CHAPTER V.
THE SACRIFICE. (1682.)
After this alliance Let tigers match with hinds, and wolves with sheep, And every creature couple with its foe. DRYDEN.
The mists of a raw September morning hung about Celle as the Duchess Sophia drove in from the Hanover road, stiff and cold from her long journey. One wonders what thoughts crowded into her brain as the coach rattled through the quaint streets of the little town. She had not been here for seventeen years, never since Eléonore had queened it at the castle, and she had come to-day to disqueen her, by destroying her influence and bringing to naught her most cherished scheme. Yet she would have to make peace with her, turn to her a smiling face, and enter into close and intimate relations with the woman she hated, insulted, and despised. It must have been with mingled feelings that Sophia saw the towers of the mighty schloss rise before her.
The sleepy sentinel, recognising the unaccustomed liveries of Hanover, hurried to let down the drawbridge, raise the portcullis, and salute the great Duchess. The moment the coach entered the courtyard Sophia alighted. A glance sufficed to show her she was not too late, the Wolfenbüttel equipage was not yet there. Brushing aside ceremony, she, who was so great a stickler for etiquette, demanded to see the Duke of Celle at once. The few half-awakened servants who happened to be up as she entered the castle, astonished at the unexpected apparition, explained to her that His Highness had not yet risen, he was even now dressing, but would soon be able to descend and receive her in a fitting manner. But Sophia was in no humour to tarry; ascending the great staircase, she haughtily demanded to be shown at once to the Duke’s chamber, in bed or out of bed, dressed or undressed, her business was one which would admit of no delay. The flurried page conducted her to the door of the ducal apartment, and here she ordered him to leave, and announced herself by promptly opening the door and walking in upon the astonished Duke, who was then at his dressing-table.
Of all people in the world, his sister-in-law was the one George William least expected to see; but Sophia cut short his exclamations and apologies by announcing that she had travelled all night to present in person her congratulations to himself and his Duchess on the occasion of the sixteenth birthday of their daughter, and wound up by asking curtly, “Where is your wife?” The Duke pointed to the half-open door of the bedchamber adjoining, where Eléonore was still in bed—a capacious bed in a comparatively small room with the ceiling decorated with a realistic fresco of the legend of Leda and the Swan.[19] Eléonore, hearing voices, called out to her husband to ask who came thus early to disturb their rest. The Duchess Sophia, through the half-open door, repeated in a loud voice what she had already said to the Duke, thus breaking the ice of the awkward first greeting with her enemy, and, without waiting to hear what the perturbed Eléonore had to say in reply, she turned to the Duke, and, addressing him in Low Dutch, a language she knew his wife did not understand, she intimated that she had something important to say to him alone. George William glanced meaningly at the half-open door, behind which was the flurried Eléonore, and suggested they should wait a little while and discuss the matter elsewhere. But Sophia cut short his excuses and proposals by answering that what she had to say must be said there and then. She could not be so rude as to shut the door in Eléonore’s face, so she drew up a chair by the Duke’s dressing-table, and, continuing to speak in Low Dutch, proceeded to unfold her scheme—first exacting from him a promise that, if he did not accede to her wishes, he was never to divulge a syllable of what she had come to say.
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Footnote 19:
The room remains the same to this day.
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In a few vigorous sentences she skilfully explained the real object of her visit. She began by deploring the family feud which had too long existed between the courts of Hanover and Celle, and expatiated upon the desirability of reconciliation and the advantages which would inevitably follow a closer union. George William, who by this time had made a shrewd guess at what she was driving, followed her with many encouraging nods and ejaculations, and when the uneasy Eléonore from the next room called out that she would like to know the subject of the conversation, he bade her roughly to be quiet, and invited Sophia to proceed. That lady then touched upon the services which had been rendered to the Emperor by the troops of Hanover and Celle, and hinted at the probable raising of the duchy to an electorate; she did not say which duchy, but George William thought it was the duchy of Celle, whereas she had in her mind (and her surmise eventually proved correct) the accession of the duchy of Hanover to this coveted dignity. She went on to say that sooner or later there would be an addition of territory in the shape of the duchies of Bremen and Verden,[20] declared it would be a pity if a fine domain like Wilhelmsburg, Sophie Dorothea’s inheritance, should be alienated from Brunswick-Lüneburg territory, and then by a natural sequence proceeded to show that all evils could be averted and all good things brought about by the marriage of her son George Louis with George William’s daughter, Sophie Dorothea. George Louis she described in glowing terms; she alluded to his high favour with William of Orange, and his connection, through her, with the Royal House of England, which assured him the good-will of that great Power.
