Catherine the Great

CHAPTER TWELVE

End of an Era

1790–1796

The Swedish menace evaporated as suddenly as it had appeared after a period of rising alarm in the spring of 1790. When a courier arrived at Tsarskoye Selo on 4 May to announce the capture of an enemy man-of-war off Reval, Catherine hastily announced thanksgiving prayers: she had scarcely slept in anticipation of an adverse result.¹ When Admiral Chichagov nevertheless failed to block the Swedish fleet’s course toward the Russian capital, her nerves stretched tauter still. From dawn on 23 May, ‘a terrible cannonade’ echoed all day, rattling windows from St Petersburg to the summer residence. ‘Anxiety’ was Khrapovitsky’s laconic comment.² While Catherine tried to ease the tension by boating on the lake, the implications for the conflict on the Danube were inescapable. ‘Everyone is sick of the war,’ Zavadovsky told Field Marshal Rumyantsev on 14 June. ‘Any peace would be desirable and useful in our state of complete exhaustion.’³ Subsequent developments were even more disturbing. Although the Russian galley fleet under Prince Nassau Siegen captured seven Swedish ships of the line at Vyborg on 22 June, it proved to be a pyrrhic victory. Even as the empress was boasting about it in a letter to Potemkin on the twenty-eighth anniversary of her coup, a disastrous encounter was taking place off Svensksund in which Nassau Siegen lost a total of sixty-four ships and more than 7300 men, most of them taken prisoner. Magnanimous as ever, Catherine refused to blame her distraught commander. ‘It was not the king of Sweden or even his fleet that defeated the prince of Nassau,’ she suggested to Grimm. ‘It was the high wind and people who thought themselves invincible out of an excess of ardour.’⁴ She was fortunate that Gustav III, deprived of the British subsidies that might have kept him in the war, was as keen as she was to sue for peace. At the price of Russia’s tacit abdication from further interference in Swedish politics, a settlement was reached at the small town of Verela on 3 August. ‘We have dragged one paw out of the mud,’ a relieved empress told Potemkin. ‘When we drag the other out, we’ll sing Hallelujah.’⁵

While Potemkin contemplated ways to bring the Turkish war to a triumphant conclusion—by no means a predictable outcome to pessimists such as Zavadovsky—Catherine prepared to commemorate the peace with Sweden with festivities out of all proportion to Russia’s achievements (the peace was announced with a glittering procession to the Kazan Church at the end of the Dormition Fast on 15 August and commemorated with sixteen days of celebrations beginning on the next great feast in the Orthodox calendar, the Feast of the Nativity of the Mother of God on 8 September). Meanwhile, neither Radishchev’s trial nor the exceptionally wet weather could dampen her mood. After an enjoyable summer in the company of Platon Zubov, playing cards in the Arabesque Room and strolling through the park at Tsarskoye Selo, she even managed to express enthusiasm for the annual celebrations at the Alexander Nevsky monastery, where echoes of her imperial ambitions sounded loud and clear. On 30 August, Giuseppe Sarti’s Te Deum, commissioned by Potemkin to celebrate the fall of Ochakov and incorporating the sound of cannon fire, was sung to full orchestral accompaniment at the banquet following the consecration of Starov’s Trinity Cathedral (‘it is a pity it cannot be sung in church because of the instruments’).⁶ That morning, Catherine had processed with Grand Duke Paul and his sons as the silver casket containing St Alexander’s relics was borne to its ultimate resting place. Metropolitan Gavriil was assisted at the service by Bishop Innokenty of Pskov and another of the empress’s favourite prelates, the seventy- three-year-old Greek, Eugenios Voulgaris, recently retired as the first bishop of Kherson and now in the last stages of his translation of Virgil’s Aeneid into Greek (it was published in 1791–2 by the Academy of Sciences in St Petersburg).⁷ The day before, she had presented Gavriil with ‘an extremely fine’ emerald-studded panageia to wear round his neck alongside his pectoral cross ‘as a sign of his contribution to the building of the church’.⁸

