The Princess of Celle

The Wedding

THE TRUMPETER IN the tower sent out the welcome. There was bustle in the castle. For the first time for years Ernest Augustus, Duke of Hanover, was the guest of his brother George William of Celle.

George William forgot his remorse, so delighted was he to welcome his brother. They embraced; they patted each other on the back; they were both emotional over this reunion.

Beside his father stood that important young man, the Crown Prince of Hanover, George Lewis, the prospective bridegroom. Neither tall nor short he stood inelegantly slouching, his hands hanging at his side; his manner was as awkward as his figure; his features were heavy, his eyes dull, his mouth both sensuous and sullen.

When George William turned to him he did feel a wave of misgiving; but it was such a pleasure to see his brother that he was certain his son must have inherited some of his charm. George Lewis was young yet, a little shy, a little embarrassed. Thus it was when one was young.

‘Come into the castle,’ cried George William. ‘We are longing to show you how happy we are to have you here.’

The Duchess and her daughter did not bear this out, thought Ernest Augustus cynically. By God, he thought, what a beautiful woman she is! And even now in her grief and bitter disappointment, gracious. It is small wonder that George William has been so dominated by her, but well that he now realizes his mistake.

And the girl – she was enchanting in spite of her despair. Ernest Augustus thought’ her the daintiest, prettiest creature he had ever seen. She reminded him of the girls who had delighted him during his travels by their delicate beauty and charming foreign ways – so different from the frauleins of his own country.

And to marry that oaf, George Lewis, poor child!

And there was Sophia, triumphant, already thinking of this plan – to which he had had to work so hard to reconcile her – as her own. Magnificent Sophia! The grandest of them, believing so firmly that her English blood set her above them all in rank that it seemed it did.

Sophia’s eyes were on her son. Cannot he even be gracious on such an occasion? she was thinking. After all the trouble to which we have gone! He is to get a girl who, though spoiled, must be one of the prettiest in Europe and with one of the biggest fortunes. He was the most pig-headed stubborn boy in the world who had surrounded his brains with such a thick crust that she defied any man or woman to find what was in them. Sometimes she thought he was quite stupid, he was so lethargic; at others he could be surprisingly shrewd. At least he had the advantage of being able to surprise. And now he was sullen, having no more wish to marry his cousin of Celle than she had to marry him. He would be wise enough though to accept the match for he realized the advantages it would bring.

It was the moment for the unhappy pair to be presented to each other.

They looked at each other squarely. George saw a child – a silly little girl. Her daintiness meant nothing to him; her beauty failed to move him; her slender grace had no charm for him. He thought of his big-busted Marie with the lewd eyes.

Sophia Dorothea saw the coarse jowls, the sullen eyes and she thought: He is all that I feared he would be.

The room seemed to tip drunkenly; the faces of those about her receded and then rushed towards her; she saw the face of her future husband distorted so that it looked like that of an ape as she swayed; had her mother not caught her in her arms she would have fallen to the floor.

Sophia Dorothea had fainted.

Platen, Clara’s husband, came to Celle to help his master work out the marriage settlement; and the two brothers – each with his chief minister – were closeted together to deal with this matter. The odds were well in favour of Hanover for Platen worked zealously with Ernest Augustus to extract the utmost advantage; and Bernstorff worked with them to advance his; as for George William, he was so delighted to be on old terms of friendship which his brother that he was happy to concede anything that was asked of him.

‘A marriage portion say of a hundred thousand thalers?’ suggested Platen.

Three pairs of eyes watched George William’s reaction to this suggestion. It was astonishing that he did not even blink.

‘It seems fair enough,’ he said.

Ernest Augustus lowered his eyes. Platen was a good fellow. He would reward him for this; and it would please Clara. A title perhaps. Baron. Clara would like to be a Baroness.

A hundred thousand thalers and the estates which were already settled on the girl. This match pleased Ernest Augustus far more than the English one would have done. He doubted the Princess Anne would have received such a dowry.

Bernstorff had to make some pretence of working for Celle. He suggested that should the Princess Sophia Dorothea become a widow she should be entitled to a dower of twelve thousand thalers.

Twelve thousand thalers. A small sum when compared with a hundred thousand; yet Bernstorff managed to make it sound a good deal.

George William in any case was eager to be, as he said, reasonable. This was a contract between relations; they had no wish to bargain sordidly with each other.

He knew that he was passing his daughter into the best possible hands.

Then, suggested Platen, there was no reason why the marriage settlement should not be drawn up without delay and the two Dukes could put their signatures to it in company with the two happy young people.

