; for though Bocage has the left wing, I have so much to do on the right wing that I haven’t a moment to myself. I shall be glad to end this campaign without having anything to reproach myself with. Adieu. May the angels preserve you!”
_Königsmarck to Fräulein von Knesebeck._
“You distress me by not giving me better news. Tell Her Highness not to trouble about writing to me. I absolutely refuse to allow her to write while she suffers so. How joyfully I would go to comfort her were it not for Marshal Podevil’s illness! Besides, the truce ends to-day, and I have received orders to be on guard. You can imagine how that news grieves me. I am rewarded by the Duke of Celle, but not by the Elector, so I am raging. I vow, on my damnation, that were it not for my dearest love I would quit the Hanoverian service directly this business is over. I will write of this more to-morrow. I received Léonnisse’s sweet messages with joy. I pray God soon to give her better health. Embrace her tenderly from me.”
_Königsmarck to the Princess._
“ALTEMBURG, _September_ 19/29.
“The joy I feel at knowing that you are out of danger is very great, and I pray Heaven you will soon lose your weakness. If it will only go away, I shall not mind if it leave you pale and thin and reduced to a shadow. My only wish is that you suffer no longer. I should be unhappy indeed were my love only inspired by your beauty, for in twenty-four hours, nay, even less, your loveliness might change to ugliness, and then where should I be? My love is founded on more solid qualities, and it will never change even when you are eighty years old. The beauty of person is but a passing thing, but the beauty of merit lasts for eternity. I am not a man to be in love with mere beauty; it often dazzles me, but never blinds me, for I have frequently noticed that where beauty is so great merit is very little. I vow to you still that I do not know when my love for you has made me easy for even a quarter of an hour; even now scarcely a night goes by but I sit up half the time fearing this and fearing that. I sometimes think if I had done right I should never have paid you my court, for I ought to have thought about the future and all the consequences that would follow upon our love. But then, _I knew you_, and I gave myself up to you. I could not listen to reason, but only to my heart. Too late I see all the obstacles in the way of our happiness, and I know you see them too. You have more to lose than I have, in the rank you are; but we cannot alter that, so, _ma chérie_, let us have pity on each other and hate the fate which makes us so unhappy. Do not think that I shall ever repent having devoted myself to you. No, no! my divine Léonnisse; had I to begin all over again I should do the same thing. My passion carries me away. I cannot write so coldly as you did for four whole pages, but no doubt your weakness made your love seem weak. I will say what my true and sound heart dictates. In spite of all obstacles if only you will not waver, I will show you a constancy that will last till death. Ah! my dear, my dear! true heart wounds are incurable. All joy, all danger, make no difference. They only bring home to me that nothing is dearer than the love I bear for you; and the more dangers, the more difficulties there are to be overcome, the greater will be the victory. The conquest of the whole world is nothing to me compared with the conquest of your heart. When the time comes for us to be together always, we will sing, ‘How delightful is this place! Let us taste its delights.’ But when will that happy hour dawn? I am waiting for it with intense impatience. It is ‘better late than never,’—a detestable proverb for loving hearts, but what would you?
“As the Prince has desired you to return to Hanover soon, it is no use your thinking of going to Epsdorff, or Göhre, but go straight to Hanover. I shall not be done here this month, and the month of November will bring back all our warriors, and as the Prince is one of them we must take advantage of the precious time. If it be true that you have such an aversion to the Prince, I pity you, for you will suffer even more than I do, and that is not a little.... The Prince is one of those monsters who sought to devour the unhappy Andromeda. Would to Heaven I were Perseus to free you from him; but, alas! what can a mortal man do?... I am all yours, heart, soul, and body. Ah! if I could but kiss that little mouth whose sweetness I have so often tasted. My blood riots when I think of it. For eight weeks I have been keeping Lent. I have not shaved since I left Hanover, I have been living like a monk, fasting on Sundays and not missing a sermon, and all for the sake of the sweetest little woman in the world, whom I love more than my two eyes—so tenderly that I cannot find words to express my feelings. My only joy is in gazing on and kissing your portrait as I lie on my bed, without taking my eyes and lips off it for two hours at a stretch. In those moments I must own that I am not a monk, for my passion carries me away. Adieu, adieu.”
