Catherine the Great

than her husband in the grande monde, Johanna Elisabeth willingly returned to spend several months of the year with her benefactress. For the growing Sophie, it proved to be a memorable experience: ‘I was cajoled and made much of, small as I was. I heard it said so often that I was clever, and that I was a big girl, that I fancied it must be true. I stayed up for all the masquerade-balls and festivals and went all over the place. I chattered like a magpie and was excessively forward.’³⁰

There was much for an inquisitive child to see. The Court of Brunswick had been an important centre for the arts since the time of Shakespeare’s contemporary Duke Heinrich Julius, himself a notable playwright. Duke Anton Ulrich (r. 1685–1714) was an even more prolific Baroque novelist and poet, and it was during his reign that the built environment of the Court was transformed. That seasoned observer of European Court life, Baron Pollnitz, particularly admired the duke’s homage to Versailles, his new country seat (Lustschloss) at Salzdahlum, a stone-clad timber palace halfway between Brunswick and Wolfenbuttel: ‘It has a great gallery with a collection of pictures by the chief painters which is not to be met with elsewhere.’³¹ Salzdahlum’s architect Hermann Korb also designed a celebrated rotunda to house the Duke August Library at Wolfenbuttel— then, as now, one of Europe’s leading scholarly collections—of which no less a philosopher than Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz was chief librarian between 1691 and 1716.³² The interior of the residence itself, one of the largest castles in northern Germany, was reshaped by the addition of a suite of Baroque staterooms.³³ The long reign of Duke Karl I (r. 1735–80) proved to be a flourishing period for the arts during which Gotthold Lessing, the greatest literary figure of the German Enlightenment, took charge of the Duke August Library in the 1770s and the Court maintained both an Italian opera company and a French ballet.³⁴ As a result of such lavish expenditure, Brunswick’s national debt rose from 1 million thalers in 1693 to 11 million in 1750, by which time Karl’s Court had more than doubled in size to around 400 people.³⁵ Even so he never doubted the value of the splendour he created, and there was no sign of a decline in his dynasty’s fortunes at the time of Sophie’s visits.

Though the regal status achieved by their more powerful rivals in Dresden and Berlin proved beyond the reach of second-division German princes such as the dukes of Brunswick, there was no shortage of royalty to be found at their Court. Duke Karl’s sisters included not only Elisabeth Christine, who in 1733 had married the future Frederick the Great of Prussia (r. 1740–86), but also Sophie’s exact contemporary, Princess Juliana Maria, who corresponded with her in later life after becoming queen of Denmark. Among their brothers were Prince Ludwig of Brunswick, who became tutor to the Stadtholder of the Netherlands and Prince Ferdinand, subsequently a general in Prussian service. Sophie got to know them all. As she later recalled in a passage of her memoirs intended to show that she had by no means arrived in Russia as a naive provincial:

The Court of Brunswick was then a truly regal one, judging by the quantity of fine houses it occupied and their decoration, by the good order that reigned at this Court, and by the number of people of various sorts whom it maintained, and by the crowd of foreigners who visited it continually, and the grandeur and magnificence that characterised every aspect of its life. Balls, operas, concerts, hunts, promenades, banquets followed one another every day. That was what I saw for three or four months of the year, every year between the ages of seven and fourteen. The Prussian Court was by no means so well regulated, nor did it seem as splendid as that of the Duke of Brunswick.³⁶

Petty German princes may have strained every sinew to emulate Versailles, but according to the French historian Adrien Fauchier-Magnan, writing shortly after the end of the Second World War, all they achieved was ‘a puerile, grimacing parody, an extravagant caricature of the luxury and elegance of the Roi Soleil’.³⁷ In this way of thinking, the best that could be expected of a German ruler was harmless eccentricity. In all too many cases, however, oddity seemed to border on insanity—‘Germany teems with princes and dukes,’ Count Manteufel observed in 1738, ‘three-quarters of whom are not right in the head’—so that the political landscape was dotted by a profusion of self-indulgent despots, each extorting taxes from his benighted subjects to fuel his obsession with personal glory.³⁸