No reason at all, agreed Bernstorff, rubbing his hands together and smiling at his master as though by so doing he could delude him into believing that they had come well out of the matter.

When Eléonore heard the terms of the marriage settlement she was astounded.

‘It seems to me,’ she told George William, ‘that you are bewitched.’

‘Nonsense,’ retorted George William. ‘You have worked yourself into such a passion over this marriage that you condemn every part of it.’

‘You give away one hundred thousand thalers and all she will have if she becomes a widow is twelve!’

‘She will always live in accordance with her rank, naturally.’

‘In accordance with her rank!’ repeated Eléonore bitterly. ‘He has a mistress at Hanover. At least she should be dismissed from Hanover before Sophia Dorothea enters the palace there.’

George William was silent.

‘Well?’ said Eléonore. ‘Do you agree with me?’

‘Naturally he will not need a mistress now that he has a wife.’

‘Your brother has a wife but that does not prevent his having many mistresses, headed by that Platen woman.’

‘My dear, you are becoming hysterical.’

Eléonore stamped her foot. ‘I insist that Marie von dem Bussche be dismissed from Hanover before my daughter arrives there.’

‘I will mention the matter,’ said George William.

‘I will be present when you do, to add my voice to yours,’ she replied firmly.

The Duchess Sophia emitted a harsh laugh. ‘My dear Duchess,’ she said, ‘this woman is of no importance.’

‘She is George Lewis’s mistress and has succeeded in making a scandal of her name.’

‘You have odd ideas,’ replied Sophia. ‘Men will have their mistresses. As long as their wives lose nothing by it, what matter?’

‘How could their wives fail to lose love … companionship?’

‘Such strange fancies! As you know the Duke of Hanover has his mistresses but I never allow them to interfere with me.’

‘My daughter has been brought up to respect the sanctity of marriage.’

‘A strange upbringing indeed! Why, as long as she sees enough of her husband to get herself children, what complaint could she have? She should be pleased rather that there are some who can amuse him from time to time. It will give her a little respite.’

‘You have cynical ideas of marriage.’

‘Worldly ones if you like. Perhaps at Hanover we are more worldly than you are at Celle. But I assure you that your daughter will have nothing to fear from her husband’s mistresses.’

‘She has not yet signed the marriage agreement, nor given her written consent to the marriage. I have accepted much so far, but I shall stand against this. She shall not go to Hanover as George Lewis’s wife while he keeps a mistress there.’

‘I think you are a little … unreasonable.’

‘There are many matters on which we do not agree,’ replied Eléonore.

What a tiresome woman she was! said Sophia to Platen and Bernstorff. There they were with everything agreed upon and now Madame Eléonore was making difficulties over Marie von dem Bussche.

Ernest Augustus said: ‘Well, it is understandable. She is a fine woman and I admire the manner in which she is facing this. As for the girl … she’s pretty and should be enough for George Lewis until she is with child. I think we should concede this request.’

Bernstorff added that the Duchess of Celle had spent a long time arguing with her husband on this point and that George William from sheer habit, was turning to her way of thinking.

‘Perhaps,’ suggested Bernstorff, ‘it would be wise to give way on this point.’

‘George Lewis will be furious if we do,’ put in Platen.

‘I think,’ said Ernest Augustus, ‘that George Lewis’s wishes must be ignored in this instance. If we give way, and we had better, for if we do not the Duchess may start working on her husband’s resistance, then it will seem that we have granted a great concession. We shall say that we are ready to grant any reasonable request. Moreover I agree that George Lewis should not expect his wife to accept a mistress at this time. Mistresses will be for later. At the moment he must content himself with his wife.’

‘Then,’ said Bernstorff, ‘let us give way to the Duchess’s request and the papers can go forward for signature without delay.’

So, while George Lewis fumed in his apartment against the silly little girl he must take in place of his voluptuous Marie, Sophia Dorothea was writing the letter which, now that her mother had achieved the dismissal of the bridegroom’s mistress, could be put off no longer.

It was addressed to the Duchess Sophia of Hanover and ran:

Madam,

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 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 knew 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 submission that I am,

Madam,

Your Highness’s very humble and Obedient servant

Sophia Dorothea

From Celle, October 21st, 1682.’

‘It is false, so false!’ cried Sophia Dorothea; but she had written and signed it.

It was taken from her and delivered; and after that there was no need to delay further. Plans for the wedding went on with all possible speed.