When the Princess had recovered from her illness she was sent back to Hanover, and her mother went with her. The Electoral Prince, George Louis, had now returned from the campaign in Flanders, and the Elector of Hanover and the Duke of Celle agreed that it would be better for him in the future to remain at home and see more of his wife and children. Even the Duchess of Celle urged her daughter to attach herself more to her husband. The affairs of the House of Brunswick-Lüneburg were not at their brightest; the trouble with the Danes was a heavy blow, and the campaign this year in Flanders had been attended with disaster all along the line. The French had captured Ghent, won the battles of Linden and Neerwinden, and besieged and taken Charleroy. The star of William and the Allies was certainly not in the ascendant, and the general depression made itself felt at Hanover and Celle. Under these circumstances it was all the more necessary for the families to pull together and show no disunion. The Princess was therefore bidden to return to Hanover and her wifely duty, and make the best she could of her lot—advice which could hardly have been more unpalatable. Her dismay was shared by Königsmarck, who, on receipt of the news, endeavoured to obtain leave from the camp and set out for Celle, where the Princess was. She had been delaying her departure on the pretext that she was not yet well enough to travel. Of Königsmarck’s letters at this time I give the following:—
“[FROM THE CAMP,] _October_ 1.
“Oh, cruel destiny! oh, endless misfortune! why wilt thou always distress me? Scarcely did I see the sun’s rays than a cloud robbed them from my eyes. Only this fatal blow was needed. What! I may not even taste three or four days of bliss with you? Oh, my dear one! I ought to have worshipped you from afar, not loved you; Heaven punishes me for my audacity. You are happier than I, for you hope your mother will find a way out of your troubles; but I have no hope, and greatly fear your plans will not succeed. Alas! where am I to look for consolation? My charming divinity, let me bury myself in some lonely corner of the world, far away from the light, since all hope of passing my life with you is lost. I pity you, my angel; yet I suffer more, for I am the cause of your pain and sorrow. Take care that the Prince does not find any coldness in you, though that advice is greatly against my inclination. You must guard yourself against the danger that threatens you. I therefore advise you to cajole and flatter the man I wish you to hate; you must coax him without fail. The tears you are shedding are tears of blood to me. But for me you would be the happiest woman in the world; yet remember, I suffer no less than you. I thought by devoting myself wholly to you that I should be the happiest of men; but destiny has thwarted us. I have forsaken relatives, friends, countrymen, estates, and wealth to have the joy of sometime tasting peacefully the delights of our mutual love; but, alas! I have lost all without gaining my desire.
“A certain friend of our court told me that they think the treaty will soon be signed, but the Danes make so many quibbles that it is postponed from day to day. We shall still be here ten or twelve days, so the Prince will see you before me, and this cuts me to the heart. Count Platen’s son came to see me yesterday, and brought me a letter from his mother, who is reckoned great among us here; I enclose it to you, so that I may have nothing to reproach myself with. My answer was only six lines, and as cavalier as courtesy permitted. When I have the happiness of seeing you, I will repeat it word for word. The young Count told me that the peace would be signed for certain on Tuesday, but as that is too long for me to wait I must try to find some other means of seeing you at Celle before you go to Hanover. I don’t know if I can manage it, but I shall know to-morrow....
”_L’envoi._—I am writing to ask Marshal Podevils to give me leave for three days. I shall be at Celle before you go away. Directly I know I will start at once. I will come disguised. Wait for me on the small staircase two nights running until twelve o’clock. I know the way to the hidden staircase at the back, and will wait for the signal if I reach there safely. Adieu.”
