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Archery and the Human Condi on in
Lacan, the Greeks, and Nietzsche
 Archery and the Human Condition
in Lacan, the Greeks, and Nietzsche

The Bow with the Greatest Tension

Matthew P. Meyer
 LEXINGTON BOOKS
Lanham • Boulder • New York • London
Published by Lexington Books
An imprint of The Rowman & Li lefield Publishing Group, Inc.
4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706
www.rowman.com

6 Tinworth Street, London SE11 5AL

Copyright © 2020 by The Rowman & Li lefield Publishing Group, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including informa on storage and retrieval systems, without wri en permission
from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

Bri sh Library Cataloguing in Publica on Informa on Available

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publica on Data Available

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019951292

ISBN: 978-1-4985-6044-3 (cloth : alk. paper)

ISBN: 978-1-4985-6045-0 (electronic)
TM The paper used in this publica on meets the minimum requirements of American Na onal
Standard for Informa on Sciences Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO
Z39.48-1992.
FOR JILL AND CHARLOTTE WITH LOVE,
For helping me aim high,
While keeping my eye on the target.
 Acknowledgments

There are numerous people who have helped me in thinking through

the ideas in this book. Thanks to my former students Nick Harberg and
Casey Anderson for ge ng me to think about Jacques Lacan’s work in a
new way. I’d like to thank the members of my GSD (“Get Stuff Done”)
wri ng cohort—Chris Scru on, Greg Schneider-Bateman, Anna Mar nson
in par cular—for their thoughts and comments on the earliest dra s of
this project, when it was s ll just a dense paper. I want to especially thank
Greg Schneider-Bateman, who took a par cularly close look at early
versions of a paper that would unfold into this book, for his feedback on
my book proposal. You helped me frame things in a way so that I could
break the project up into pieces that make sense. I owe a debt of gra tude
to Richard Hanson, who had some par cularly insigh ul comments at a
mee ng of the Wisconsin Philosophical Associa on at Stevens Point,
Wisconsin, in 2015, par cularly as pertains to the connec on between the
bow and the idea of the phallus. Thanks to all of the a endees at my
presenta on at “Metaphors In Use” conference at Lehigh University
Philosophy Department in 2015 for your helpful feedback. Thanks to the
Office of Research and Sponsored Programs at the University of
Wisconsin–Eau Claire for their help in subsidizing my research costs in the
summer of 2016. Many thanks to David Soll for his comments on the first
three chapters. Thanks to Sean McAleer for his comments on the chapter
on Odysseus. I am grateful to Jana Hodges-Kluck at Lexington Press for
really listening to my ideas and for encouraging me to submit a proposal.
Thanks also Jana and Trevor for guiding me through the publishing process
and for all your clear answers to my technical ques ons.
Thanks to my beau ful daughter, Charlie, for accompanying me to
local coffee shops while I wrote parts of this book. You will undoubtedly
not remember being held close to my chest in a baby carrier while you
slept, but your li le heartbeat and breathing gave me inspira on.
Thanks to my wonderful and suppor ve wife, Jill, for all your support
throughout the years. Thank you for reading every word of the early dra s
and for typing my chicken-scratch, handwri en manuscripts. Thank you
also for being pa ent with me and for giving me the requisite me—
including solo-paren ng—to turn this idea into a reality. I could not have
done any of it without you: you helped me aim high while never losing site
of the target.
 Introduction

