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.
-----
Footnote 19:
The room remains the same to this day.
-----
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.
-----
Footnote 20:
This did not actually take place until the reign of George I.
-----
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]
-----
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.
-----
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.