Whether Königsmarck saw the Princess at Celle or not it is impossible to say. But this much is certain—he returned to Hanover from the campaign late in October, some weeks after the Princess’s arrival there. The following letters (which bring this correspondence to an end) were all written between then and the close of the year. The first is the most interesting, for it shows that the Princess had qualms of conscience about the double life she was leading, though she had not the strength to break from it. Her desire was to flee with Königsmarck to some far-off land, obtain a divorce from her husband, marry her lover, and live in what Count Schulenburg-Klosterrode quaintly calls “an honourable married state”. In other words, she wished paradoxically to get rid of the temptation by yielding to it. Königsmarck, on his part, was not backward in sophistries; he reminded her that their thoughts had always been directed towards matrimony, and, once united to the Princess, he vowed to lead a sober and cleanly life. Whether these good intentions would have been carried out it boots not to speculate; but one thing was now certain, Königsmarck could not remain in the service of the Elector of Hanover. He was still received at court, but every movement was watched. His stolen meetings with the Princess were few and far between and attended with great risk. Often their appointments were not able to be kept, while the fact of a letter having gone astray or a signal misunderstood was sufficient to throw them both into a fever of agitation. Yet he was still so unreasonable that, if the Princess treated him in public with necessary reserve, he reproached her passionately in private. Marshal Podevils warned him again, the Duchess of Celle warned her daughter, and the coldness of the Elector and Electress and the gossip of the whole court must have been surely more than sufficient to point out the extreme danger of the path the lovers were treading. Yet they rushed on, not blindly, but with their eyes wide open, to the very edge of the precipice. Thus ended the year.
_Königsmarck to the Princess._
“[HANOVER,] _Thursday morning_.
“If your father be ruined you will have nothing left to hope for, but I believe the demands of the Danish envoys will not be so exorbitant as all that. You think that I no longer wish to see you; you must know I wish it more than ever, and it will not be good for us to be kept apart much longer—for many reasons, the chief being that should the Danes come into the country—God preserve us!—they might open all letters, and ours also. To avoid that possibility we should have to break off all communication, and without being able to see or write to you my life would not be worth living. So you think your love for me is a great sin, and you believe God punishes you for it. Great heavens! what a thought! Do not get such an idea in your head, for that kind of folly might lead you far from me. You know that our resolves, our inclinations, our wishes are in harmony with the divine laws, and it only depends on Him above to take us away from the life we lead. I vow to Him after that I will sin no more against the sixth commandment, and I will lead a pious life, free from reproach. Make Him also the same vows—perhaps He will hear our prayers. I am longing for that happy consummation, and with what joy I will repent of my sins! Your caresses, your love, your very presence will be all-sufficient to me.”
“[HANOVER,] _Tuesday, Two o’clock after midnight_.
“Your conduct is not very kind. You appoint a _rendezvous_, and then leave me to freeze to death in the cold, waiting for the signal. You must have known that I was there from 11.30 till 1, waiting in the street. I know not what to think, but I can hardly doubt your inconstancy after having such icy proofs of it. You did not deign to look at me all the evening, you purposely avoided playing cards with me, and you wanted to get rid of me. I will go away quickly enough. Farewell, then. I start to-morrow morning for Hamburg.
“[_The next morning._]
“Having spent the whole night without sleeping, I have had time to think over my troubles. I determined to go, but then I remembered I once swore to you that I would never go away abruptly, and I want to know before I go the reason of your behaviour. That is why I am still here to-day. I shall not appear at court, for I mortally hate it, and so you will not be able to give me the signal with your eyes; but the other way will let me know if I may come in. I am glad I did not continue my letter last night, for I was in so violent a rage that I should certainly have said some unpleasant things for which I should now be sorry.”
“[HANOVER, undated.]
“I was sure that you would be dissatisfied with me because I did not keep my appointment. I don’t know if you think my reason a good one, but it was a very real one....[211] But, I say, why did you let me wait the day before yesterday two hours in the street? and why do you not excuse yourself? Do you think I am not hurt by such treatment. Read my first letter, you will see the reasons why I thought you ought to have let me know. I did not cry out about it, but that did not prevent me being very much piqued. Your letter of yesterday charmed me: I will make a play of it, for, besides the wit, it is filled with natural and convincing tenderness. I can see it is my charming princess, my Sophie, who wrote it—adorable angel! I shed tears in reading your letter. Your lovely eyes have been bathed in tears, and I am the cause! Königsmarck, thou dost not deserve to possess Sophie’s loving heart.”
