CROWN AND GRAVE.
(1714-1726.)
Dead, long dead,
Long dead!
And my heart is a handful of dust.
TENNYSON, _Maud_.
A few hours after Queen Anne breathed her last the Elector of Hanover
was proclaimed in London as George I. King of Great Britain and Ireland
as quietly as if he had been undisputed heir to the throne, and Lord
Berkeley was sent with a fleet to Orange Polder, in Holland, to bring
over the new King. The news was speedily conveyed to Hanover; but George
received it without enthusiasm, and showed no haste to enter upon his
inheritance. When he at last set out for his new dominion he took with
him a horde of Hanoverian parasites, and two unlovely women, one his
mistress, Ermengarda Melusina von Schulenburg, and the other Madame
Kielmansegge, a daughter of Countess Platen, but whether the King’s
mistress, or half-sister, or both, must remain a vexed question. She
herself claimed to be the daughter of Ernest Augustus, and George I.
appears to have acknowledged the kinship.[247]
-----
Footnote 247:
He created her Countess of Darlington, and in the patent of her
peerage, which by the courtesy of Count Kielmansegg I have been
permitted to see at Gülzow, the words “_dilectam consanguineam
nostram_” appear.
-----
Accompanied by these two favourites, King George set sail from Orange
Polder, where the English fleet was waiting, and landed two days later
at Greenwich. He was not left stranded on the mud this time, as in the
days of his former visit when he came a-courting the Lady Anne of York.
A servile crowd of place-hunters was now awaiting him whose fervent
expressions of loyalty he rated for what they were worth. Two days later
the King made his public entry into London. His heavy, ungainly presence
and ungracious manner did not impress the populace favourably; but their
dislike changed to derision when they saw the two hideous women by whom
he was accompanied, and they relieved their feelings by hoots and yells.
So entered into his kingdom the first of our Hanoverian Sovereigns.
In her lonely castle of Ahlden Sophie Dorothea heard of the splendid
heritage of the English crown; but she had no regrets on that score, all
she grieved for was her loss of liberty. The accession of George I. made
no difference to her lot; she was still kept in durance vile, still
styled Duchess of Ahlden, and refused the rank and title of Queen as she
had been refused the rank and title of Electress. Yet she was _de jure_,
if not _de facto_, queen consort of George I., albeit a disowned and
uncrowned one, as Caroline of Brunswick was, nearly a century later, the
uncrowned consort of George IV. There seems little authority for the
statement made by Doran and others that, previous to the King’s
departure for England, he made overtures through a confidential minister
to his imprisoned wife for a reconciliation, and on this and other
occasions he was met by her words: “If I am guilty, I am not worthy of
him; if I am innocent, he is not worthy of me”. It is also said that she
stipulated, as a preliminary, for a public apology and perfect freedom,
and as this was refused negotiations broke down. But in the face of
other evidence it seems unlikely that the King would have entered upon
such negotiations at all. He had never shown the least wish to have his
wife back again, and she had always declared her determination never to
return to conjugal relations with him on any pretext whatever; it may be
doubted if the prospect of becoming Queen Consort of England would have
been sufficiently dazzling to have tempted her to rejoin him.
Viewed as a matter of policy, it would have been a good thing if George
I. could have taken his wife to England with him. Though now well
advanced in middle life (Sophie Dorothea was nearly fifty years of age
and had been imprisoned twenty years), she was still beautiful, and her
many accomplishments, her grace and dignity, would have lent a charm to
the dull court of St. James and have helped to popularise the Hanoverian
_régime_. But Sophie Dorothea had never shown herself _une femme
complaisante_, and would most surely have objected to the harem which
accompanied her husband to England. Knowing this, George I. doubtless
thought it better to keep his wife shut up in Ahlden than to embark upon
any hazardous scheme of reconciliation. His hands were full enough of
domestic worries without being troubled with any more. His quarrels and
bickerings with the Prince of Wales were matters of common notoriety,
and reflected little credit on the dynasty; so every effort was made to
keep the other family scandal hidden from his English subjects. Some of
the Hanoverian suite who accompanied the King to England gave out that
His Majesty was a widower; others that his wife was mad; and others that
she was a Papist; but the Jacobites ferreted out the truth, and did not
scruple to make the most of it.