Like all caricatures, this one incorporates a recognisable grain of truth. As Sophie was soon to discover, flagrant marital infidelity was a feature common to hothouse Court societies all over Europe. Though German Courts were no exception, there was no doubt about the identity of the monarch who had set new standards of shamelessness in his relationships with the opposite sex. When Duke Eberhard Ludwig of Wurttemberg scandalised his Lutheran officials in 1707 by declaring his intention to marry his paramour while his first wife was still alive, he countered their objections by pointing to the example of Louis XIV.³⁹ Louis had sired a string of royal bastards—so-called ‘children of France’—by a succession of mistresses which ended only with his secret second marriage to Madame de Maintenon in 1683. Only then, as a recent biographer remarks, did the king undergo a ‘drastic conversion to monogamy’, coming to resemble ‘a reformed alcoholic who will not have a bottle in the house’.⁴⁰

Versailles was equally inspirational in matters of Court culture. The Elector of Saxony, Augustus the Strong, was so impressed by his youthful visit to the French Court in the late 1680s that the image of Louis XIV continued to fascinate him even from the grave. Aspiring to resemble his idol as precisely as possible at his son’s wedding, Augustus ordered his Parisian agent in 1717 to send a costume doll to Dresden wearing an outfit ‘such as the late King of France wore on great occasions like his wedding’. A drawing would not suffice, Augustus insisted: it had to be a doll.⁴¹ Those unable to marvel at Louis XIV’s palace in person avidly collected the illustrated descriptions that the Bourbon kings were eager to see published as a way of propagating French culture. Karl Eugen of Wurttemberg employed a full-time agent in Paris from 1748, charged solely with sending to Stuttgart all new publications relating to the Court or to palace design. Goethe expressed a widespread contemporary ambivalence about the whole enterprise:

Duke Karl, to whom one must concede a certain grandeur of vision, worked nevertheless to gratify his momentary passions and to act out a series of ever-changing fantasies. But in that he strove for status, show, and effect, he had a particular need for artists. And even when his motives were less than noble, he could not help but further a higher cause.⁴²

Fauchier-Magnan’s condescension is therefore seriously distorted. Not only does he fail to see the way that most of the smaller German Courts had risen above the drunken rusticity that disfigured some of the earliest attempts to imitate Versailles, he also misses the central political purpose of representational display. Monarchs in early-modern Europe exercised power over their subjects not by keeping them under observation (as the modern state seeks to do), but by directly representing their exalted status through a series of symbolic gestures, clothing, rhetoric and rituals.⁴³ Everything at Versailles was designed to glorify Louis XIV, from the paintings on the ceiling to the clock that made Fame crown his statue with a laurel every time it struck the hour.⁴⁴ Princes throughout Europe exhausted their revenues to compete. Since there could be no more lavish setting in which to impress their leading subjects and dynastic rivals than a magnificent palace and Court, cultural rivalry between monarchs was intense. ‘For the baroque prince,’ Tim Blanning has rightly insisted, ‘representational display was not self-indulgence, it was his metier.’⁴⁵ And as Sophie discovered when she left Stettin for the last time in 1743, it was a metier practised even by such a minor potentate as Prince Christian August of Anhalt-Zerbst.

Dwarfed by their Saxon and Prussian neighbours, the princes of the House of Anhalt were among the poorest and most insignificant in Germany. Since being divided into four tiny principalities in 1603, their lands had ‘been partitioned so much that there has remained little to partition’, as the mature Catherine observed from the throne of the largest territory on earth since the fall of the Roman Empire.⁴⁶ That did not mean that their Courts were culturally barren. No less a composer than Johann Sebastian Bach was appointed Court Kapellmeister to Prince Leopold of Anhalt-Kothen in 1717. Sandwiched between periods of even more astonishing creativity at Weimar and Leipzig, Bach’s six years in Leopold’s service produced the six Brandenburg Concertos and the first book of the Well-Tempered Clavier (forty-eight preludes and fugues).⁴⁷ Yet scarcely anyone beyond the area knew anything of his genius at the time. There was nothing unusual about that in the introverted confessional world of Protestant northern Germany. The only prince of Anhalt to make a wider European impact was Sophie’s contemporary, Leopold III Friedrich Franz of Anhalt-Dessau, who created the first English-style landscape garden in eighteenth-century Germany at Worlitz between 1763 and