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Footnote 20:
This did not actually take place until the reign of George I.
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George William was completely carried away by the eloquence and arguments of his illustrious sister-in-law. No one, he told her, could regret more than he the breach between the two Houses, it was not his doing, and he was glad of an opportunity of reconciliation. He saw clearly the advantages that would follow upon the marriage proposed, and he promised his consent. He did not need much persuasion, he only wanted the excuse of meeting the proposal which her visit gave him, for the marriage had been the secret desire of his heart for years. With the warmest assurances of friendship he kissed Sophia’s hand, and then escorted her to a suite of apartments to rest after her journey.[21]
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Footnote 21:
I have been taken to task by eminent critics for accepting, on the authority of the _Roman Octavia_, the night journey of the Duchess Sophia to Celle, and the discomfiture of Duke Antony Ulrich and his son. But I would in all humility point out that the _Roman Octavia_ was written by Duke Antony Ulrich himself, and published within the life-time of nearly all the parties concerned. Though the form in which it is written, a dramatic dialogue with the personages disguised under fictitious names, precludes absolute accuracy, yet it is generally admitted that the narrative closely followed in many respects what actually happened. The Duchess Sophia read the _Roman Octavia_ when it appeared, but we do not find any record that she contradicted Antony Ulrich’s version of the part she played in bringing about the marriage. The Duchess of Orleans, writing to her aunt of Antony Ulrich’s book, says: “In all matters his truth is mixed with a modicum of lies,” and she proceeds to criticise it in detail, but she says nothing about this incident. If it were untrue we should expect to find Sophia denouncing it with her customary vigour; but she was probably ashamed of the part she had played and so passed it by in silence, tacitly admitting its truth. Dr. Köcher has clearly shown that negotiations for the marriage had been going on between the two courts for years more or less definitely, but I do not see that this affects the truth of Antony Ulrich’s version of the action which Sophia took at the last.
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The anxious Eléonore, who by this time was up and dressed, was waiting for her husband on his return, and asked for an explanation of this unexpected visit. He gave it promptly, and added the unwelcome intelligence that he had consented to an alliance between George Louis and Sophie Dorothea. Eléonore was at first stunned by this blow to her hopes on the very morning of expected victory. The alliance she had laboured for years to bring about with the House of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel was shattered to the dust, and the woman who had slighted and scorned her had only to propose an opposition scheme for it to be accepted. In vain she urged upon the Duke the insult such a _volte-face_ would be to Duke Antony Ulrich and his son. George William answered testily that he had given nothing but a conditional promise. In vain she pointed out the hostility and self-seeking policy of the House of Hanover. George William said he was tired of family quarrels, and hailed this as a means of putting an end to them. He then proceeded to dilate upon the advantages of the union, and the advisability of Eléonore reconciling herself to the new state of affairs and burying the hatchet. But Eléonore, to her honour be it said, was unlike her husband in this—she was deaf to the voice of ambition where her heart was concerned. The failure of her cherished plans was bad enough, but it was as nothing compared with the wreck of her daughter’s happiness. She threw herself on her knees before her husband, and implored him, with tears, not to sacrifice their only child, the one pledge of their love, to the promptings of policy and ambition, and doom her to the misery of a loveless marriage; she reminded him of the tales that had reached Celle of George Louis’s sullen and profligate character, and of the hatred with which the House of Hanover had ever viewed her daughter and herself. It was like throwing their lamb to the wolves. But George William was obdurate; he pooh-poohed all these things as idle fancies, and again told his wife to reconcile herself with the altered state of affairs, and, deaf to her entreaties, he bade her go and acquaint Sophie Dorothea with the plans he had made for her future. With a heavy heart the mother went to break the news to her daughter, a sad greeting for a birthday morning.