The harshness with which the King treated his consort formed the
favourite indictment against him, and was always brought up at popular
demonstrations, as, for instance, on the anniversary of the death of
Queen Anne, until the end of his reign. The story of Sophie Dorothea’s
hardships and misery in her mysterious castle was greatly exaggerated,
and any allusion to the subject was resented by the King, who was
especially sensitive on this score. He even thought it possible that his
wife might escape from her prison, come over to England, and proclaim
the story of her wrongs; so when he left Hanover he gave orders that she
was to be guarded more closely than ever. This espionage was accompanied
by extraordinary care for her health; the most loving husband could not
have been more solicitous. In addition to her resident doctor at Ahlden,
court physicians from Hanover visited the captive at stated intervals
and made reports. This solicitude arose, not from regard, but from
superstition. “It is known,” writes Walpole, “that in Queen Anne’s time
there was much noise about the French prophets, and it certainly was a
most superstitious age. One of this company, a prophetess Deborah, who
was much esteemed for her prophetic gifts, once came to Hanover and told
King George, who was then Elector, to take every care of his wife, as he
would certainly not survive her twelve months.”
Like all Germans, George I. was very superstitious, and Madame
Schulenburg was even more so; so orders were given that everything
should be done to keep the prisoner at Ahlden in good health. To this
she probably owed what liberty she possessed, including her daily
drives. The reports which reached her tyrant from time to time were
reassuring, for the captive enjoyed the best of health, to which her
regular life no doubt contributed.
Her one grievance now was her imprisonment, against which, during the
whole of her residence at Ahlden, she did not cease to protest and
struggle. Time only intensified her desire for freedom. Short of this
she bore her lot with fortitude and resignation, and even her enemies
gave grudging testimony to the admirable way in which she ordered her
life. The daily round, weary and monotonous though it was, brought
little duties which she never neglected. Her household and estates were
admirably managed, and in the country around the poor rose up and called
her blessed. When the village of Ahlden was burnt down in 1715 she
rebuilt it at her own expense, and widened the view from the castle. She
derived great comfort from the consolations of religion, and every
Sunday she took the sacrament in the presence of her household, and
prayed God to forgive her enemies and turn their hearts. Even against
her arch-enemy, her husband, she at this time said nothing. The only ray
of light in her gloom were the visits of her mother, who, despite her
advanced age and increasing infirmities, still came from Wienhausen to
see her beloved daughter as often as she was permitted to do so. She
also found relief in her literary labours; she was always a graceful and
ready writer, and in her later years she cultivated this faculty to her
utmost. She wrote her memoirs in the hope that they would be permitted
to see the light; but they were never given to the world, though many
spurious imitations have been foisted on the public. It is believed also
that romance and poetry flowed from her pen; reams and reams of paper
were covered by her handwriting, and boxes and boxes of manuscripts
accumulated at Ahlden during the long years of her captivity, most of
them circling around the tale of her own sad lot, and chiefly written
with a view to setting herself right with the world. All these papers
were ultimately suppressed, burned, or otherwise destroyed by order of
the Hanoverian government, and, save for a few scattered fragments of
little value, nothing has been left; her literary labours were as vain
as the labours of Sisyphus. When she first came to Ahlden she carried on
an extensive correspondence with friends and acquaintances, but it had
gradually thinned by death. She still, however, wrote and received many
letters, many of them quite openly, some in secret. Of the latter, the
most important was her correspondence with her daughter, the Queen of
Prussia.
[Illustration:
SOPHIE DOROTHEA, SECOND QUEEN OF PRUSSIA (DAUGHTER OF SOPHIE DOROTHEA
AND GEORGE I.).
