*There are various versions of this scene—this one comes from the letter of an eyewitness to General von Katte.
4. Rehabilitation
Frederick thought his own turn was coming. The King sent him a pastor with whom he had long metaphysical discussions; he was quite prepared for the end. But it is doubtful whether Frederick William intended to kill his son, even at the height of his fury. He is said to have been prevented from doing so by letters he received from other German rulers and from the Emperor Charles VI himself, pointing out that Frederick was a Prince of the Empire and therefore subject to the jurisdiction of that body. They taught Frederick William nothing he did not know already and would not have turned him from his purpose had his mind been made up.
A fortnight after the death of Katte Frederick was suddenly taken from his dungeon and put into the administration of the town of Küstrin. He was to learn about local government from Councillor Hille, a cultivated and learned man. The rules for his existence were strict; he was not allowed to dine out or have guests; all the same, with the fear of death removed, a little house of his own and two jolly young A.D.C.s to talk to, Frederick’s spirits soared and poor Katte soon seemed forgotten. As all the posts on the Council were occupied he put in for the Navy. Why not?—the Oder flows into the sea. The Councillors were delighted with his jokes and to see that the Prince was as merry as a grig; they were soon under the spell of his charm. Hille and Frederick laughed together, though Hille was strict and firm with the Prince; he had nothing of the courtier and told Frederick some home truths. The poetry the boy was always writing was quite good for a Crown Prince but would not be much for an ordinary bourgeois, he said. He discovered that Frederick knew the French translation of Aristotle by heart but nothing whatever about German history—his ancestors might have got their lands by playing cards for all he cared. Hille taught him about industry, trade and agriculture. He explained that until Silesia could be stopped from stealing its trade Brandenburg would never flourish—there were not enough outlets. Frederick took note of this and other geographical facts such as the inconvenience to the Hohenzollerns of the kingdom of Prussia being surrounded by Poland. Prince Eugene received an account of the Crown Prince’s conversation at this time; he said his neighbours would probably have trouble when he came to the throne.
Frederick William, having taken the very sensible step of putting Frederick to work out of his sight, remained on the usual bad terms with him. The liaison between the two of them was ensured by Grumbkow. Frederick always thought that he had advised the King to do away with him, but this is improbable. Grumbkow was a rogue but he was a civilized person; the Emperor, who paid him, was against Frederick being put to death, and there is no reason why Grumbkow should have been for it. Frederick teased and insulted him but the General gave as good as he got, and seems to have been rather fond of the Prince, whom he always referred to as ‘Junior’. Frederick’s Maréchal de Cour said that the whole boutique regarded itself as being under Grumbkow’s protection.
Frederick William heard that Frederick believed in predestination. The villain—did he indeed? And who taught him this heresy? Frederick sent a list of the books in which the doctrine can be found. Aha!—books don’t fly of their own accord—who procured them? Duhan, most likely. So Duhan was exiled, with no pension. Now Frederick is said to be ill—predestination, no doubt, but he won’t die—weeds never do. Frederick William forbade oysters, capons and other delicacies; Frederick decided to drop predestination as hardly worth martyrdom. But the sad doctrine suited him. In 1760 he wrote: ‘God, like a gardener, sows people as they are: narcissus, jasmin, marigold, carnation, violet—leaves them all to grow without interfering here on earth.’ Frederick was penniless. He asked for summer clothes; Frederick William replied that no true German would think of wanting such a thing; it was a decadent French conception. He asked for books and was told to read the Bible—too many books had got him where he was. Soon he was fearfully bored at Küstrin, where the company of his boutique, the Maréchal de Cour and the two A.D.C.s, was beginning to pall. In every letter to his father he begged to be allowed to leave, but Frederick William said only when he was reformed and not play-acting. ‘And I shall know when that is.’
Schulenburg went to see the Prince, to sound out his ideas on a possible marriage. Frederick, whose great desire now was to achieve his own establishment without marrying, said that if the King insisted he would obey, but then he would leave his wife to go her way while he went his. ‘The King will find out and make your life a misery, apart from the fact that you will ruin your health.’ ‘You don’t know what is to become of me?’ Schulenburg thought presently he would be given a regiment. ‘The only impossible thing is for me ever to live with the King again.’
