Chapter 3 of 30 · 4372 words · ~22 min read

CHAPTER II.

THE PROGRESS OF ELÉONORE. (1666-1676.)

Oh, were I seated high as my ambition, I’d place this naked foot on necks of monarchs! WALPOLE.

Sophie Dorothea was born in the castle of Celle on September 15, 1666. On the anniversary of her birth two hundred and thirty-two years later it chanced that the writer visited Celle. It must have been on just such a September morning that Sophie Dorothea was born, with the sun blazing down on the yellow-washed walls and shining into the chamber where the birth-bed was, with the limes and silver beeches in the garden flecked with the gold of autumn, and the blue-green reeds waving on the edge of the sluggish moat. The fine old schloss had changed little with the flight of centuries. The drawbridge and portcullis had gone; but the moat, filled with water from the Aller, still flowed dully about the walls, separated from them only by a strip of garden. The great courtyard, with its high yellow walls, timeworn sundial, and pyramid of cannon-balls in one corner (doubtless the spoil of one of George William’s many campaigns), even the flock of white and purple pigeons fluttering down on the rough stones, all seemed to breathe the spirit of the seventeenth century. And looking up at the north wing, where Sophie Dorothea was born, it required little effort of the imagination to people again the deserted courtyard with lackeys and squires, to conjure up the clatter of hoofs and the clank of spurs, the bustle of congratulation, the arrival and departure of messengers and doctors, all of which signified to the little town of Celle that a daughter was born to the head of the great House of Brunswick-Lüneburg, and, though they knew it not, an ancestress to two of the mightiest monarchs of the modern world—the King of England and the German Emperor.[11]

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Footnote 11:

Short genealogical table showing descent of King Edward VII. and the Emperor William II. from SOPHIE DOROTHEA of Celle.

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The little town of Celle, at least that part of it which clusters around the base of the castle’s mighty walls, has also changed little since the days of Sophie Dorothea. The old brick church where the babe of that bright morning now sleeps with her fathers remains the same. The triangular market-place and the quaint little streets which branch off from it, many of them narrow and irregular, bear the marks of the flight of centuries. The old part of the town still stands with houses dated from 1600 to 1700, having outer beams carved with curious and uncouth mottoes. Celle, though a fairly prosperous town, has not shot ahead like Hanover. But in those days Celle, with its magnificent schloss, the seat of the elder brother’s duchy, was a place of considerable importance. It was a veritable Naboth’s vineyard to Ernest Augustus and Sophia, his spouse, who, from their little court at Osnabrück, looked towards it with longing eyes.

The news of the birth of a daughter was not welcome to them, but they consoled themselves with the thought that the child was the fruit of a morganatic union, and, after they had cracked a few coarse jokes, dismissed the subject from their minds. But they were soon reminded rather rudely. The infant was given the names of Sophie Dorothea, and the christening was celebrated with much ceremony and many festivities and rejoicings. Ernest Augustus angrily remarked that if the infant had been a princess instead of only the daughter of his brother’s _madame_, they could not have made more fuss about it; and that was true, for, from the first moment Sophie Dorothea drew breath, though in strict law she was a person of no importance, expressly excluded from holding any rank at Celle, the same honours were paid to her as if she had been heiress to the duchy.

From this time onward the rift between the Duchess Sophia and Eléonore gradually widened into an open feud. As long as she had to think only of herself Eléonore had borne patiently Sophia’s insults and humiliations; but now that a child was born, she determined to spare no effort to raise herself and her daughter to a recognised position. She played her part with consummate skill. She had to fight against not merely the uncompromising hostility of Ernest Augustus and the jealous hatred of his Duchess, but the forces of custom and precedence which bind the petty German courts with an iron band. She had to beat down the jealousy and prejudice against herself as an alien and a stranger, and win the support and recognition not only of her husband’s subjects, but of the neighbouring princes, and even of the Emperor himself. When we consider the forces against her, we are lost in admiration of the courage, patience, and sagacity of this woman, who year after year toiled for the end she had in view, and at last found her efforts crowned with success.