_From the painting by Johann L. Hirschmann._
]
Soon after the young Princess’s marriage the King of Prussia died, and
on her husband’s accession she became the second Queen of Prussia. One
of her first acts was to take into her service the faithful Eléonore
Knesebeck, who until this time had been living at Brunswick and
Wolfenbüttel. From Knesebeck the Queen learned the story of the
captive’s wrongs.[248] Her heart had always yearned to her imprisoned
mother, and, moved to fresh pity by the recital of Knesebeck, she
determined to do what she could to ameliorate her lot. Under the seal of
secrecy she opened up a correspondence with the prisoner of Ahlden. As
this was contrary to the orders of both the King of Prussia and the King
of England, it was necessary to surround it with extraordinary
precautions. For several years mother and daughter managed to keep up a
frequent correspondence, which was maintained chiefly through the Count
de Bar, who, since the death of the Duke of Celle, had acted as Sophie
Dorothea’s man of business, and looked after her money matters; Ludwig,
a privy councillor at Berlin; Frederick, one of the Queen of Prussia’s
pages, and Ludemann, a bailiff at Ahlden also assisted. Many
communications passed between mother and daughter, not only on private
matters, but on public affairs; the mother always imploring her daughter
to aid her to gain her liberty, the daughter always promising to do her
best, counselling patience, and sending from time to time little gifts
to mark her good-will. The King of Prussia soon got to know what was
going on, but he discreetly shut his eyes for reasons of his own. He
knew that his mother-in-law was possessed of a large property entirely
under her control, and was also heiress to another. At her death she
would leave her daughter a substantial share, if not the whole, and she
was therefore a person to be humoured. The Queen of Prussia knew this,
too, and subsequent events seem to show that this knowledge was not
without its influence on her display of filial affection. But the poor
lady at Ahlden believed her daughters solicitude to be all born of love,
and she gave back the love fourfold. She was of a warm-hearted,
affectionate, and impulsive disposition, a nature years of solitude and
misery had neither warped nor soured.
-----
Footnote 248:
It is probable that the Queen of Prussia knew also of her mother’s
mistakes, for the letters which passed between Sophie and Königsmarck,
now in the Berlin archives, are supposed to have been sent to Berlin
from Hanover to prejudice the Queen against the prisoner of Ahlden.
-----
King George would have been very angry if he had known of this
correspondence; but he was now chiefly in England, and he tried to
forget the very existence of his wife.
Far away from Ahlden, he was acquitting himself after his manner in his
new dominions. He loved not England; he never troubled to learn the
language, nor to make himself acquainted with the laws and customs of
the country over which he was called to reign. He left all government in
the hands of his ministers, made them responsible, and directed his
energies to plundering England for the benefit of his beloved Hanover.
His favourite ladies followed suit, and their greed and unloveliness
gave rise to the grossest lampoons.
As a reward for their complaisance in following him to England, King
George had settled on them large incomes, and lodged them in St. James’s
Palace. He created Schulenburg Duchess of Kendal, and Kielmansegge
Countess of Darlington. These were the ladies who graced the court of
St. James under George I. Never had England seen more avaricious
favourites, not even in the worst days of the Stuarts. Charles II. had
his mistresses, numerous and extravagant enough in all truth, but they
were beautiful, as Lady Castlemaine, or witty, as the Duchess of
Portsmouth, or good-natured, like Nell Gwynne. But the Georgian
favourites were not as these; they represented vice in all its ugliness.
Even in their failings the Stuarts were picturesque, and invested their
wrongdoing with a certain splendour and refinement. But what can be said
in defence of the court of our first Hanoverian Sovereign? how palliate
its utter grossness, its ugliness, meanness, and avarice? And as George
I. began his reign, so it continued to the end: the English court, if
court it could be called, had never sunk so low. The palace of St. James
became a focus of shameless immorality and sordid corruption, and to it
all was added the bitterness of a family feud. The father hated the son,
and the son hated the father; the ministers hated the mistresses, and
the mistresses hated the ministers. All was, in short, hatred,
falsehood, and intrigue; the worst passions of human nature were
fostered in this fœtid atmosphere. Such was the reign of the first
George, and such was the man who sat in judgment on his wife, and doomed
her to lifelong imprisonment because, in her youth, she had loved one
man, not wisely, but too well. Faugh! the air stifles us, let us open
the windows and away.
Back again to Ahlden, back to the lonely castle on the desolate heath,
over which the wind swept shrilly. Yet, shrill and biting though it was,
it at least had no taint of the poisonous breath of St. James’s. Back
again to the poor prisoner of nearly thirty years, eating her heart out
in loneliness and woe, praying daily for the deliverance, that never
came. Let us hasten quickly: it is our last journey.