As it transpired, these high spirits were only temporary. At the end of September, Baron Stedingk, the new Swedish ambassador, reported that Catherine had not been seen since ‘the day of the firework that brought the peace celebrations to an end, thank God’. Soaked by persistent rain, she had developed ‘a bad cold and was exhausted with all these fetes, though that did not prevent her from going into her garden in the evening after the firework, so eager was she to appear at every rejoicing’.⁹ In fact, her colic had put her in such a bad mood that when told of the costs of the display on the meadow in front of Rastrelli’s Summer Palace, she demanded a full account from Colonel Melissino, whose pyrotechnics had ‘resembled a comic puppet show’. In this weakened state, it became a chore even to sign a decree (‘it was easier for Empress Anna: her name was shorter’), and she was irritated by all manner of setbacks, not least the slow progress of elementary education in Moscow (‘I shall have to go and live there for a year’).¹⁰ The same gallows humour was shared with Grimm once she had retired to bed to cure her cough: ‘In six weeks time I hope to read in the papers that I am at death’s door.’¹¹ Her comedies might have been expected to lift her spirits—‘tragedies are never given at the Hermitage,’ Stedingk remarked later, ‘the empress being unable to endure the emotions of a tragedian’—but these had been playing to an increasingly select company. ‘Often there are only four or five in the audience,’ the Swede was told, ‘which drives the actors to despair.’ At larger gatherings, ‘which are very rare’, she was content with a hand of boston if there was no theatrical performance. ‘It is all over by nine o’clock. The empress goes to bed and a small company of the men dine with Mr Zubov.’¹² Early in the New Year, Stedingk reported the creation of a new institution—‘middling-size Hermitages’, with a guest list of about sixty. In the first half of October, however, illness kept Catherine out of the public eye. When she appeared at Court on the morning of Maria Fedorovna’s birthday, it was the first time she had been seen for three weeks.¹³

The triumphant premiere of her operatic pageant The Beginning of Oleg’s Reign on 22 October signalled a change of mood. At the large Hermitage two days later, the empress danced the polonaise and stayed up for the ball and dinner.¹⁴ For Count Nikolay Saltykov’s masked ball at the Vorontsov palace, she wore ‘a white satin dress in the Russian style’ with a ‘cocked hat a la Henri IV, decorated with a plume of white feathers and a glittering diamond solitaire’. ‘The costume was fine, simple and grand,’ reported the secretary of the Swedish embassy.¹⁵ In November, the knights of the orders of St George and St Andrew were able to celebrate with due ceremony in Catherine’s company; Princess Dashkova sat beside her at the banquet on her name day.¹⁶ Meanwhile she had resumed her efforts to charm the foreign diplomats. Invited to inspect Voltaire’s library, Stedingk and the Prussian ambassador ‘spent a part of the day, as one might say, with Voltaire himself. The remarks he scribbled in the margins of his books while he was reading perhaps paint a better picture of this extraordinary man than his works themselves. His spirit, his gaiety, his humour and his caprices appear in their true light.’¹⁷

Something of the empress’s own capacity for whimsy was revealed when she surprised her courtiers at a masquerade on 10 November. The event was a mixture between Elizabeth’s cross-dressing balls and the entertainment staged for Grand Duke Peter at Oranienbaum in 1757. Ordered in advance not to wear hooped underskirts, her guests at the Hermitage found themselves steered towards stalls manned by actors from the French theatre, who sold them (on credit) the costumes she had chosen—a mixture of Turkish, Persian and Egyptian dress, all designed for a quick change. ‘Everyone was very happy,’ Khrapovitsky commented.¹⁸ Flushed with success, Catherine became noticeably more relaxed as winter set in. ‘Her Majesty gladly speaks of education in general,’ Stedingk noted, ‘and those of her grandsons in particular.’ The voyage to the South was another favoured subject: ‘“I have never felt better than I did on that journey,” the empress said to me, “and what amused me greatly was that all the newspapers announced that I was dying.” “Fortunately, madame, the newspapers almost never tell the truth.”’¹⁹

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By the end of the year, she had a new topic of conversation, widely reported in the European press. Potemkin’s autumn advances along the Danube had been thwarted at Ismail, a 265-gun fortress on the northern bank of the river defended by an exceptionally large garrison of 35,000 Turks. But on 29 December, the favourite’s younger brother Valerian Zubov arrived in St Petersburg with news that even this seemingly impregnable stronghold had fallen. Summoned expressly for the task, Suvorov had stormed the ramparts in swirling mists in the early hours of the morning of 11 December. While six columns of men attacked the walls—built with the assistance of French military engineers, four miles in circumference and protected by moats fifty feet wide and twenty feet deep—a galley flotilla invaded from the river under the command of the Neapolitan adventurer Jose de Ribas.²⁰ ‘The most horrible carnage followed,’ recalled the Comte de Damas, ‘the most unequalled butchery. It is no exaggeration to say that the gutters of the town were dyed with blood.’ Immortalised by Byron in