BOWS, ARROWS, AND ARCHERS

This book is a testament to the power of the bow as a symbol of reaching, of longing, of desire. It is an
example of the force of one symbol to span millennia. Furthermore, it is the opening into a world in
which we are all archers—both subjects to and agents over the internal and external forces which
allow us to ready, aim, fire. It’s undeniable that we are all subject to forces, some from within, and
some from without, that limit our agency. But my hope is that in understanding these forces we can
be er find peace and strength, we can be er steady our hands and our breath before our release.
The premise of this book is that the bow in specific, and archery in general, makes an excellent
metaphor for the human condi on. In fairness to the reader, while much of what is elaborated upon
here stands up without the use of the metaphor of archery, I firmly believe that the metaphor of the
bow and the archer, and the examples I will give from Greek literature and philosophy, as well as our
allusions to Friedrich Nietzsche, make an understanding of the human condi on that much richer.
While I have no illusions that the bow or archery are a natural occurrences, the one- me ubiquity of
their symbolic value and presence in cultures occur the world over. The bow was used as a weapon of
war, as a tool for hun ng, as a source of leisure, sport, and compe on, and as a prac ce of Zen and
inwardness. In its various forms, it can kill other animals and humans, be used to start a fire, or to
create music.[1]
 THE BOW
For these reasons and others, the bow has had great symbolic significance for millennia. For instance,
in Egypt and Greece and all over Asia it was associated with kingship and mar al prowess. Take for
example the Satapatha Brahmana (ca. seventh century B.C.E.) XIII.1.1.1-2: “The bow is the royal
weapon par excellence; skill in archery is for the king what the splendor of divinity is for the priest.”[2]
In Japan it was associated with balance and life: “when drawn to its full extent, the bow encloses the
‘All’ in itself and that is why it is important to learn to draw it properly.”[3] The bo om of the bow is
grounded in earth, while the arrow shoots through the sky.[4] There are clear etymological links
between the terms “bow” and “life” in epic Greek. The bow, in its ability to fire an arrow, can also
symbolize the inten on to reach something at a distance. For this reason it has also been associated
with desire.
The bow has served as a metaphor for the human condi on. Four associa ons made with the bow
will be the emphasis at various parts in our study: the bow and life; the bow and the warrior, including
gods’ ordina on of the warrior; the bow and the connec on to virtue and character; and the bow and
the connec on to the “self” more generally, which must be used as something to go beyond itself.

The Bow and Life

The central concern for this book arose out of a happy accident, which is to say I happened to
read two authors millennia apart who had in some form or another a central concern: the meaning of
human life, and death, as it pertained to drives. In his seminar en tled The Four Fundamental Concepts
of Psychoanalysis, Lacan says “the drive incorporates the dialectal of bow, even of archery.”[5] He is
basing this observa on in part on Heraclitus’ cryp c fragment that “the name of bow is life; its work is
death,” (To honoma toxon on bios, ta ergon Thanatos). We will be exploring the meaning of this
connec on, between the bow, life, and death, throughout this treatment. For example, Heraclitus
extends the instruc on of the bow to the whole of the universe: “The harmony of the ordered world
(cosmos) is one of contrary tensions, like that the harp and the bow.”[6] There are plenty of other
references to the connec on between the bow and life (and by proxy, death). Sophocles has
Philoctetes say, “Do not take my bios from me,” where bios can mean both “bow” and “life.”[7] Or take
for example the Rjveda Samhita (ca. 13th century B.C.E): “When the bows ps consort (that is when
the bow is bent), they can bear the child (the arrow), as a mother bears a son, and when with common
understanding they start apart (releasing the arrow), then they smite the foe. . .”[8] The poten al for
this metaphor to speak to our purposes is remarkable. For one, the bow itself becomes the sources of
life. Secondly, the bow “gives birth to” the arrow, which is capable of causing death in “smi ng the foe.”
One could place here the saying of Kahlil Gibran: “You are bows from which your children as living
arrows are sent forth.”[9] In each of these there is a third theme present that will turn out to be
important in the forma on of the internal tension of the human-as-bow, namely, the (m)Other (in
Lacan’s formula on), or our first caretakers. It will turn out that an important factor in crea ng an
internal tension, which then becomes a force for unconscious mo va on, is a le over trace of
separa on anxiety that happens as we gradually separate from our parents.

The Bow and the Warrior

 We are all warriors. Not in the literal sense, of course, but in the sense of figh ng a spiritual ba le,
or, if you’d prefer, “figh ng the good fight.” There is plenty of evidence the bow is seen by early
cultures in these terms as well. In the Zen tradi on, “The shape of the bow is like the quarter of a circle
whose midpoint marks the grip of the hand. It symbolizes man in the world, enveloped in his material
quaternary, whilst a emp ng to aim his spiritual bow towards a greater mark.”[10] We will look more
at the connec on between spiritual growth and the symbolism of the bow below.
The ba les that the bow symbolizes can also assume external form, that is they can be against
others. In the Islamic tradi on, Gabriel says to Adam, “This bow is the power of God; this string is his
majesty; these arrows the wrath and punishment of God inflicted upon his enemies.”[11] Or again
where Muhammad says: “there are three whom Allah leads into paradise by means of one and the
same arrow, viz. its maker, the archer, and the one who retrieves it.”[12] Like Zen kyudo, archery, the
Islamic tradi on of archery also has an appren ceship element in which the pupil must be ready to
receive the bow. This “readiness” then shows the connec on between the internal spiritual world, and
the external “ba le,” even if the la er is only symbolic.[13]