Early in 1722 Sophie Dorothea lost the one being whom she could trust in
the world, the mother whose love had never failed her, and who, in the
darkest hour, sought to protect her interests and defend her good name
against all the world. Since her husband’s death the Duchess of Celle,
though grudgingly accorded the outward honours due to her rank, had been
subject to many petty insults and annoyances from the Hanoverian
government, which she suffered uncomplainingly.
Up to a short time of her death the Duchess Eléonore was regular in her
visits to her daughter. Her cheerful presence came as the one gleam of
sunshine in the darkness of Ahlden; she was never tired of preaching
resignation and of holding out the hope of a brighter future. One of her
last acts was to again make her will in favour of her daughter, securing
to her more firmly all the property she possessed, with the exception of
a substantial life income which she bequeathed to her old friend Duke
Antony Ulrich of Wolfenbüttel. As soon as she had settled her earthly
affairs the Duchess grew much weaker, and was warned that her end was
near; but, weak and ailing though she was, she rose from her bed and
made a supreme effort to visit her daughter once more. She journeyed to
Ahlden, and had her last interview with the unhappy captive, and gave
her her blessing. Mother and daughter parted with tears, fully persuaded
they would never meet again. Their forebodings were soon realised, for
when the Duchess reached home she returned to her bed, from which she
never rose again. She was buried in the ducal vaults of Celle next her
husband, but the vacant niche for her statue in the chancel above has
never been filled,—another instance of the meanness of George I., who
carried his vindictiveness even beyond the grave.
The courts of England, Hanover, and Berlin decreed mourning as in duty
bound, and in this the “Duchess of Ahlden” was permitted to join.
Previously she had received no official notification of the mournings
and rejoicings in her family, not even of her father’s death and her
children’s marriages.
Sophie Dorothea had reason enough to mourn, God knows: she had lost her
one true friend on earth, and there seemed no prospect for her but to
live on, uncared for, at the mercy of the relentless tyrant, her
husband. Her fortitude of years began to give way, and in despair she
meditated wild plans of escape, and set aside large sums of money to
this end. But, alas! the very people she trusted took her gold with one
hand and betrayed her with the other. For a little time she was not
without hope. Her son-in-law, King Frederick of Prussia, seemed
interested in her cause; but his interest proved purely selfish. He was
absolutely indifferent as to what became of his wife’s mother, but was
exceedingly interested in her fortune, which had been largely augmented
by the death of the Duchess of Celle. He employed an agent in Hanover to
discover exactly how matters stood and what share his wife would inherit
from her mother. These inquiries gave great umbrage to King George. But
they need not have done so, for when the King of Prussia discovered that
his Queen would possess at least half her mother’s fortune he no longer
paid the captive of Ahlden the least consideration, and ordered his wife
to discontinue her correspondence with her mother. Nevertheless,
communications continued to pass between Ahlden and Berlin, though under
greater secrecy than before. The Count de Bar, who was indeed a traitor
of the deepest dye, was suspected by the Queen of Prussia, and she
repeatedly warned her mother against him; but Sophie Dorothea clung to
him to the very last.