All through the day the trumpeter on the tower was announcing the arrival of important guests. The townsfolk ran from their houses or leaned from their windows to watch the carriages rattle by. Every distinguished family was coming to the wedding, the notable exception being the Wolfenbüttels.

In the castle there was dancing and feasting and the gaiety contrasted with the misty dampness outside. Sophia Dorothea spent a long time sitting in her apartments alone, looking out at the trees and the grey water of the moat. She kept reminding herself that there was little time left; the day was fast approaching when this dear castle would no longer be her home. Instead of a castle she would live in the Alte Palais at Hanover where everything would be different; her mother, now quiet and reconciled, had tried to learn what she could of life at the court of Hanover so that her daughter might be prepared. ‘Keep your dignity. Remember you are a Princess and none will dare treat you with anything but respect. Perhaps you will learn to be fond of your husband.’ Sophia Dorothea had nodded because she could not bear to grieve her mother by letting her know the full extent of her wretchedness. They were both acting for each other; and Sophia Dorothea knew that in the last weeks she had been sharply jolted out of childhood forever.

Eléonore von Knesebeck was with her – a great comfort, for there was one friend from whom she would not be parted. The little Knesebeck was fiercely determined to fight her mistress’s battles.

One must begin to count the advantages. ‘I shall be the wife of the heir to Hanover,’ Sophia Dorothea told herself. ‘I shall not be far from home. The Duke smiles at me kindly. I think he will be my friend.’

It was only thus that she could live through the days.

They had made her the most beautiful gown she had ever possessed; jewels were brought for her selection. She looked over them with her mother and they pretended to be interested.

If we do not pretend, thought Sophia Dorothea, we should be tempted to go out to the moat or the river and lie down there together while the waters made a covering over our heads.

Those were thoughts which brought a queer sort of comfort; but one knew all the time in one’s heart that one would never reach that point. Life was there – and one kept a hold of it, desperately clinging to it, whatever happened.

The 21st November – two months since that nightmare day when everything had changed in the castle of Celle – was her wedding day.

The bells were ringing out; the streets of the town were decorated and the sounds of laughter and music filled the castle; but the laughter was not that of the bride or the bridegroom.

In his apartments the bridegroom sullenly kicked at a stool thinking of Marie whom these people had insisted on his giving up. How dared they presume to rule him! He would show them and their precious Sophia Dorothea that they could not do that for long. Marriage – a painful necessity. Oh well, he would get her with child quickly and his duty would be done.

In her apartments Sophia Dorothea was dressed in her wedding gown – a beautiful figure sparkling with jewels which were gifts from her father and the uncle who would soon be her father-in-law. But as she looked at her scintillating reflection she saw only her woebegone face. The candles were still burning although it was morning, so dark was that day and at least the weather was in tune with her mood.

She wanted to hold back time, to say: Now I am in Celle. Now I am merely the Princess Sophia Dorothea. Something will happen and this dreadful thing will not come to pass after all.

But the hours slipped by and no miracle came to Celle that morning.

Into the chapel she went just as the first rumble of thunder was heard in the distance and the rain began to hit the castle walls, and there was gloom outside and gloom in the hearts of the bride and her mother.

Sophia Dorothea looked at Eléonore, calm, restrained yet tragic. Their eyes met and her mother smiled as though she were saying: ‘I shall always love you, darling. You will always be the dearest in my life; and we shall never be far apart. You are marrying this man, but his home is only twenty miles from Celle. Remember that.’ ‘Oh, Maman, Maman,’ whispered Sophia Dorothea to herself, ‘I will remember. It is all I want to think of now.’

Her sullen bridegroom scarcely looked at her. He mumbled the words required of him; his hand was clammy and listless. He disliked this as much as she did.

She shivered and then the lightning lit up the chapel and a half second later the thunder broke as though it would shatter the foundations of the castle. Guests looked at each other, Eléonore’s eyes were on her daughter. An omen?

But the castle stood firm against the storm. The ceremony continued and Sophia Dorothea of Celle became the wife of George Lewis of Hanover.

Overhead the storm grew fainter; but the rain fell relentlessly and outside it was dark as night.

Sophia Dorothea sat at the banquet, her husband beside her. He glanced at her, summing her up. She was pretty, he could not deny it. Too slender for his tastes and she’d be finicky, he guessed, and know nothing. Still, she was pretty.

He smiled at her and although she shivered she was glad he had at last seemed a little friendly.

She turned from him and watched the dancing and revelry of those who could enjoy them, because, after all, they were not being married.