Wilhelmine and Mlle de Sonsfeld had been shut up together in the palace at Berlin for six months and given just enough nasty food to keep them alive. Wilhelmine’s spirit was not broken and presently her durance became less vile. In May 1731 the Austrian spy who was the concierge of the palace informed her that she was going to be married to the Duke of Saxe-Weissenfels, a drunkard whom she knew and loathed. If she refused she would be shut up for life and Mlle de Sonsfeld would be whipped. Guy Dickens actually heard Frederick William saying that if Mlle de Sonsfeld did not further the marriage he would send her to the prostitutes’ prison. As the infinitely respectable Mlle de Sonsfeld was so well-connected that she was called ‘Everybody’s Aunt’ this might have seemed funny except that, with Frederick William, you never could tell. However, she bravely urged the Princess to refuse, and so did the Queen, who still hoped for the Prince of Wales.
The King and Queen were at Potsdam. Grumbkow asked to be received by Wilhelmine and arrived with other dignitaries. After a pompous preamble he announced that the Margrave of Bayreuth, of the House of Brandenburg, was to be the bridegroom—adding that as she had never seen him she could not dislike him. If she refused she would go to a fortress and Mlle de Sonsfeld would be punished; but if she accepted Frederick would be rehabilitated. So she accepted. The Queen was furious and vowed eternal hatred for her.
Then the King held a review of his army at Berlin to which princes came from all over the Empire. Frederick begged to go, but in vain. Wilhelmine was at the window to see the guests arrive; an unknown young man got out of his carriage. ‘Who is he?’ The Prince of Bayreuth. Next day, at the review, he was presented to the Queen, who was most disagreeable, but Wilhelmine hid in the lady-in-waiting’s coach. However, she met him at dinner and was unable to conceal her tears, though he was tall, handsome and noble-looking. Bayreuth told the Queen that if Wilhelmine hated him he had better go away. The King announced the engagement officially and then hugged Mlle de Sonsfeld; but the supper party at which this occurred was most melancholy. As usual, the King felt that he was in the wrong; got drunk; and then fell ill. The Queen forbade Wilhelmine to speak to her fiancé and was furious with her for winking at him. The King made him drunk to see what he was like. Bayreuth, finding the atmosphere decidedly difficult, asked the King for a regiment and went off with it to the provinces until the wedding in November. Before he left Berlin he spoke affectionately, even lovingly, to Wilhelmine, who was pleased; but of course the Queen interrupted them. She had become hysterical, still hoping for news from London. She told Wilhelmine to live with her husband as a sister so that the marriage could eventually be annulled; she was as cruel to her as Frederick William at his worst. Wilhelmine now had but one idea, which was to get away from home for ever.
On 15 August, Frederick William’s forty-third birthday, Frederick’s Maréchal de Cour was told to inform his ‘subordinate’ that the King was coming to see him. ‘When I look into his eyes I shall know whether he is reformed or not.’ Grumbkow was present at the interview and wrote a detailed account of it. As soon as he saw his father the Crown Prince fell at his feet. The King told him to get up, and then at some length recapitulated their relationship to the time of the escape: ‘I always hoped you
would own to your misdeeds—but in vain. You became more and more obstinate. I did what I could; I even tried kindness but I never could get the truth out of you. When I paid your debts you didn’t tell me what you owed but went off and borrowed money from a Frenchman. That is the road to ruin. You didn’t trust me.’ Here Frederick once more fell at his father’s feet. ‘Did you mean to go to England?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You never thought of your mother, or that I should have certainly suspected her of being in the plot, or of Wilhelmine whom I should have shut up for life, or of the war that would have broken out with Hanover where I should have put the whole country to the sword. Was it you who tempted Katte or he who tempted you?’ ‘I tempted him.’ ‘I’m glad to know the truth. How do you like it here? Better than Wusterhausen, no doubt. I’m afraid my company isn’t good enough for you—I’m a German Prince—I can’t make jokes in French; but you hate everything I like . . . May God in his mercy help you, Fritz—as for me, I forgive you.’ By this time they were both in floods. Frederick William dashed to his carriage and, having taken the Prince in his arms before a gratified crowd, he drove off. Frederick told Grumbkow that for the first time in his life he felt his father loved him, in a way.
