The Princess of Celle

The Little Scandal

SOPHIA DOROTHEA AWAKENED early and stretched luxurfously in her bed. It was a golden September morning – and her birthday.

For weeks there had been hushed whispering in the castle; her parents had exchanged glances when certain things were mentioned and she knew they were thinking of the pleasant surprises for this day. The servants had been bustling importantly for weeks; exciting smells rose from the kitchens; and the people in the town called their greetings to her when she rode out with her father or mother – and even they seemed to be sharing in the fun.

It was comforting; it was delightful – in fact it was the happiest thing in the world to be Sophia Dorothea of Celle.

Her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world; her father was the most indulgent father; and she was their adored and only child. Sometimes she wished that she had brothers and sisters, but if she had of course she would have lost a little of her importance. Would it have been worth while? That was one of the problems of Sophia Dorothea’s world. There had been occasions when the household had been hushed; when she had believed that there might be a brother or sister; but all this had come to nothing and here she was – reigning supreme – the little Queen of Celle, as they called her in the town.

There would be entertainments at the castle all day. Everyone must know what an important day it was. The day on which was celebrated the birth of Sophia Dorothea.

Sophia Dorothea laughed; she gazed at the mantelpiece supported by four cupids; there had been a time when she was very small when she had believed that they were actually holding it there; she used to lie in bed and wait for them to move, wondering whether the mantelpiece would come crashing to the ground. Her mother had explained that the cupids brought love. There was certainly love in the castle. They all loved each other so dearly – Papa, Maman and Sophia Dorothea. There never had been such love as they shared – so Maman said; and because of it they would be happy ever after.

‘For ever and ever,’ sang Sophia Dorothea.

She slipped out of the bed in the alcove and padded across the room, through the open door to the schoolroom. Her apartments consisted of three rooms leading out of each other – bedroom, schoolroom and parlour. In the schoolroom were two large windows and she loved to kneel and look out to the lime trees and the moat. The moat was to make them secure, Maman had said, secure from the wicked uncle and aunt at Osnabrück who did not love them.

Sophia Dorothea enjoyed shivering at the thought of the wicked uncle and aunt of Osnabrück; it gave real meaning to the security of Celle and made the love of her parents so much more precious.

There was going to be a ball today; she knew because of what was being done in the ballroom. Perhaps beyond the moat down in the wooden houses of the town people were waking and saying: ‘Do you know what today is? It’s the seventh birthday of Sophia Dorothea, the little Queen of Celle.’

And they would put on their best clothes and come to the castle, and she would be with Papa and Maman and everyone would smile and call greetings in German. She liked French better because she always spoke it with Maman when they were alone; but of course she must speak German sometimes.

Voices from without. It was too early yet. But the door was opened and there was Maman, her arms full of parcels and behind her Papa with his equally full.

They came into the apartment.

‘So she is out of bed!’

She hid behind the curtains and then leaped out on them. They had thrown their parcels on the bed and Maman had lifted her in her arms.

‘Happy birthday, my darling.’

‘Happy birthday, my darling Maman,’ answered Sophia Dorothea; for Maman had said they would always share everything – joys and sorrows, so it was equally her birthday.

Eléonore had to control her emotions as she looked at this child who grew more beautiful every day. Her hair was black, her eyes large and sparkling; her face a perfect oval, her skin so smooth and fresh; but it was more than that – a grace, a charm, a daintiness, which Eléonore assured herself was entirely French.

She loved this child so fiercely that her affection for George William seemed almost insignificant by comparison.

‘I am here too,’ said George William. ‘Happy birthday, my dearest.’

‘Thank you, Papa.’

She loved him very much but she did not share with him as she did with Maman. She could love only one person best.

‘And what were you doing out of bed?’ asked George William with mock sternness.

‘I was having a look at a birthday morning.’

Then they laughed together and sat on the bed opening the parcels.

There was a ball in the evening to celebrate the occasion, and Sophia Dorothea would open it with her partner.

