[FROM KÖNIGSMARCK TO SOPHIA DOROTHEA]
[Hanover, _November 1692_.]
Although I wrote to you yesterday evening, I cannot stop myself from
telling you that I have spent the worst night in the world; I dreamt
of you, but I beheld you faithless to me. I dreamt as follows: It
seemed to me that I had requested you not to see a certain great
man, and that, notwithstanding your promise, you had appointed him
to pay you a visit so as to say good-bye to him. I was informed of
it, and, not being able to endure this faithlessness, I pretended to
have a letter from Madame your mother to hand to you. I entered your
room abruptly, and saw the most horrible sight in the world: that
great gentleman held you in his arms, and, what is worse, you were
alone in your room. You pretended a little to be annoyed with your
Adonis, telling him that he was impertinent. In my turn, I wished to
withdraw, but you called out to me. I was delighted with this,
because it gave me a chance of whispering into your ear that you
were the most ungrateful of all ladies, and that this would be the
last time that I should speak to you. In fact, I went to find out M.
de Pude [Podewils] in order to beg him to send me to Hungary,[218]
which he did. I beg your pardon for this criminal dream; but I
should think myself very much more criminal if I did not let you
know of it. Do not think that I am inventing; no, by my God, it is a
true tale. For the love of all that is dearest to you, take care to
restore my peace of mind, and free me from my fear. I am afraid that
this dream may be some melancholy presage, and something that bodes
no good. It would be unjust that a tender affection should be
requited by infidelities; I hope it may not be so; for why should
you wish to desert a heart that adores you, and that swears to be
faithful to you? If such vows can attach you solely to me, I protest
to you before God, that never will I be unfaithful to you, and that
I will love you all my life with the same passion that I do [at
present]. When I shall have the honour of amusing you with an
account of yesterday’s debauch, you will laugh a good deal. The
Baroness[219] [_sic_] distinguished herself on the occasion, and the
big Swedish beard[s] made the best effect in the world; she was so
much ... that her natural colour began to appear beneath, which
produced the most diverting spectacle in the world. She asked me why
I did not amuse myself; I answered that I had come to pay my court
to M. [Bielke][220] and not to amuse myself. In leaving me she
called me a traitor; whereupon I replied that I was not one yet, but
might very possibly become one. M. le Duc played at ombre yesterday
evening with her. That is the very Devil! I will conclude by asking
you to prepare yourself to rescue me from the disquietude in which I
am, and to believe me inviolably attached to you and to all those
who have a regard for you. I embrace you from my very heart, and I
kiss your portrait a million times. Farewell!
-----
Footnote 218:
The Imperial campaigns in Hungary were still in progress, and, by
the _Kurtractat_ of 1692, Ernest Augustus and his brother were
under the obligation of keeping up a military force there till the
end of the war.
Footnote 219:
The ‘Baroness’—unidentifiable—not the ‘Countess’; though Countess
Platen was famed as an expert in the art of painting, and was even
said to have invented a mysterious pigment called ‘white rouge.’
Footnote 220:
The letters ‘Bil’ in the original no doubt stand for ‘Bielke.’ See
note to F 10, below. ‘M. le Duc’ is clearly the Duke of Celle.
-----