After this the rules which made Frederick’s life so dull were relaxed. He was allowed to visit farms and estates to see how they were run, to receive guests, and even to dine out, though he was forbidden to see any women. He went to dine with a Colonel de Wreech at a beautiful house called Tamsel about six miles from Küstrin. The Colonel’s wife, all lilies and roses, was ten years younger than her husband. Tamsel belonged to her; it had been built for her grandfather by Greek workmen brought back from the Turkish wars. Frederick fell in love with her, wrote her some bad poetry and touching letters. She became pregnant; tongues wagged. Grumbkow asked Junior straight out if he was the father but Junior said, ‘Untrue’. Frederick William heard the rumour and seems not to have been displeased. The baby did not live very long. When Frederick left Küstrin he sent his portrait to Mme de Wreech hoping that she would sometimes look at it and say, ‘He wasn’t a bad fellow; he left me because he loved me too much and often infuriated me with his inconvenient passion.’ Six years later he wrote to Voltaire: ‘When I was very young an adorable person, a little miracle of nature, inspired me with two passions: one was love, the other poetry. The love was a success; the poetry a failure.’
Wilhelmine’s wedding-day was 20 November. There were fêtes and festivities, though the Queen still sulked. Wilhelmine had become fond of Bayreuth, and with her natural high spirits she enjoyed the whole thing very much indeed. One evening she was happily dancing when Grumbkow said, ‘See who is standing by the door.’ She looked and looked again; it was her brother. She flung herself into his arms but he was as cold as ice, which seemed unfair, considering that she had consented to the marriage entirely on his account. This unexplained coldness, which extended also to the Margrave of Bayreuth, lasted for a day or two, after which they were on their old loving terms.
The King took Frederick to the Queen and said, in French, ‘Here is Fritz back again, Madame.’ But Sophia Dorothea, always jealous and touchy, was displeased to think that he had come back on Wilhelmine’s account and not on hers, and she was as disagreeable to him as to the bride and bridegroom. The King, who had been looking forward to a happy family reunion, said to Wilhelmine, ‘The fact is, all our troubles are due to your mother and her intrigues.’
Frederick had grown and filled out during his exile; he looked more of a man. Frederick William’s generals, headed by the Old Dessauer, went in a body and begged the King to forget the past and give his son a regiment. Perhaps nothing loath, the King allowed him to put on his uniform again and sent him to Ruppin as Colonel of a regiment that was quartered there. He had two small houses; always passionately fond of gardening, he could make a garden of his own for the first time: ‘Amalthée—mon cher jardin de Ruppin’. Here he grew melons, meditated and played the flute, and here a fellow officer, the architect Knobelsdorff, designed the first of his many buildings for Frederick—a sad little temple d’Amalthée. For company he had men of his own age, some of whom, like Keyserling, were already great friends. Keyserling had been under a cloud at the time of the escape, but Frederick had managed to get him back again. Above all Frederick could read as much as he wanted to: ‘the dialogue with dead people, so much more fascinating than the living’. He wrote a great deal of French poetry which, with the flute, was his favourite hobby. At this time a new, long association began. General von Schwerin, who loved and understood the Prince, sent him a private from his regiment called Fredersdorf, hoping that he might suit. He suited, and remained with Frederick as his soldier servant until his death in 1758. He was tall, handsome, clever, silent and polite; and was a talented flautist. As the King refused to allow Frederick any musicians or musical instructors at Ruppin this was a great advantage: he played duets with Fredersdorf. When Fredersdorf was away, as in later years he often was, on confidential missions, Frederick wrote to him almost daily—gruesomely intimate letters about his servant’s health—and clearly worried about him. Some of these letters have a decidedly erotic flavour and some are fatherly in tone. Whatever the relationship between the two men may have been, they were certainly very close to each other.