She would remember all the steps taught her by her dancing master, who would be watching with apprehension; but he need not worry. She loved to dance.

Her partner was a tall boy – the most handsome boy she had ever seen, she decided.

He held her hand lightly and he had smiling eyes. She was glad he was a partner.

The others were falling in now – Papa and Maman dancing together; and Aunt Angelique with her husband the Comte de Reuss. Sophia Dorothea did not love Aunt Angelique greatly; she was not as beautiful as Maman and inclined to be a little resentful of all the devotion that was showered on her young niece. Sophia Dorothea had heard Aunt Angelique refer to her as une enfant gâtée.

She was not spoiled. Maman did not think she was – nor did Papa – and Sophia Dorothea was sure they knew far better than Aunt Angelique. She wondered if her companion thought so.

‘Do you?’ she asked forgetting that she was speaking her thoughts aloud.

‘I did not quite catch …’

‘Do you think I am a spoilt child?’

‘I do not know you well enough, but that I hope to remedy. If you are not, which I am sure is the truth, that is because you are too sweet-natured and sensible to be; and if you are – well, then it is the fault of others.’

Sophia Dorothea’s laughter rang out. ‘What funny things you say.’

‘I am glad they amuse you.’

‘You do not live in Celle?’

‘I am going to for a time.’

‘What is a time?’

‘One year … two years … three perhaps.’

‘That I shall call living in Celle. I am pleased.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I like you. You shall always’ dance with me when there is a ball.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Do I dance well?’

‘Most excellently.’

‘What are you, besides a dancer?’

‘A soldier.’

‘Have you come here to fight?’

‘To learn to fight and … other things.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, because it is a custom in noble houses for sons to be brought up away from home.’

‘Then you will live here? You will be as my brother.’

She put her head on one side and smiled at him. Another one to love her, to spoil her? She was pleased. ‘This is the happiest birthday of my life,’ she announced.

The dance was over and she must take her partner to her mother; she wanted Eléonore to know how very happy she was.

‘But first,’ she said, ‘I must know your name, for how can I tell my mother who you are if I do not know?’

‘It is Königsmarck,’ he said. ‘Philip Christopher Königsmarck.’

‘Come,’ she said, and slipped her hand in his. ‘I will show you to my mother.’

Eléonore was looking for her and she cried: ‘Maman, look. This is my new friend.’

The days were more exciting. Sophia Dorothea would run to the window as soon as she was awake and see if Philip Königsmarck were in the grounds of the castle. If he were he would wave to her. They rode together; he told her about Sweden and it was interesting to hear of countries other than France, of which her mother talked so frequently, and Italy, which came so often into her father’s conversation.

Philip told her of the great family of Königsmarck and how they were known throughout Europe as great soldiers.

Life had become more exciting since that seventh birthday when she had first met Philip.

It was Angelique who was responsible for what happened. Sophia Dorothea did not know this or her dislike for her aunt would have turned to hatred.

Angelique came to her sister’s apartments one day and said: ‘Eléonore, I should like a word in private with you.’

Eléonore looked in surprise at her sister and asked what was troubling her.

‘Sophia Dorothea,’ answered Angelique.

Eléonore turned pale. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, don’t distress yourself. She is well enough … too well perhaps. I passed her in the stables a few moments ago with that Königsmarck boy. It was that which made me decide I must speak to you.’

‘What are you talking about, Angelique?’

‘Has is occurred to you that Sophia Dorothea is somewhat precocious and that Königsmarck is sixteen years old … almost seventeen?’

‘You surely are not suggesting …’

‘In a childish way Sophia Dorothea is in love with the boy.’

‘As long as it is in a childish way …’

‘But he is not so childish, is he?’

‘My dear Angelique!’

‘Oh, you are like all mothers. Your child is different from all others. Hasn’t it occurred to you that these two at least might experiment?’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Only that I saw Sophia Dorothea throw her arms about him and declare he must never, never go away.’

‘She is a baby.’

‘Very well, if you are prepared to allow her to run risks …’

‘You know I could never allow her to run risks.’