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Footnote 211:
He was ill, but there is no need to quote his detailed description of his illness.
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“[HANOVER,] _Tuesday_.
“My anxiety will not let me sleep. I go over everything in my mind, even my childhood; but I cannot find the letter I had from you last night nor remember where I put it. I burned one yesterday,—it might have been yours by mistake. Unfortunately the missing letter is the one in which you notified when and where I might see you. It was the last I had from you. I remember it well; I had it from La Confidente on Sunday morning, for yesterday morning she had one from me; but she did not write back, and that worries me. I did not find anything in my hat last night. You remember that you asked me what I was looking for. I answered: ‘My hat; some one has stolen my gloves’. You replied: ‘No doubt, for Count Horne, or Oxensterne, I don’t remember which one it was, had a fringed pair of gloves stolen’. You see, I remember trifles. Do not imagine, then, I could have forgotten such a thing as an appointment with you. Would to Heaven I _had_ forgotten, for I fear our carelessness will be our ruin. I swear to you that I looked in my hat, and, as to my gloves, I put them on, but there was nothing in them. I was angry with La Confidente, for she had given me the signal and yet I found nothing [in my hat]. I thought she had not had an opportunity. But I was much surprised on leaving the room to find nothing, for La Confidente had given me the signal a second time. I wanted to speak to her about it, but Prince Ernest followed me so closely, and Stutenfrich was next to me on the other side, that I could not do so. You will see from my letter of last night that I made no mistake; it was written as soon as I got home. If I had one from you I should not have forgotten it in three hours’ time, despite my poor memory. _Dieu ait pitié de nous, car sans son secours je ne sais comment nous sortirons de cette affaire._ I take Him as witness that I fear not the peril I run. But to lose you for ever, that is what distresses me!
“If I wished to go away from you, it was because I might be able to help you better at a distance than if I were near. They might imprison me perhaps, but that is a ridiculous thought; I will not dream of it. I was admiring you last evening, watching you laughing before that mirror in so merry a mood; yet all the time I was trembling, for I thought that the Elector and your mother were already talking about that letter, and were planning how to punish us. Your cheerfulness makes me suspect many things: sometimes I think you will not see me for a long time and little by little detach yourself from me. Other thoughts come into my head whereof I will not write to you. I am so troubled because of that accident that my brain is in a whirl. To crown it all, Madame Goritz has told me that she knows I hid _incognito_ three days in the town without showing myself, and the people I employed in my intrigue had betrayed me, and a dozen things beside; it would take too long to write it all. This, added to the loss of your note, makes me beside myself. If among all my sorrows I had not the one of fearing that you might weary of me, I should console myself in spite of everything, but that thought finishes me. Should they begin to question La Confidente as to whether I have written to her sometimes, she must say at once that I wrote to her several times from Flanders, but not from here. My brother-in-law [Count Lewenhaupt] must be apprised of the same thing, so that we may not betray ourselves. It is necessary my brother-in-law should know what to answer in case he should be questioned, and know to whom the letters were addressed which my lacquey brought him. I shall say that when I went away I asked him to give the letters addressed to the ‘Frole Crunbuglen’ to a woman who would ask for them under that name, and he sent on to me the answers the woman brought, without asking from whom the letters came. He must say neither more nor less. If I do not make my meaning clear, I must have a word with you, for it is wise to take precautions in time, lest we be discovered. You must deny ever having written to me at all, but La Confidente must not deny that I have spoken about you, in case they ask what I have written to her.”
“[HANOVER, undated.]