One fertile subject of correspondence between mother and daughter was on
what was called the “double marriage scheme” between Sophie Dorothea’s
grandchildren—namely, the marriage of Frederick, son of the Prince of
Wales, to Wilhelmina, daughter of the King and Queen of Prussia, and of
their son Fritz, afterwards Frederick the Great, to Amelia, second
daughter of the Prince of Wales. This double marriage was a darling
project of the Queen of Prussia, cherished by her almost from the time
the children were born. She was supported by her father, the King of
England, but opposed by her husband, the King of Prussia. The “Duchess
of Ahlden” opposed it, too, and instructed her agent at Berlin to work
against the scheme, though how it could have made any difference to her
passes imagination. This opposition so incensed the Queen of Prussia
that she sent word to her mother to the effect that when the marriage
scheme was an accomplished fact she would work her hardest to set her
free, but not until then. As these marriages could not come off for
years, in consequence of the youth of the Princess Amelia, this message
was disheartening, and at first Sophie Dorothea would not credit it; but
it is characteristic that it made no change in her opposition. There was
no more to be expected from the King and Queen of Prussia. Foiled in the
direction she had hoped for deliverance, she fell back again on plans of
escape. From time to time she had entrusted Count de Bar with large sums
of money, amounting altogether to some sixty thousand pounds, which he
deposited in the Bank of Amsterdam. He afterwards appropriated most of
this to his own use;—but that is to anticipate. At this time Sophie
Dorothea trusted him wholly, and her object in placing this money at
Amsterdam was that it might come in useful to her in case she escaped
from her husband’s territory; but how she thought to effect a flight
from the closely guarded castle of Ahlden it is impossible to say. In
this secret flight the Count de Bar was to assist. The Queen of Prussia
became aware of the project, and in much alarm entreated her mother to
be patient. She again promised that she would help her as soon as her
pet scheme of the double marriage was out of the way, and she asked her
mother to help her to effect it. She must have meant help with money to
bribe ministers and agents, for there was no other way save money in
which the imprisoned Princess could be of any use. She also advised a
“general amnesty,” which meant that her mother should seek a
reconciliation with King George, and express her willingness to submit
to his terms, whatever they might be. But Sophie Dorothea had a proud
spirit, which all these years of captivity could not break, and she was
a difficult woman to deal with. Much as she desired her freedom, she
would make no sacrifice of dignity or consistency.
In the following letter to the Count de Bar, then at Berlin, she thus
expresses herself on these proposals:—
“[AHLDEN,] _July_ 28, 1725
“I thank God that nothing in the world, not even the most dazzling and
tempting prospect, would make the least impression upon me, or lead me
into any meanness. I repeat that you are absolutely master to do as
you please; but it is impossible for me ever to give my approval to a
marriage scheme which would indubitably separate my daughter from my
interests, and the consequences of which speak but too plainly for
themselves. As to the ‘general amnesty’ which is deemed absolutely
necessary, I told you last year what I thought on that subject. I
merely add now that I have Christian sentiments, and am neither
implacable nor animated with an unworthy desire of vengeance. I am far
from wishing anything harsh or cruel. But it would be very mortifying
to me to find myself disappointed of all satisfaction after so many
outrages and insults; and this cannot be considered as a criminal
revenge, but rather as a point of honour, conformable to Holy
Scripture and the example of St. Paul. See the Acts of the Apostles,
chap. xvi., vv. 36, 37.
“SOPHIE DOROTHEA.”
There is little doubt that Sophie Dorothea was wise in refusing to part
with money to advance the Queen of Prussia’s marriage schemes without
some adequate security that her daughter would really carry out her
promise; and she was probably wise, too, in spurning the idea of a
general amnesty if that involved submission to George I. and his
mistresses. She would sacrifice her dignity and consistency on the one
hand, and would gain nothing on the other, for it was hardly likely that
the King’s promises, supposing that he made any, were to be trusted.
This uncompromising attitude on her part furnished the Queen of Prussia
with a further pretext for doing nothing more for her mother, and she
directed her confidential agent, Frederick, to communicate, through
Ludemann, the bailiff of Ahlden, “that affairs were in so bad a state
that it was impossible to take any steps without making bad worse and
causing more unhappiness, but that time and Providence would ameliorate
everything”. She also refused to receive the Count de Bar any more at
Berlin, as she distrusted both his good faith and his ability.
Frederick, the Queen’s agent, was sent to interview Ludemann, either at
Ahlden or at some place near, and to communicate to him verbally the
Queen’s message to her mother. Ludemann drew up a report of his
conversation with Frederick, which, _inter alia_, runs as follows:—
“The Queen sends her best regards to Her Highness with the strongest
assurances of her entire affection, respect, and filial devotion,
soliciting to maintain a place in the affections of her mother, for
whom she forwards some souvenirs. She would with pleasure have
written, but the circumstances in which she is placed render writing
too hazardous. The least movement in Her Highness’s favour cannot be
made without great danger.”