‘Moreover, what do you think is the motive of Count Königsmarck in sending his son here? Sophia Dorothea will be a considerable heiress.’

Eléonore was uneasy. ‘Thank you, Angelique,’ she said. ‘I will think about this.’

When her sister had left her Eléonore went to the window and looked out across the moat.

She is precocious, she thought. There could be trouble. She is so lovely and he is a remarkably handsome boy. Sixteen. Rising seventeen. Scarcely a boy.

Eléonore went to find George William, who was sitting in the sunshine near the open window; he looked up and smiled as she entered.

‘There won’t be many more days like this, this year,’ he said, as though excusing his laziness.

‘So you are making the most of them?’

He reached for her hand and looked up at her affectionately. ‘Something troubles you, my darling?’

‘It’s what Angelique has just said about Sophia Dorothea and Philip Königsmarck.’

‘What could she say?’

‘That the Königsmarcks have sent him for a purpose … marrying our daughter. And that Sophia Dorothea is a little too fond of him and he is no longer merely a boy.’

‘And this disturbs you?’

‘You know that Sophia Dorothea is for Augustus Frederick of Wolfenbüttel.’

‘That will not be for a year or two.’

‘She is very fond of this boy, George William. Suppose she grew too fond of him?’

‘My love, you are talking about a child. They change their affections every week.’

‘I haven’t noticed Sophia Dorothea do that.’

No, thought Eléonore, Sophia Dorothea had loved her mother steadily since she had become aware of her. She was not one to change her devotion.

‘Well, what is it you wish to do, my dearest?’

‘I think it would be wise to find some pretext for sending the boy away. One thing I could not bear would be for our child to be hurt. It would be terrible if she discovered a fondness for this boy and then was forced to take Augustus Frederick. What I want is for Philip Königsmarck to go … and we must invite the Wolfenbüttels here more often. I want our daughter to know the man she is to marry, I want her to learn to love him before she is taken away from us. Well, what do you say, George William?’

‘You have spoken, my dear. We will diplomatically dismiss young Königsmarck and Augustus Frederick shall take his place in our daughter’s affections.’

Eléonore stooped and kissed him.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You make me feel so … safe. I know that while we stand together nothing can harm us.’

The years began to slip by. Sophia Dorothea had been so deeply distressed when Philip Königsmarck left Celle that Eléonore knew how right she had been to send the boy away. But Sophia Dorothea was a child still and Eléonore set out determinedly to make her forget her loss. She did not entirely succeed in doing this, and for a long time after Philip had gone, Sophia Dorothea would refer to him rather sadly. ‘Philip would have said that.’ ‘Philip would have done it this way.’

Angelique had been right. Sophia Dorothea, living so much with older people, was a precocious child.

Augustus Frederick often came to Celle and he and Sophia Dorothea were good friends. She did not find the exhilaration in his society that she had found in that of Philip Königsmarck, but at least she liked him and Eléonore was satisfied that her beloved child would be spared the horror which so many princesses and heiresses had to endure – of being married to a stranger.

George William had left Celle to go and fight once more for the Emperor who had hinted that he would appreciate such help, and Eléonore was always uneasy while he was away, she was always afraid that there would be some sort of attack from Osnabrück and that she would be unable to defend herself. Often she dreamed of Osnabrück – crazy dreams dominated by Sophia as a giantess and Ernest Augustus as an ogre, storming Celle when George William was away and trying to rob her of her precious child. These dreams were ridiculous by the light of day, of course; but she was always a little anxious when visitors arrived at the Castle until she had ascertained that they did not come from her brother-in-law and his wife.

She and Sophia Dorothea were constantly in each other’s company. She herself taught the child – it was an excuse to be together. Sophia Dorothea was growing up into a vivacious, intelligent and extremely charming young woman. Each day she grew more beautiful; and it was not only her mother who thought so. She was gracious always to the townsfolk and it was easy to see how she charmed them. Eléonore had longed for a large family but she believed that in this one child she had all that she desired.