The Bow and the “Self”

For obvious reasons there are metaphorical interconnec ons between the spirituality of the bow
and spirituality of the arrow. The bow of the mind must be fined-tuned to release the most accurate
arrows. One can see the interconnec on of the two in Munadk Upanisat:

Taking as bow the mighty weapon (Om) of the Upanisat, Lay thereunto an arrow sharpened by
devo ons; Draw with a mind of the same nature as That: the mark is That Imperishable; penetrate
it, my dear! Om is the Bow, the Spirit (atman, Self) that arrow, Brahma the mark: It is penetrable
by the sober man; do thou become of one substance therewith, like the arrow.[14]

Of course, the above connec ons are rather specific. In the Hindu account the Om is the method
that one “uses” to “fire” one’s spirit, the arrow, to Brahma, the creator god related to Brahman,
Ul mate Reality. It is necessary to take a step back and look at the human-as-bow from a remove. One
half of the “bow” of the human condi on, one of our central concerns, is the human drive. Specifically,
what is the human drive? What is that mo va on that drives all other smaller mo va ons, moment by
moment? To say that it is merely survival would be myopic. We don’t need cell phones for survival. We
do not need billions of dollars or five bedrooms for survival. No, there is something more that drives
us: we are always standing with bow drawn, aiming at the next thing. But as the above Upanishad
suggests, maybe we can be er direct our aim.
In the Islamic tradi on, Shams-i-Tabrizi says, “Every instant there is, so to speak, an arrow in the
bow of the body; if it escapes from the body, it strikes it mark.”[15] Of course, this speaks to poten al
and not aim. Likewise, in Buddhist symbology “the bow represents the voli onal power of the mind
which dispatches the five senses.”[16] There too, one sees the no on of the self as poten al, but a
poten al that must be directed in a proper way.

The Bow and Virtue

Related to the metaphor of the bow and the self is the ques on: what should we be aiming for?
Here too we can gather evidence from the ancient tradi ons, including Aristotle. First, we should note
that archery is “a ma er of eternal compromise.”[17] What do I mean by this? I mean that no one can
simply will the perfect shot. Instead, one must always take into account the external factors which are
no under one’s control. In fact, it seems to be the case that the best archers are those who recognize
their own limita on and similarly aim toward constant improvement as opposed to perfec on.
Part of what is required in improving oneself is the ini al recogni on of blemishes or character
flaws. If one imagines oneself to be perfect already, they are not only wrong but in all likelihood a
narcissist who is not very fun to be around. Indeed narcissists o en chalk up things that they have
done wrong to others around them. Again, we could learn a lesson from the Hindu tradi on:

Just as every blemish in the material of the bow must be corrected and allowed rather than
concealed, so too with anyone who would prepare to become a vehicle for the pranava [a type of
yoga breath focused on the Om]. All the karmic knots and cross-grains in one’s character must be
neutralized and one should resist every tempta on to cover them up. Like a cosme cally beau ful
but inwardly bri le or flabby bow, a person will crack of drop out of the endeavor if one persists
merely looking good to others. [18]