In the state coach drawn by six magnificent horses, cream in colour, sat the bride and bridegroom. They had traversed the miles from Celle and were on the outskirts of Hanover; and now they were aware of the welcome that town was about to give them.

The people filled the streets; banners had been hung from windows and sweet music filled the air.

‘Long live the bride!’ cried the people. ‘Oh, but she is lovely!’

Sophia Dorothea could not help being touched by their welcome; their obvious admiration reminded her of her father’s subjects of Celle, and for the first time since she knew she was to marry her spirits lifted a little.

She smiled and waved her hand as she had at home and the people were enchanted with her.

It was a good marriage, they said, because it united Celle and Hanover and this enchantingly beautiful girl was bringing much needed wealth to Hanover.

‘Long live the lovely Princess!’ they shouted.

Clara watched the arrival from a window of the Alte Palais.

She was angry because her sister Marie had received orders to leave, and although her husband was to become a Baron, and she of course, would revel in the title of Baroness, she was foiled because her sister would not be able to guide George Lewis.

He would have no mistress for a while! That meant of course no important mistress. And Marie – sister of Clara – had received marching orders.

‘Don’t go,’ she had said to Marie. ‘Why should you? Once that Celle creature is here we shall know how to deal with her. I do not see why we should allow her to dictate to us. I will speak to Ernest Augustus as soon as I have a chance and you shall stay, rest assured.’

So Marie had disobeyed the order to leave and now stood with her sister at the window to watch the arrival.

Here they came – in the state coach with its cream-coloured horses, her lover, George Lewis, and his bride. Marie drew aside the hangings and leaned out of the window as Sophia Dorothea was stepping from the coach, George Lewis awkwardly helping her out. Now they had turned to come into the palace and George Lewis looked up and saw Marie. So did Sophia Dorothea. And in that moment, instinctively she knew.

She turned to one of the attendants and said: ‘Who are the ladies at the window?’

She was told that they were Madame von Platen and her sister Madame von dem Bussche.

Calmly she entered the castle.

‘Welcome to Hanover,’ said the Duchess Sophia who had returned a little ahead of the married pair to Hanover that she might be there to receive them when they arrived.

‘Thank you,’ said Sophia Dorothea haughtily, ‘but I see that what was promised has not been carried out.’

The Duchess Sophia was startled. The young bride seemed to have acquired a new authority.

‘I regret that you should have cause to complain,’ said the Duchess, ‘but pray tell me to what you refer?’

‘I am told that Madame von dem Bussche is in the palace although it was arranged that she should leave before I arrived.’

‘So she is still here!’ The Duchess Sophia looked angry. ‘I regret this. But she shall be gone before the hour is out.’

Sophia Dorothea bowed her head and requested to be shown her apartments, and to these the Duchess Sophia personally conducted her.

In her room Marie von dem Bussche was feverishly preparing to leave.

‘This is disastrous!’ she cried, between her sobs of anger. ‘I thought you said …’

‘I had no opportunity to speak to Ernest Augustus,’ replied Clara. ‘You should not have stood at the window. Then no one would have known you were here.’

‘She would have discovered in time. I thought you said she was a stupid girl whom you would be able to handle.’

‘She is merely not so stupid, but I shall be able to handle her!’ replied Clara grimly.

‘And then …?’

‘You shall come back and hold your old position with him. Don’t fret. She’ll not satisfy him. He doesn’t want a French doll however pretty. He wants a lusty woman.’

‘So you think everything will be … as it was… .’

‘Give him a little time with his bride. Then you shall come back. I’ll see to it. Madame Sophia Dorothea will have to learn who rules this court.’

Clara said goodbye to her sister and then went down to the banquet hall where she would be presented to the new bride – not, of course, as her father-in-law’s mistress, but as the wife of his first minister.

Sophia Dorothea listened to the wheels of the coach which were carrying her. husband’s mistress far away. It was her first little triumph.

And George Lewis? He was far from prepossessing; he did not fill the rôle of romantic hero; but in his clumsy way he was not unkind; and he was far from being the ogre of her childhood.

She must accept her new life. The happy childhood was over. But when she sat at her window and looked out in the direction of Celle she thought of her mother who would certainly be thinking of her at this moment; only a few miles separated them; and soon perhaps she would have a child of her own.

This was not the happy marriage she had dreamed of; life had changed abruptly and cruelly; but with each new phase the shock grew less acute.

When I have a child, thought Sophia Dorothea, perhaps I shall not mind so much.