She wanted everything for her – wealth, honours, happiness. But first, she assured herself, happiness. She had acquired it; so must her beloved child.

It did not occur to her that George William was a little jealous of her devotion to their daughter; it did not occur to her that he ever could be. She believed that he was as devoted to Sophia Dorothea as she was. This was not so; George William was proud of his daughter; he indulged her; but he could not love a child as much as he loved a woman; and in the last years the thought had come to him that the older their daughter grew, the less time Eléonore had to spare for him.

He had had proof that she loved Sophia Dorothea more than she loved him, for when the Emperor wished him to go to war, Eléonore wanted him to go. She did not say so; she had wept at his departure; but she believed that it was his duty to go, because of the absolute necessity of pleasing the Emperor and getting their reward, which was the legitimization of Sophia Dorothea.

For the sake of this then, he must go to war; and Eléonore wanted him to go.

He hid his resentment; did he not love his daughter too? He fought valiantly; he did everything in his power to win the Emperor’s approval; and he knew that he had succeeded.

When he returned to Celle, Eléonore was radiantly happy to welcome him, and all his resentment faded. There was his beautiful daughter waiting to fling her arms about him and to jump up and kiss him and tell him what a handsome soldier he was and how happy they were to have him home.

He wondered then how he could have entertained such foolish thoughts for a moment. They were one family, and the good of one was the good of all; and each time he saw his wife and daughter afresh he was struck by their beauty which in his eyes exceeded that of all other women.

He had news for Eléonore and he could scarcely wait until they were alone.

‘I have seen the Emperor,’ he told her.

It was wonderful to see the way in which she opened her eyes so wide and watch while the colour flooded her face.

‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘I so distinguished myself in battle that I had a private audience.’

Eléonore threw herself into his arms.

He kissed her forehead and her throat and then he said: ‘But you do not seem to be interested in what he said?’

She was out of his arms, staring at him.

‘He said: “Commend me to your Duchess. I trust she is well.”’

‘He … he called me your … Duchess?’

George William nodded.

‘Then he means that he regards me as your wife.’

‘I think it was a hint. He was telling me that he was pleased with me and that I had earned my reward.’

‘You are the most wonderful father in the world.’

‘I would rather you thought I was the most wonderful husband.’

‘Both,’ she cried ecstatically. ‘Both!’

George William had been right in his assessment of the Emperor’s intentions. Quickly on his return followed letters granting Eléonore the title Countess of Wilhelmsburg and legitimizing Sophia Dorothea.

Ernest Augustus and Sophia were furious when they heard this news, but there was nothing they could do against the Emperor’s decisions, although Sophia told her husband that they would have to be more watchful than ever, or that sly French Madame would outwit them yet. It appeared she had been writing to the Emperor. What impertinence! And she had managed to bewitch him with her pen as she had poor George William with her beauty.

They must indeed be very watchful.

Sophia Dorothea sat before her mirror watching the effect of a red rose in her dark hair. It was very becoming. She could not help being aware of her beauty; people would stare at her when she rode through the streets with her parents; and her maids told her that she was going to be as lovely as her mother.

One of the pages had even told her that he would willingly die for her; he was such a handsome page that she had given him one of the flowers she carried and he had replied that he would keep it until the day he died.

Sometimes she thought of Philip Königsmarck – only she could not remember exactly what he looked like now. When she read of the old gods and heroes of the North she would think of him. She remembered him as all that was brave and noble. He was like Sigurd riding through the flames to awaken Brynhild, or Balder the Beautiful dying pitiably from the sprig of mistletoe thrown from Loke’s malicious hands. I shall never forget him, she would say to make herself feel sad. It was sometimes pleasant to feel sad in the castle of Celle because it was such a rare emotion.

While she dreamed one of her maids brought her more flowers and would not say who had sent them.

‘They have been gathered from the gardens,’ said Sophia Dorothea. She knew it was the page. How bold! How daring! But then Sigurd and Philip Königsmarck were bold.