The young Princess had not been trained to control her emotions nor to having her will thwarted. The spoiled darling of her father’s affections, she had hitherto only to wish for a thing and it was hers, and her wishes had been law at Celle. When, therefore, she was told it was proposed to hand her over to a man she had scarcely seen, and whom she had been taught to despise, without consulting her wishes in any way, she flew into a violent passion, and vowed she would have to be dragged to the altar before she consented. Her heart was free, for, though she was well disposed towards the young Prince of Wolfenbüttel, she had not yet learned to love him, and, though romance has it otherwise, there is no proof that the boy and girl love between herself and Königsmarck had made much impression upon her. But she was by no means favourably disposed towards George Louis. She had heard of his loutish manners and his loose morals. Her mother had taught her from her youth up to regard the Duchess Sophia and her son as her greatest enemies. She knew how they had insulted her mother and what degrading epithets they had applied to herself, and the news that she was about to be handed over to their tender mercies filled her with consternation and grief. After the first outburst her emotion found relief in tears, and she clung to her mother, and besought her to save her from such a fate. Poor Eléonore, who was powerless, could only mingle her tears with her daughter’s.
While this scene was being enacted in one wing of the castle, in another the Duchess Sophia and George William sat down and despatched a hearty breakfast. Sophia, delighted with the success of her mission, spared no pains to make herself agreeable and to flatter George William to the top of his bent; she was also pleased to be gracious to Bernstorff, who had heard of the morning’s work, and who, on his part, did everything he could to bolster up the Duke in his determination. A mounted messenger had already been despatched to carry the good news to Hanover, and to bid Duke Ernest Augustus and Prince George Louis come to Celle with all speed.
The breakfast was hardly over, the day had scarcely warmed, when the trumpeter on the tower announced the arrival of Duke Antony Ulrich and his son. They came with a numerous suite, ostensibly to offer their congratulations on the anniversary of the birthday of Sophie Dorothea, in reality to claim the fulfilment of her father’s half promise. The sight of the Duchess Sophia’s coach in the courtyard and the Hanoverian liveries filled Antony Ulrich with suspicions which were only too speedily confirmed. The young Princess, he found, was too much perturbed to receive their congratulations in person, her mother was shut up with her; but the Duke of Celle, accompanied by the Duchess Sophia, received the Wolfenbüttel princes with much ceremony, and without ado proceeded to inform them of the news of the betrothal of Sophie Dorothea to George Louis, and by way of adding insult to injury invited them to remain to the birthday feast, when the betrothal would be announced. Duke Antony Ulrich, mastering his indignation with an effort, was so much insulted at this shameless right-about-face that, ignoring the invitation, he at once returned to his coach, accompanied by his son, and shook the dust of Celle off his feet. It is difficult to call such a retreat dignified, yet he seems to have made it so, though he left the Duchess Sophia in possession of the field.
George William, having got rid of his unwelcome guests, proceeded to the apartments of Sophie Dorothea on the troublesome errand of persuading his refractory daughter to put in an appearance and pay her respects to her aunt. He took with him a birthday present and a message of congratulation from the Duchess Sophia. The apartments of Sophie Dorothea consisted of three rooms leading from one another; the work-room or school-room, with two large windows overlooking the lime-trees on to the moat, the parlour, somewhat elaborately decorated, and the sleeping-room, with the bed in an alcove, and the superb carved mantelpiece, supported by four cupids. These rooms Sophie Dorothea had occupied from her infancy, and her work and all her little treasures were scattered about. The Duke’s resolution did not waver, though he found his daughter lying on the bed in a passion of grief, her mother by her side entreating her to be calm. Apparently her persuasions had not, so far, had much effect, for the temper with which Sophie Dorothea received her father may be gathered from the fact that when he gave her the Duchess Sophia’s present, a miniature of George Louis set in diamonds, she threw it from her with such violence that it was shattered against the wall, and the precious stones fell all about the room.
Her father began to threaten and storm and reproach her mother for encouraging their daughter in this insubordination. Parental authority had its weight with even the most self-willed young Princess in those days, and the result of the combination of her father’s threats and her mother’s entreaties was that Sophie Dorothea gradually became calmer, and was coaxed, or forced, into getting up and dressing herself, and consented to be presented to her aunt Sophia in a proper manner. She had also to go through the ordeal of receiving the birthday congratulations of the court and of appearing at the banquet, when her betrothal was announced; but her tear-stained eyes and downcast looks, no less than her mother’s pallor and dejection, made it evident that she was acting under compulsion, and evoked the pity rather than the congratulations of the court of Celle. Perhaps the Duchess Sophia found in the tears of Eléonore and her daughter some consolation for the humiliation she underwent in thus recognising and meeting them for the first time as equals.