Success did not come in a night. It took Eléonore ten years before she obtained the object of her desire—ten years of constant effort; for her arch-enemy and rival, the Duchess Sophia, was ever on the alert to check her moves and foil her plans. One great advantage Eléonore had at this time, she was sure of her husband’s love; and as George William was as easy-going as his wife was energetic, and as contented as she was ambitious, she soon managed to gain a mastery over him—the mastery of a strong mind over a weak one. Her next duty was to cultivate the arts of popularity and win the good-will of her husband’s subjects, no easy matter, for the prejudice against “the Frenchwoman” and morganatic wife was strong in the little German principality. But her tact and affability soon won her golden opinions in Celle. From the first she seemed to take the townsfolk into her confidence; she drove about the town with her infant daughter, radiant with bows and smiles, and soon the inhabitants began to regard the little one as their own child, and to be as jealous of her rights as they were of their own. This devotion of the honest townsfolk of Celle to Sophie Dorothea never wavered, but lasted all through her life.

Not content with sowing the seeds of her child’s popularity in her infancy, Eléonore used other means to endear herself to her husband’s subjects. At her instigation Duke George William proceeded to restore the old schloss on a scale of considerable magnificence, taking care always to employ local workmen. The little theatre[12] in the castle, so long unused, was opened again for plays and musical performances, and to these entertainments gentle and simple were bidden, and seated according to their rank. Thus, after many years, a lady was once more _châtelaine_ at the schloss of Celle, and again there might be said to be a court there.

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Footnote 12:

The theatre is in the old part of the castle at Celle, approached by vaulted, stone corridors, with walls five feet thick, and has a large stage and a number of little boxes, the Royal box of course occupying a position of prominence. The decorations are simple; most of the theatre is whitewashed. Like the rest of the castle of Celle, it has changed little, though the castle has witnessed many changes. On the death of George William, the castle passed into the possession of George III., and through him to successive kings of England. On the accession of Queen Victoria, the schloss became the property of the King of Hanover, Ernest Augustus (Duke of Cumberland), who altered it somewhat inside, not for the better, and it remained in the possession of the Royal Family of Hanover until the Revolution of 1866, when it was seized, together with other Hanoverian possessions, by Prussia, and merged into the Province of Brunswick. For some time it was used as one of the summer palaces of the present Prince Regent of Brunswick; but he rarely goes there now, and the schloss is almost dismantled of furniture, but well kept and in perfect order.

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George William warmly seconded all these effort of his wife, and so great was his love for her and the little child that his one idea seemed to be how best to advance their interests. The rival court of Osnabrück, queened over by the descendant of kings, regarded all these innovations and the “mock court” at Celle with open ridicule yet concealed uneasiness. Sophia was presenting her husband with a numerous family, and she was anxious that nothing should be done to prejudice the rights of her offspring.[13]

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Footnote 13:

Table showing descent of Sophia from James I. of England, and her children.

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Ernest Augustus held the security of his brother’s promise not to enter into a legal marriage, and believed in it implicitly; but he naturally asked himself to what end Eléonore was working. He heard much of George William’s boundless generosity to his morganatic wife, and he liked not the diversion of his private property from what he thought its proper direction, to wit, himself.

Within the next few years Eléonore bore her husband three more daughters, but they all died in infancy. Her hope of an heir, long cherished, despite the bitter derision of her enemies, came to nothing, and Sophie Dorothea remained the spoiled darling of her parents’ affections. So devoted was her father to the child that the mother’s influence grew day by day; and when the little girl was five years old, George William, knowing that by his thoughtless contract with Ernest Augustus he had shut out his wife and daughter from all succession to his dominions, began to purchase land to bequeath as he pleased. To this end he bought five domains, and settled them upon Eléonore and Sophie Dorothea, so as to make provision for them in case of his death. But even this reasonable arrangement was not carried through without a bribe to satisfy Ernest Augustus, who would only tolerate his brother’s liberality to his wife and daughter on the understanding that he received a handsome commission for himself. This was the first marked step in the progress of Eléonore, and a little later she sounded the Emperor Leopold I. about the possibility of legitimising Sophie Dorothea. The Emperor returned a favourable, if somewhat guarded, reply; it was evident she could obtain her heart’s desire if she could manage to pay the price. We find her, therefore, instigating George William to send troops to help the Emperor in sundry campaigns. This was done, and George William so distinguished himself that the Emperor received him in private audience, and most graciously inquired after his “Duchess,” pretending not to know the true state of affairs.