A note fell from the flowers; she laughed and read it. It said that the writer would die for her. ‘He’s already told me that,’ she said. She was the most beautiful creature in the world and he only lived to serve her. He signed his name boldly.

‘Well,’ said Sophia Dorothea. ‘He is a very bold young man.’

But she kissed the note and slipped it into a drawer. Then she went down to join her parents.

When the Emperor had granted the legitimization of Sophia, Ernest Augustus had agreed with Duchess Sophia that they must be more watchful of what went on at Celle. ‘For you may depend upon it,’ pointed out Sophia, ‘French Madame will not stop at this.’ Ernest Augustus had agreed, and as a result they had planted spies in the castle of Celle. A maid here, a page there – all occupied in moderately menial tasks so that they would call little attention to themselves. One of these – a maid who had been posted to the apartments of Sophia Dorothea – was quickly aware of the devotion of the romantic page; the woman saw the flowers delivered, saw Sophia Dorothea with the note – for it had not entered the girl’s head that she could have any enemies in her father’s castle and she was very careless – and immediately she was alone in the room the maid went to the drawer into which Sophia Dorothea had thrust it. She read it but put it back, and then went to the person who could cause most trouble: the Countess Ruess.

Angelique pounced triumphantly on the note and carried it to her sister.

‘There, you see. That is what is going on.’

‘Where did you find this?’

‘In your daughter’s apartments.’

‘You mean you …’

‘I found it. Let it rest there. You should rejoice that I did so, for now you can no longer be blind.’

Eléonore summoned her daughter, and showed her the note.

‘Oh, that is from one of the pages,’ Sophia Dorothea explained.

‘But he is telling you he is in love with you!’

‘Oh yes,’ said Sophia Dorothea.

Eléonore looked in horror at this beautiful girl. ‘But my darling, do you not know what this means?’

‘It means that he would die for me. He says so.’

Innocence! thought Eléonore. Absolute innocence! But there was need to protect her.

‘If ever anyone in the household – or anyone else for that matter – writes a note such as this to you, you must bring it to me at once.’

‘Yes, Maman.’

‘There! Do not look so worried. It is over. But remember in future that you must tell me what is going on. Have we not always shared everything?’

Sophia Dorothea threw her arms about her mother. ‘Oh yes, Maman; and we always will.’

‘Now, my precious, that is well. Think no more of this.’

‘And if he sends more notes you want me to bring them to you? I hope you won’t scold him, Maman, because he is really a very good page.’

‘He will send you no more,’ said Eléonore.

She ordered that the page was to be put into one of the castle dungeons until it was decided what should be done with him.

After a few days he was banished from Celle.

‘It is better,’ said Eléonore, ‘that this affair should be forgotten as soon as possible.’

But meanwhile the spy had reported the incident to Osnabrück.

Duchess Sophia was delighted to hear of the scandal.

‘But is this not exactly what we should have expected from them?’ she demanded of Ernest Augustus.

He merely shrugged his shoulders. ‘I would expect it from any. It is the way of the world.’

Acid retorts sprang to the lips of Sophia, but she silenced them. Ernest Augustus was willing to treat her with respect so long as she acknowledged him the head of the house; she was prepared to do this as long as she had her way where she wanted it; but to achieve this she must work to some extent underground. He liked to follow his masculine pursuits – hunting, travelling a little, eating, drinking, fornicating; but at least he was growing more and more shrewd as the years passed by; yet he could never feel the venom she did for his brother’s wife. He thought George William had been a fool, and still was over the woman; but he had no desire to indulge in blacking the characters of Eléonore and her daughter.

Eléonore was clever; the child was pretty by all accounts and it was the most natural thing in the world that a page should fall in love with her. As long as that fool of a brother of his didn’t try to take anything back that he had forfeited, Ernest Augustus was willing to live at peace and without rancour.

But Sophia did not intend to forget the incident. It could, she believed, do some harm to the family at Celle, for when people were in a delicate position it was always easier to besmirch them than if they were living normal and conventional lives.