The Queen of Prussia’s messenger went on to say that all correspondence
and communications must cease for a time. On behalf of the Queen he
again denounced the Count de Bar as a dangerous traitor. Ludemann,
Sophie Dorothea’s agent, commented on the Queen’s dislike of the Count
as very strange, considering how long a time he had served Sophie
Dorothea and her father before her. After considerable parley the report
shows that the Queen again promises her mother that if she would only
keep quiet until the affair of the double marriage was arranged she
would do all she could to help her. It is clear from this that the Queen
of Prussia’s interest was a purely selfish one.
Sophie Dorothea was greatly dissatisfied with Ludemann’s report of his
interview with the Queen’s agent and refused to believe much of it. She
was unable to appreciate the necessity of secrecy, she refused the
presents, and expressed her confidence and trust in the Count de Bar in
the two following spirited memoranda to her daughter:—
“AHLDEN, _August_ 26, 1725.
SOPHIE DOROTHEA.”
“AHLDEN, _September_ 5, 1725.
“In case there should be repeated at Hanover what has been said at
Rhaburg concerning the Count de Bar, I declare that my firm and
constant will is that the Count de Bar shall continue to act for me in
my affairs as he has always done hitherto. I ought not, and I will
not, prevent those, whom Heaven in its infinite mercy has been pleased
to raise up to have compassion on me, from acting in my favour and for
my interest. But in future he shall not annoy anybody in Berlin.
“SOPHIE DOROTHEA.”
In the autumn of the same year Sophie Dorothea learned that the Queen of
Prussia was coming to Hanover on a visit to her father, George I., who
had come over from England to spend a few months in his beloved
electorate. As the Queen would be so near her mother’s prison Sophie
Dorothea prayed earnestly to see her, and the daughter half promised to
come. The moral effect of a visit from the Queen of Prussia to the
neglected captive at Ahlden would have been very great, and could not
have failed to benefit the prisoner, at least in increased consideration
and respect. It would have been a sign to all the world that her
daughter was on her side. No wonder the friendless captive desired it so
ardently! When she heard that her daughter had arrived at Hanover she
dressed herself with more than usual care, and looked out from her
window day after day across the moorland. It was a different face from
that which had looked out from the casement thirty years before in the
bloom of its youthful beauty. The Princess’s hair was white now, and her
face lined and drawn, but she still retained traces of great loveliness.
The days went by and the Queen came not, though day by day, and hour by
hour, the captive strained her eyes in the direction of Hanover and her
ears for sound of the chariot wheels. When the Queen of Prussia arrived
at Hanover she was afraid to move in the matter. Her husband forbade her
to go to Ahlden, for fear of angering her father, whom he wished to
conciliate. So she abandoned the idea, and lost her one chance of seeing
her mother.
By-and-by the news came to Ahlden that the Queen of Prussia had gone
back to Berlin, and for the first time for long years Sophie Dorothea
gave up hope. She had counted so much on this visit, built so many
castles in the air upon it, made so many plans, gone over again and
again what she would say and how she would greet her daughter, that the
disappointment nearly broke her heart. Her daughter had failed her, as
all others had failed. It was a convincing proof that, despite all
protestations, the Queen of Prussia could not, or would not, make any
decisive step on her mother’s behalf.
The result of this disappointment was to make Sophie Dorothea cling more
closely to the Count de Bar and centre her hopes around him. She caught
at him as the drowning man catches at the proverbial straw. One by one
her friends had died or proved false, the last of the list of traitors
being Ludemann, the bailiff of Ahlden; but she trusted all the more
implicitly the Count de Bar, who was the greatest traitor of all. She
wrote to him when she was still smarting under the sense of her
daughter’s neglect the following letter, in which she again assures him
of her confidence:—
“AHLDEN, _September_ 27, 1725.
“Words cannot express all I think,” she writes, “all I have always
thought without the least diminution, all I shall never cease to
think. In the name of God, be always the same to me, as I shall be to
you till my latest breath.”