The Emperor’s condescension reached the ears of the Duchess Sophia, and the embers of her jealousy burst into a blaze. Eléonore’s conduct was a model of wifely devotion; so, as the Duchess Sophia could not bring any charge against her after her marriage, she raked up some old slander, and accused her publicly of having simultaneously carried on two intrigues when she was at the court of France. She represented her as a designing adventuress, who, while doing her best to marry Colin, a page-in-waiting of Elizabeth Charlotte Duchess of Orleans, tried to catch George William as the bigger match of the two. These charges were not very damaging or convincing, but malice went further. We find the Duchess Sophia writing to her niece, the Duchess of Orleans: “Never would any respectable girl have entered the house of the Princess de Tarente, for, though she is my aunt—to my intense disgust—she is not a person with whom any one can live and remain clean. However,” she added, “d’Olbreuse being a nobody, it did not matter much.” George William treated the tale about the intrigue with the contempt it deserved, but the statement that his wife was “a nobody” seems to have rankled; so he and his lady thought of a very poor means of defence. They paid two thousand thalers to a French genealogist to make out an elaborate family tree, to prove that Eléonore d’Olbreuse was descended in an almost direct line from the kings of France. The Duchess Sophia received the pedigree with scorn and derision, and transmitted it to the Duchess of Orleans, who, being malicious and a wit, made out a caricature, in which she clearly showed that her head cook was a descendant of Philip the Bold. Naturally these tactics did not tend to smooth matters between Sophia and Eléonore, who were now not on speaking terms, nor were they successful in winning George William from the object of his affections. Manlike, the more his wife was attacked the more he defended her; and Eléonore, who had her share of vanity, was so upset and wounded by being thus flouted that she became quite ill, and had to take a cure at Pyrmont, then a fashionable watering-place, to restore her health. George William was worried, too, and by way of a consolation he purchased for Eléonore another and yet more valuable estate, including the fertile island of Wilhelmsburg, in the Elbe, near Hamburg. This he settled upon her for life, and made arrangements for it to become, after her death, the inheritance of Sophie Dorothea. Again Ernest Augustus protested, and again he was bought off, this time with a bribe of eighteen thousand thalers. But all the same, the victory remained with Eléonore. If she could not get the genealogy, at least she had substantial consolation. The possession of a property like the island of Wilhelmsburg naturally aroused comment, not only at Osnabrück, but the neighbouring courts. It was regarded as open evidence of Eléonore’s influence; she became a person of consequence outside the little circle of Celle, and all the German princes began to wonder what would happen next.

They were not left long in doubt. A few months later the Emperor Leopold sent to the court of Celle the letters patent which granted the legitimising of Sophie Dorothea, and gave the title of Countess of Wilhelmsburg to Eléonore. If the memoirs of the time are to be believed, this Imperial message came as a surprise even to George William, who, though evidently pleased, looked askance at his Eléonore and grunted, “Hum, hum!” as though he fathomed the source whence the Imperial condescension sprang. He was right, for the support which Eléonore had given to the Emperor in influencing her husband to send troops to the campaign, and a charming letter she had written to him, had won the Emperor over to her side, and he graciously acceded to her desire.