Sophia declared that since Sophia Dorothea’s mother was merely the Madame of the Duke, it was not to be wondered at that the girl showed herself to be indiscreetly promiscuous.

She eased her annoyance by writing to the Duchess of Orléans. ‘What a pity that we ever asked that clot of dirt to our court. If we had not George William could not have brought her to Celle. We could have found some other catin for him who would have known her place. But never fear. Give Mademoiselle Sophia Dorothea a little while and she will provide us with something to talk of. She is a little canaille. You will see.’

Sophia could trust the Duchess of Orléans to spread the story of the page, embellishing and garnishing it to give it a more shocking flavour.

And so the story which Eleónore had been at such pains to keep secret reached the ears of Anton Ulrich.

‘It is time Sophia Dorothea was married,’ was his comment.

But here was a dilemma. Sophia Dorothea had been legitimized, but still her parents were not properly married. This seemed a serious drawback in the eyes of Anton Ulrich and he rode over to Celle to discuss the matter.

Seated in the apartments of George William and Eléonore, Anton Ulrich looked out past the lime trees to the moat and said: ‘I do not think the Emperor would deny the permission. Already he has shown himself friendly to you both.’

‘There is Ernest Augustus to consider,’ pointed out George William.

‘But if it was the Emperor’s wish and he was to lose nothing by the marriage, I do not see how he can object.’

‘We could try,’ suggested Eléonore.

‘And,’ said Duke Anton Ulrich, ‘if I added my pleas to yours, and explained the circumstances to him, I do not think he would deny us what we want.’

‘And my brother …’ began George William uneasily.

‘Well, we might try the Emperor first; and if we get his consent, then we can begin to consider where your brother comes into this.’

‘Let us try it,’ cried Eléonore with shining eyes.

Duke Anton Ulrich turned to her; he respected her drive and determination far more than he did her husband’s. George William, he decided, had grown soft over the years. He was more enamoured of peace and quiet than perhaps it was good for a man to be.

Anton Ulrich’s suggestion proved a good one. The Emperor had no desire to put anything in the way of the marriage, providing the two brothers could work out an amicable solution.

Ernest Augustus sat long with his lawyers. It was difficult to oppose the marriage since the Emperor was agreeable; but he was going to see that his interests were well looked after.

Messengers went back and forth between Osnabrück and Celle, and at last a document was drawn up in which Ernest Augustus agreed that George William should be joined in holy matrimony with Eléonore von Harburg, the Countess of Wilhelmsburg; and that their daughter should bear the arms of a Princess of Brunswick-Lüneberg.

But there was uneasiness at Osnabrück as great as there were rejoicings at Celle, where the most elaborate arrangements were made for the celebrating of the wedding.

And there in the church at Celle amidst glittering ceremony George William led Eléonore to the altar; and they were solemnly married.

Duke Anton Ulrich, with an important following from his own court, was present; so was the rather bewildered Sophia Dorothea, who was enjoying an experience denied to many – being present at her parents’ marriage.

Everyone was happy and Eléonore radiant; she had achieved success at last. Her daughter a Princess; herself a legitimate wife.

When she saw the children together – her beloved daughter and Anton Ulrich’s son – she exulted. Anton Ulrich had proved himself to be a good friend to her and when the houses of Celle and Wolfenbüttel were joined they would be far more powerful than the court at Osnabrück.

Even on such a day she must recall her enemies and when she thought of them it was not Ernest Augustus whom she dreaded but Sophia.

But this was a day for rejoicing. A day of triumph and perfect happiness.

Her triumph was even greater when the Emperor Leopold came to the neighbourhood and Eléonore was presented to him. He was charmed by her; he was delighted with her success; and he bestowed upon her the title of Duchess of Celle.

Now she had everything. There was nothing more to fear. She was invulnerable; no one would dare cast slights at her again.

But the Duchess Sophia was going to lose no opportunity of keeping the newly created Duchess of Celle where she, Sophia, considered she belonged.