She speaks of the “dragons and spies” by whom she was surrounded, and,
after adverting on the marriage scheme and the treachery of Ludemann,
she goes on to say:—
“I am of opinion that the whole of this black business [the treachery
of Ludemann] has been got up by the clique here for reasons and ends
easy to be perceived. This affair has caused me very deep and poignant
grief, and shows me the deplorable and dangerous condition wherein I
am placed—a condition which is getting worse and worse. I am
surrounded by people, without pity or justice, and their number is
daily increasing. I am incessantly exposed to their calumnies, false
suspicions, and ill-turns. They now have it more than ever in their
power to invent words and actions which they attribute to me, and so
strive to blacken my reputation. Ludemann, who was the only channel
through which I could learn anything and make known the truth, is at
present absolutely devoted to them.
“If I feared poison many years ago, my present circumstances are such
as to strengthen that fear; and as life is not now indifferent to me,
this suspicion, added to all the rest, would surely disturb my
tranquillity did not the Almighty grace of God preserve peace in my
heart in spite of all storms, and give me increased strength and
courage in proportion to the greater need I have of them: I have never
had more need of them than now. You may rest assured that, with the
aid of that divine grace, nothing on earth will bring about a change
in my sentiments or conduct, nor lead me to any action in the
slightest degree mean and unworthy. I will resolutely and steadfastly
adhere to what I have held fast for so many years, without the
smallest change. My honour and what I owe to myself demand it, and
every conceivable reason strengthens me in this policy.
“My health is good, and better than might be expected in my agitated
state of mind. The God of mercy supports me in a marvellous way; and I
take care of myself, since my friends have the goodness to be
interested in my welfare. The strong expressions I made use of in my
preceding letter on this subject were intended to convey an idea of
the great annoyance I am suffering on all sides. Indeed, they excite
in me an intense disgust of this place and an ardent desire to leave
it.”
Sophie Dorothea was utterly alone in the world: her mother was dead, her
daughter had failed her, and she was at the mercy of hirelings, who,
under pretext of sympathy, were continually robbing and betraying her.
Her one idea now was to effect an escape from Ahlden. A year later we
find her writing again to the Count de Bar; in her letter she speaks of
the “unheard-of injustice and fury of my enemies,” and entreats him to
come to her. She goes on to say:—
“AHLDEN, _August_ 19, 1726, 3 _o’clock in the morning_.
“I must confess that the news that has come from beyond the sea
occupies my mind. God grant there may be no obstacle to delay what I
have at heart more than I can express! You are not ignorant, sir, what
that is: all my sentiments are known to you. I picture myself becoming
a monster losing its sight, but I have hardly thought about it. I
doubt whether Heaven, in exchange, will be pleased to open certain
eyes. I am entirely ignorant of what is passing in the world except
what I learn from the ordinary political news. I am guarded, and more
pains than ever are taken to prevent my learning anything.”
This was the last cry for help. The Count de Bar hastened not to her
succour, but, instead, the Pale Horseman came galloping over the heath.
Deliverance was at hand—the last deliverance, whose name is Death. Yet
before that came Sophie Dorothea had to drink the last drop in her cup
of bitterness. Convincing proof was brought her that the man in whom she
trusted was added to the long list of traitors. He had never meant to
come, he had never wished her to escape; she had henceforth no one to
whom she could turn.
This was the last betrayal the unhappy woman had to suffer. Under it
strength and fortitude gave way. She wrote one more letter (to be
delivered after her death), and gave it under seal to a trusty
messenger. Then she broke down utterly, and took to her bed with an
attack of something like brain fever. The Governor of the castle sent
hurriedly to Hanover, and the news of her serious illness was conveyed
to the King in England. Everything that medical skill could do was done
without avail: court physicians, apothecaries, and surgeons hurried from
Hanover to the lonely castle; but they could do nothing. Confidential
ministers of state came, too; but they were also helpless—they could
only listen, shuddering, to the awful ravings of the dying woman. The
seal she had set on her lips for years was broken at last, and day after
day as she fought for life she denounced the tyrant who had been her
jailer and her judge, and cried to Heaven for vengeance upon him. She
lost all rallying power, and grew weaker and weaker, until at last, one
dull November day, when the chill mists hung heavy over the marshes
around Ahlden, Sophie Dorothea breathed her last in the little room
which had been her prison for many weary years!
Sophie Dorothea died on November 13, 1726, in the sixty-first year of
her age and the thirty-third of her captivity.