“What will you say, Madame, when you learn that they did not let me go through the day without the misfortune I dreaded? Marshal Podevils was the first to tell me to beware of my conduct, because he knew on good authority that I was watched. I pressed him to give me more particulars, saying I did not understand what he meant; but he would tell me nothing except that it was concerning a lady of the court, and you can see to whom he refers. I was not satisfied, and implored him to tell me more positively in what way my conduct was wrong. He said he would do so to-morrow on condition I promised not to speak to any one about it. Prince Ernest has told me the same thing; and he is not quite as guarded as the other, for he admitted that the conversations I had from time to time with you might draw upon me very unpleasant and serious consequences. I could not wait any longer in the antechamber for fear of breaking down after hearing such news. Were you to see the state I am in you would pity me; my eyes, from which a torrent of tears has flowed, would show you how my heart is aching. O God! where am I to find a shelter to end my misery? O cruel Fate! scarcely hast thou let me taste the delights of love than thou plungest me into the most pitiable state ever known! From what I could gather from Prince Ernest, all that he knows is through Le Barbouilleur, and he, no doubt, will speak to me about it, but up to now he has avoided me. I shall know to-morrow: perhaps I shall suffer arrest and death.... Nothing has touched me to the quick so much as to find that our affair is in every one’s mouth. I wouldn’t mind the Electress of Brandenburg’s knowing it, if only half the court did not know it too. When am I to see you? When shall I gaze into those beautiful eyes? When will they beam on me and declare the joy it gives you to rest in my arms?”
“[HANOVER], _Tuesday evening, 5 o’clock_.
“I do not know if I am to attribute the sadness in your eyes to your pious scruples or to the thought of our approaching separation. I flattered myself it was the latter during the game; but at supper the sad look vanished and you were as cheerful as ever. Perhaps your partner’s conversation had something to do with it, for he seemed to put you in good temper in a moment. But I may do you wrong; and you restrained yourself because no one should notice your grief; in that case I forgive you. I wanted to ask you yesterday to let me affect a cheerful look, but I could not do so. I beg you, don’t let La Confidente make me signs when she has nothing to give me, or when she does not want to speak to me. I was anxious about her signals all night.
“I needed your letter to deliver me from profound grief. Everything depends on to-morrow’s news. I feel like a criminal under sentence of death, who is to be executed on the morrow. Death would not grieve me more than separation from you. I am more than grateful for your consent to see me; but I know that interview will break my heart, for you are leaving me to go amid many pleasures, in the midst of court society, and surrounded by no end of handsome gallants. The Electress of Brandenburg will put opportunities in your way and you will not be able to avoid them.[212]
“Until now I have always thought my passion was the cause of our differences, and I have blamed myself for acting in so jealous a manner; but, Madame, the quarrel we had yesterday evening shows me clearly you cannot live without quarrelling. From the most innocent thing in the world you magnify the greatest fault imaginable. When I am in the wrong and offend you, why are you not reasonable enough to say: ‘I will not have you speaking to me in that way, and if it occur again we shall fall out’. I should then take care not to commit the same fault again. But no, you are always picking a quarrel with me. You know such ways distress me, and, added to the wicked affronts I suffer every day from all sides, they crush me so that I do not know what keeps me from taking my leave. I shall certainly do so to-morrow, for it is evident you wish to make my life unbearable. Le Barbouilleur found a good deal of fault with you for talking so much to that violinist.[213] Of course it was not seemly for a lady of your rank; but I am no longer in the state of mind to tell you what is seemly and what is not. I must think about beating a retreat, for the way you treat me is beyond bearing; I would rather lose my sight than be treated so. For mercy’s sake, cannot you alter your ways for the sake of a lover who adores you tenderly? Think of all the trouble you have caused me, of all the risks I run, and if there be the least spark of love left in you, you will not let a heart perish on which your image is for ever graven.”
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Footnote 212:
This must refer to a visit Sophie Dorothea was going to make to the Electress of Brandenburg at Lützenburg. The Electress was probably staying at Hanover and Sophie Dorothea was returning with her to Lützenburg.
Footnote 213:
Probably Ferdinand, the favourite violinist of the Electress of Brandenburg.
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“[HANOVER, undated.]
“I am joyful to hear of your return (from Lützenburg), and as my sickness is ended, if you will allow me to come to you and kiss your knees and ask your pardon for all my suspicions, I shall be overjoyed. I am punished enough for them, God knows; for I have been sick unto death with grief and rage, and I had no news of you. I will see you any day and hour you wish. Farewell.”