The next day Ernest Augustus and George Louis arrived from Hanover. Ernest Augustus was radiant, but George Louis was even more sullen than his wont. The beginning of the wooing was not promising. The young Princess fainted in her mother’s arms when she was presented to her future husband. Her dislike was quite reciprocated by George Louis, who, though willing to go through the affair for the sake of the money, had been trained to have nothing but contempt for “Madame” of Celle and her daughter. His manners at the best were not prepossessing, and in this case he did not even take the trouble to make himself agreeable to his future bride. The elders did all the smiles and congratulations; the principals in the contract rendered nothing but an outward acquiescence, sulky on his side, and rebellious on hers.
Yet, looking at it from quite the outside point of view, if George Louis had sought all over Europe he would hardly have found a more suitable match than this, and he certainly could not have found a more charming bride than his princess cousin. Sophie Dorothea had grown to great beauty. She was a brunette, with dark brown, almost black hair, large velvety eyes, regular features, brilliant complexion, and the veriest little red rosebud of a mouth. Her figure was perfectly proportioned: she had an exquisite neck and bust, and slender little hands and feet. She had nothing in common with the large-waisted, flat-footed German princesses of the period; she resembled her mother, and, like her, was essentially “the Frenchwoman,” not only in appearance, but in manners, dress, and conversation. She had the Frenchwoman’s instinctive dislike to anything coarse or unrefined, and she excelled in all the accomplishments of the time; her dancing was perfect, she was a skilled musician, she was clever with her needle, and could express herself gracefully in writing. Her conversation was sprightly, she was full of wit and repartee, and her ready tongue, it may be feared, often led her into trouble. She had the Frenchwoman’s emotional temperament, she was easily depressed and easily elated, and was capable of strong and unreasoning passion. But her instincts were always generous, and she was absolutely free from meanness in thought, word, or deed.
Such a disposition united to a good and wise husband might have been trained into a fine and noble nature. As it was, no man could have been found more unsuitable to her than George Louis; their temperaments were totally dissimilar, it was like the union of cold and heat, of ice and fire. George Louis had his good qualities, too, though somewhat latent, and a tactful and sympathetic wife might have developed them. Poor Sophie Dorothea never even found them, much less developed them. How could she? She and George Louis were utterly unsympathetic, and when two antagonistic chemicals are mixed there is sure to be an explosion sooner or later. But the hearts and inclinations of the young couple were the last things the parents, except Eléonore, thought of in connection with them.
George William was delighted to play the host again to his favourite brother and his respected sister-in-law. The betrothal was announced with much pomp. There were great feasts at Celle, and every one came to congratulate. All the neighbouring princes, with the exception of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel, and all the great officers of both duchies, were delighted at the betrothal. Indeed, the advantages seemed many and obvious, and Eléonore, seeing how strongly the tide of popular feeling was against her, to say nothing of George William’s obstinacy, had perforce to give way, hide her mortification as best she could, and counsel her daughter to submission to the will of her father. It was not an easy task, for Sophie Dorothea had a will and temper of her own, but she was brought to some show of outward complaisance, and induced to passively receive the congratulations of the court and the unwilling wooing of her betrothed.
George William, Ernest Augustus, and Sophia agreed that, as there was no reason for delay, the marriage should be celebrated as soon as the necessary formalities and settlements were completed. Platen and Bernstorff were called in to help and advise, and lengthy deeds were drawn up. Eléonore seems to have been too heartsick to interfere, or perhaps she was powerless, for in the marriage settlement Ernest Augustus and Sophia had everything their own way, and Sophie Dorothea’s interests, apart from her husband and prospective children, were scarcely studied. George William was in so complaisant a mood that the Duke and Duchess of Hanover could ask almost what they liked. He settled to give his daughter one hundred thousand thalers a year, which meant that he handed it all over to the exchequer of Hanover. The estates he had settled on her were also made over, except in the case of certain unlikely contingencies, such as the death of George Louis before his wife. If the Princess were left a widow, she was to be entitled to a dower of twelve thousand thalers a year. But the whole gist of the settlement was that the Princess, apart from her husband and her children, had no money of her own and no settlement in the modern sense of the term. Of course, she would be given enough to maintain herself in proper state as Princess of Hanover; but her money depended entirely on the good-will of her husband and what her parents chose to give her from time to time; she had literally not a penny which she could call her own. Her position was much that of a married woman in England before the passing of the Married Woman’s Property Act. The point is important in view of future developments.