The next few years went by uneventfully. It seemed to the outside world that Eléonore was resting on her laurels, but in reality she was working for more. Meanwhile Sophie Dorothea was growing up a lovely child, petted and spoiled by her parents and the court of Celle. There is a picture of her, painted about this time, at Herrenhausen, the portrait of a beautiful child crowned with flowers and holding a great bundle of blossoms in her arms—a happy, winsome, radiant face; and, making allowance for the flattery of court painters, it is certain that she must have been exceptionally lovely. The knowledge that the little girl was to inherit a large fortune made rumour already begin to find her a husband among the scions of the nobility. Among Sophie Dorothea’s playmates in the gardens of Celle was a handsome youth of some sixteen years, Count Philip Christopher Königsmarck, son of a wealthy Swedish noble. The youthful Königsmarck was receiving his military training at Celle, and was staying there for a few years. It was not unusual at that time for a soldier to be trained in different courts and serve in various campaigns, and so acquire a thorough knowledge of warfare. Count Philip came of a family with a brilliant military record. His father had held the office of Minister-General of Artillery in the service of the King of Sweden; his uncle, Count Otho William, was a marshal in the service of Louis XIV., and at the court of the Grand Monarque became acquainted with Eléonore d’Olbreuse. He was a Huguenot like herself. This acquaintance probably formed the link which brought his nephew to Celle. Eléonore, though popular among her husband’s subjects, was devoted to the land of her birth; she was always “the Frenchwoman,” and was fond of appointing her compatriots to little places in her husband’s court, thereby causing some small jealousies.

There is little doubt that the boy and girl were thrown together, and a friendship sprang up between them; but at Sophie Dorothea’s age we can hardly suppose that there was any deeper affection, though Königsmarck, for his part (and he was older), afterwards avowed that he had loved her from childhood.[14] At the most they could only have been boy and girl playing at lovers. Count Philip, as we have seen, came of a distinguished family, even in his boyhood he was endowed with great personal beauty, and he was known to be heir to considerable wealth. Sophie Dorothea was an heiress too, and she was then far removed from the rank of a princess. The possibility of a match between the two was not so remote as might have been imagined—at any rate their names were linked together even at that early period in the little court of Celle.

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Footnote 14:

The authority for this statement is to be found in the Protocol of the trial of Knesebeck, published in Cramer’s _Memoirs of Aurora Königsmarck_.

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It is scarcely likely that Eléonore, Countess of Wilhelmsburg, shared these views for her daughter—in fact, we know that she looked higher. Among the neighbouring German princes who had watched with benevolent interest the progress of Eléonore was Duke Antony Ulrich of Wolfenbüttel,[15] a cousin of George William, who later became co-regent with his brother, Rudolph Augustus, of the duchy of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel. He was a prince of considerable talents and artistic and literary gifts, a restless spirit always intriguing. He was a plain man, so plain that the Duchess of Orleans called him “an ugly baboon”. He early noted the great influence Eléonore had obtained over her slow, easy-going husband. He disliked the Bishop of Osnabrück and he knew of the Duchess Sophia’s hatred of Eléonore. He was aware of the arrangement that had been made between the two brothers as to the succession to the duchy, but nevertheless he thought it would be a good thing if he could manage to divert some of the wealth of the fat little principality of Celle into his somewhat empty coffers. With this end in view he paid a visit to the court of Celle, and treated Eléonore with every possible respect; in fact, he seems to have been genuinely impressed with her virtue and talents, and this homage, coming from a neighbouring prince, was grateful to Eléonore’s self-esteem, for she was sensitive about her somewhat equivocal position. She recognised in him an ally, and laid the foundations of a friendship which lasted through life.

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Footnote 15:

Wolfenbüttel is an old town on the Oker, not far from Brunswick. The famous library contains Luther’s Bible, and the ducal schloss and mortuary chapel are the only other buildings worth mentioning. The seat of the duchy was at Brunswick.