5. Marriage
Frederick now had to face his future. Most young German princes went on the Grand Tour before settling down, but he knew that it was hardly worth asking Frederick William to permit this. He hesitated to stir up his father who at last seemed relatively well-disposed towards him, but he bombarded Grumbkow with requests to intercede for him. Like Voltaire, he passionately longed to see Italy; like Voltaire, he never did so. The alternative was marriage. He had no wish for a wife, but he wanted an establishment of his own; and it was not the custom to give that to a young, unmarried prince. Grumbkow and Seckendorf, having successfully buried the English connection, now put forward their master’s candidate, the Empress’s niece, Princess Elizabeth of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel. She was eligible, the right age and a Protestant. So Frederick William made no objection and wrote to Frederick to announce his engagement. He added that as soon as he had a son he would let him travel.
Frederick had never seen the Princess but he worked himself into a passion of hatred for her, which he poured out in letters to Grumbkow. He always begins by asking after the General’s dear health. He submits, of course, to his father’s wishes but he feels sorry for the hideous creature because now there will be yet another unhappy princess in the world. Grumbkow must get her educated—Frederick would much rather be cuckolded by a clever woman than driven mad by a fool. She must learn Molière’s École des Femmes by heart. Why, he would almost rather marry ugly Mlle Jette, who has no ancestors, than a stupid princess. (Mlle Jette was Grumbkow’s daughter.) He knows what an old womanizer Grumbkow is—no doubt he would agree that a flirt is better than a prude. How Frederick hates the heroines of novels! He likes women only while he takes his pleasure—after that he despises them; he is not the wood out of which one carves good husbands.
Grumbkow went to Brunswick and reported on the Princess to Frederick. He said he would not raise false hopes by over-praising her but that she was really not bad at all. After that Frederick refers to her as ‘the abominable object of your desires’. He is sunk in melancholy; he cannot bear the idea of an idiot whom he will dread showing in public. The King, as a Christian, should consider what he is doing in making another ill-assorted marriage—he should think of the Ansbachs, who hate each other like fire.
Under his banter and mockery Frederick was really miserable. He spoke of suicide. A member of his staff wrote to Grumbkow to ask if he could not stop the marriage; Grumbkow said he had no intention of having his head cut off for taking Frederick’s side. There was good in the boy but he needed some more chastisement, which seemed to suit him.
The betrothal took place in March 1732. An interesting and charming guest at the ceremonies was Francis, Duke of Lorraine.
He had been brought up at the Austrian court and was like an adored son to the Emperor, while the eldest Archduchess, Maria Theresa, had been in love with him from childhood. It was understood that they would marry in due course. He and Frederick made friends. When Frederick put the ring on Princess Elizabeth’s finger his eyes were seen to be full of tears. He wrote to Wilhelmine: ‘The person is neither ugly nor beautiful; not without esprit but badly brought up, shy and awkward . . . There can be neither love nor friendship between us.’ (When Wilhelmine saw her she said she was rather pretty, like a child, but with bad teeth.) His letters to Grumbkow were terrible: ‘I will keep my word and marry the lady; but then it will be, bonjour, Madame, et bon chemin’ (good day, Madame, and good luck to you). Presently he was to go to Brunswick which would be no great excitement as he knew what his dumb lady would say to him. She has sent him a china snuff-box which arrived broken; what can that portend? However, he told Wilhelmine that he did not dislike the dumb lady as much as he pretended to—Wilhelmine must help her to dress better—but that he wanted the King to realize that he was making a huge sacrifice in order to please him.
Just before the date of the wedding, Augustus the Strong died after a drinking-bout with Grumbkow who, for his part, was never the same again. This death opened the question of the Polish succession: Louis XV wanted his father-in-law Stanislas, who had already been King of Poland (1704–09), to go back there, whereas the Emperor’s candidate was the son of Augustus. Charles VI, casting about for allies against the French and anxious now to please the English, told Frederick William to break off Frederick’s engagement and marry him to Princess Amelia. Frederick William was furious at such a dishonourable suggestion—indeed he never forgave the Emperor for doing all he could to stop the English marriage in the first place and then, when it suited him, trying to humiliate a young woman on the eve of her wedding. Frederick William had become fond of Princess Elizabeth. As for her, she had fallen in love with Frederick and loved him all his life.