One stipulation the Duchess Eléonore was able to enforce before the marriage contract was signed: George Louis’s intrigue with Madame Bussche was a matter of common notoriety, and she insisted that it should be broken off and the mistress sent away from Hanover. This very reasonable request was supposed to be very unreasonable, but Eléonore was firm. Sophie Dorothea had not yet notified her consent in writing, and people were beginning to comment on her downcast looks. The Duke of Celle did not wish it to appear that she was forced into an unwilling marriage, and to humour her and her mother it was promised that Madame Bussche should be sent away. The Duchess Sophia went back to Hanover to see the business carried through. In return for this concession Sophie Dorothea was induced to write the following letter to her aunt; it was merely a formal letter, probably dictated in substance and simply copied by her. Reading between the lines, we can see the mute protest that runs through it.
“MADAME,
“I have so much respect for my lord the Duke your husband, and for my lord my own father, that in whatever manner they may act on my behalf I shall always be very content. Your Highness will do me, I know, the justice to believe that no one can be more sensible than I am of the many marks of your goodness. I will carefully endeavour all my life long to deserve the same, and to make it evident to Your Highness by my respect and very humble service that you could not choose as a daughter one who knows better than myself how to pay to you what is due. In which duty I shall feel very great pleasure, and also in showing you by my submission that I am,
“Madame, “Your Highness’s very humble “And very obedient servant, ”SOPHIE DOROTHEA.
“AT CELLE, _October 21, 1682_.”
[Illustration:
THE ELECTRESS SOPHIA. _Photographed from the statue in the gardens of Herrenhausen._ ]
The Duchess Sophia probably found in this letter and in the tears and anguish of Eléonore and her daughter some compensation for the effort it cost her to make the visit to Celle. Of her part in the betrothal she was probably ashamed, for we find her making no mention in her letters to the Duchess of Orleans of her journey to Celle, but concerning the marriage she wrote as follows:—
“Ernest Augustus always had a queer head, and how such an idea could have entered it passes all my understanding. However, one hundred thousand thalers a year is a goodly sum to pocket, without speaking of a pretty wife, who will find a match in my son George Louis, the most pigheaded, stubborn boy who ever lived, and who has round his brains such a thick crust that I defy any man or woman ever to discover what is in them. He does not care much for the match itself, but one hundred thousand thalers a year have tempted him as they would have tempted anybody else.”
The marriage contract was signed at Celle by Ernest Augustus and George Louis on the one part and George William and Sophie Dorothea on the other; thus the Princess was induced to sign away not only her liberty, but her fortune, and she became soul and body the property of George Louis. The Duchess Sophia came back from Hanover to be present at the wedding, which was hurried forward with all speed. Great preparations were made for it, and costly presents and congratulations poured in from all sides.
The wedding was celebrated in the private chapel of the castle of Celle, according to the Lutheran rites, on November 21, 1682, with every circumstance of pomp and ceremony. The town was gaily decorated, the castle was thronged with distinguished guests; there had never been such a wedding at Celle before. The beautiful little chapel, brilliantly illuminated and bedecked with flowers, presented a scene of unusual splendour. There were the bride’s procession and the bridegroom’s procession, and the procession of the parents, and the court chroniclers exhausted themselves in describing the beauty of the bride, the list of her jewels, the richness of her attire. The bridegroom was scarcely less bravely arrayed. Outwardly all was fair; but within, beneath this brave show, what horror, what anguish, what base and ignoble passions! There was the Duchess Sophia, exulting over the downfall of her enemies, yet with a spice of bitterness in her cup; her husband, the wily and covetous Ernest Augustus; the weak-minded George William; the sad and anxious mother, who could scarcely restrain her tears; the bridegroom muttering the unwilling words, while all the time his heart was with his banished mistress; the child bride, she was little more than a child, pale and unresponsive, sacrificed like another Iphigenia. The omens were unpropitious: there was no sunshine for the bride; the morning dawned dark and gloomy, and during the ceremony a furious storm broke over Celle, and the wind shrieked and raged, shaking the castle walls. But dark and gloomy though the day was, it was not so dark and gloomy as the bride’s heart; and fierce though the tempest, it was not half so fierce as the passions which raged in the breasts of the little group around the altar. There were priests and prayers and benedictions, all the pomp of heraldry and the pageantry of courts; yet when all was stripped away this marriage was nothing but a shameless bargain, and a young girl’s life was sold to a man steeped in selfishness and profligacy and who did not even make a pretext of loving her. When we are tempted to pass judgment on all that happened after, we must remember that the bride’s vows were made half in ignorance, wholly under protest. The outward form was there, the words were spoken; but Love, who hallows the sacrament, was far away, and shuddering hid his holy face.