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After an interval, Duke Antony Ulrich came again to Celle, this time accompanied by his eldest son, Augustus Frederick. He communicated to Eléonore his wishes that his son should be betrothed to Sophie Dorothea, and she was nothing loth. But he pointed out that there was a difficulty, in that Sophie Dorothea was not a princess, and so could not make a regular marriage with his son. The way to overcome this obstacle was for George William to legally marry Eléonore, and raise her to the rank of duchess, and by this means Sophie Dorothea would become a princess, and equal in rank with Augustus Frederick. This reasoning was very grateful to Eléonore, for it showed the way to the goal of her ambition. She willingly agreed to work with Antony Ulrich for this object, and they took into their confidence a councillor named Schütz. Thus a distinct party was formed at Celle opposed to the interests of the Bishop of Osnabrück and in favour of those of Wolfenbüttel. For this the Duchess Sophia was largely to blame; she had so insulted and humiliated Eléonore that she had thrown herself into the rival camp. George William was so much under his wife’s influence that he readily agreed to support her desire to become his duchess, especially when his cousin and neighbour, Duke Antony Ulrich, told him she was in every way worthy of the position, and it was a reproach to him that he had not espoused her as his legal wife long before. He also viewed with favour the betrothal of Sophie Dorothea to Augustus Frederick, to which this was an indispensable preliminary. Everything was quickly arranged, and it was resolved to petition the Emperor. He was already friendly to Eléonore, and when her prayers were backed up by the powerful support of the Duke of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel and her husband, they were sure to be granted.

The news of this double event soon reached Osnabrück and struck consternation into the hearts of Ernest Augustus and his wife. The Duchess Sophia was beside herself with rage, and wrote to tell the news to her niece, Elizabeth Charlotte of Orleans. “We shall soon have to say ‘Madame la Duchesse,’” she exclaimed, “to this little clot of dirt, for is there another name for that mean _intrigante_ who comes from nowhere?” To which Elizabeth Charlotte replied: “Nowhere? My dear aunt, you are mistaken, if you will allow me to say so; she comes from a French family, and therefore from a fraud.” Sophia also contemptuously spoke of Eléonore as “the Signora,” professing to regard her merely as the successor of Signora Buccolini, and she profanely declared that she would rather George William’s marriage were one before God than before man. But these feminine amenities, like the Bishop’s protests, were unavailing; and soon Ernest Augustus and Sophia arrived at the conclusion that, as it was too late to prevent the mischief, the only thing remaining was to safeguard their interests as closely as possible. A fresh agreement was drawn up, lawyers and parchments were brought forth, and the contract between the two brothers was debated and fought out, clause by clause, like a bill in committee. The heckling took many months and bore fruit in many documents. The result of the controversy was at last summarised in a document duly signed by Duke George William, the Bishop of Osnabrück, and Duke Antony Ulrich of Wolfenbüttel. The agreement was signed at Celle in May, 1676, and its main clauses may be summarised as follows:—

Duke George William was allowed to “enter into Christian matrimony with the high-born lady Eléonore von Harburg, Countess of Wilhelmsburg”; and his daughter Sophie Dorothea, “promised to wife to His Serene Highness Augustus Frederick Duke of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel,” was to bear the title and arms of a princess by birth of Brunswick-Lüneburg. But a clause was added: “Any other children who may be hereafter born in this wedlock must content themselves with the titles of Counts and Countesses of Wilhelmsburg, and they can make no pretences to the succession to the duchy, which is bestowed on Ernest Augustus Bishop of Osnabrück and his heirs male”.

The unfairness of this clause is patent; but it was somewhat modified by the fact that it was extremely unlikely Eléonore would bear her husband any more children. The Emperor’s assent was proclaimed with some ceremony; a convocation of the deputies of the principality was then assembled, and their agreement with the treaty duly notified. When all the legal preliminaries were over, George William led his morganatic wife of eleven years to the altar, and espoused her with much pomp and solemnity before all his court, his cousin Antony Ulrich, and the little Sophie Dorothea, who must have wondered what it was all about. Ernest Augustus and Sophia were not present at these festivities, and they dissembled their ire as best they could. “Ah!” exclaimed the Bishop to his court at Osnabrück on the night of the marriage, “my brother’s French _madame_ is not a jot the more his wife for being his duchess; but she hath a dignity the more, and therewith may madame rest content.” The jibe was duly reported to the court of Celle; but Eléonore did not feel its sting. She had reached the summit of her ambition; she was the acknowledged consort of the sovereign of Celle; her name was associated with her husband’s in the Church prayers; her child was ranked as princess and betrothed to a prince of equal rank. As Ernest Augustus had said, she could now afford to rest content.