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.”
-----
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.
-----
“[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.”
-----
Footnote 211:
He was ill, but there is no need to quote his detailed description of
his illness.
-----
“[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.”
-----
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.
-----
“[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.”