The quest for improvement is always more than skin deep. Likewise a person can look perfectly
normal, while at the same me be in intense or prolonged psychic pain. Any building of character can
be likened to one (or more) of a number of possible archery metaphors. Two that are the most
common are the proper tensioning of a bowstring and aiming at, and hi ng, the mark.
The bow is an excellent model for the tension internal to human subjec vity; thinkers explored in
this study will make this obvious. Nietzsche writes in the Will to Power: “It is precisely through the
presence of opposites and the feelings they occasion that the great an, the bow with the greatest
tension, develops.”[19] Keep in mind, it is possible to have too much tension, and this depends upon
the quality of stringing of the bowstring. Again, as Publius Syrus said: “A bow strung too tensely is easily
broken.” As one commentator explains: “If a bowstring is weak it can endanger the bow, for if it breaks
at the point of full draw, the drawn limbs will have nothing to restrain them and will fly past the ini al
point of rest.”[20] It seems then, that the proper balance for op mal improvement in archery requires
mul ple factors: a properly strung and cared for instrument (the body or mind), taking aim at the right
target, and taking into account external condi ons. We will explore these themes throughout the book.
Now let’s look at the symbolism of arrows.
 ARROWS
Like the bow, arrows have a variety of metaphorical meanings that will appear throughout this book;
however, unlike the bow and the archer, they will not get a dedicated treatment; they will be fired only
on occasion. The two most obvious symbolic meanings of the arrows are their value as vectors—that is,
as signs that aim toward something else—and the phenomenon of “being struck.” Each of these ideas
merits a brief explana on.
An arrow is a vector; it points to something else. One of the central themes of Lacan’s dialec c of
the drive is that it is a constant force (Freud’s Konstanz kra ). The drive, in its various forms of need,
desire, and demand, is always poin ng to something other than itself. What the arrow points to is
always a metonymy—a subs tute or a stand-in—that cannot adequately be disclosed and understood
in terms of the first term in the rela on. That being the case, the bow and archer in this book serve as
“arrows” poin ng to other more hidden elements of the human condi on that do not readily disclose
themselves. Some mes all we have of the arrow is what it is poin ng toward, and even the target may
not always be as it first appears. Nonetheless, such vectors will be significant since the origins and
des na ons of such vectors may be opaque prior to reflec on and analysis.
The other way in which the arrow will appear is in the form of “being struck” by something. There
are two senses to this idea. One, we can be struck by desire, lust, or love. These emo ons come out of
the blue. This is of course mythologized in the form of Cupid and Eros—which will be discussed—but
also in the more obscure ancient references to the arrow and bow string as phalluses. The second
version of being struck pertains to the no on of epiphany or revela on. I do not think it a coincidence
that three of the thinkers we will look at have an epiphanic quality to their work. Heraclitus was called
“The Obscure” because of the simultaneously cryp c and evoca ve form of his statements. Take for
example one of the fragments that will be central to our study: “The name of the bow is life; its work is
death.” This fragment, even in English, is remarkable for a few reasons. The grammar of it evokes an
arrow being fired at the beginning of the thought, hanging in the air over the course of the pause
represented by the semicolon, and landing at its target: death. The arc of the arrow becomes a
“lifespan.” What’s more, such a dynamic tendency of Heraclitus’ evoca ve words is typical; he refers to
his own statements as “words and works” as if the thinking that comes along with them is a part of the
statement itself. The words, like arrows, are what we see, and the works are what the words force us to
do, how they work on us. Compare the idea of the “epiphanic arc” of the arrow to the following from
the Zen tradi on of bushido, or “the way of the warrior”: “The actual release of the arrow, like that of
contempla ve, whose passage from dhyāna [contempla on] to samādhi [rapture], . . ., takes place
suddenly indeed, but almost unawares, is spontaneous, and, as it were uncaused.”[21] Indeed, the
moment of inspira on can strike us just as quickly as the release of the bowstring, or the hi ng of the
target.
We can find other examples of arrows as barbs of wisdom in the Brahadaranyaka Upanisat where
“penetra ng ques ons are described as ‘foe-piercing arrows.’”[22] Other texts say “with the sha of
gnosis I shall pierce through every defect.”[23] Also in the Hindu tradi on the holy man, or sādh, is said
to go “straight to the mark,” where going straight is associated with doing and saying the right thing.
Conversely, the evil man, or the aparadh, is said to “miss the mark” or deviate or fail. “One who misses
the mark (avavidhya ) grows evil (pāpiyān).”[24]
While Lacan was more prone to giving cryp c lectures in the form of meandering medita ons, and
was reluctant to publish, some of his thoughts have a similar structure of an arrow being fired and
leaving it up to the reader to determine whether they hit the target. He himself uses the metaphor of
archery at least three mes in Seminar XI, and, a er discussing Heraclitus’ fragment, praises him for
going “straight to the target.”[25]
Lastly, in the final chapter of the book we will look at the works of Awa Kenzo, the famed Buddhist
archery instructor of Zen and the Art of Archery. His wri ngs, we shall see, also have the character of
being shot—and we have to be in the right frame of mind to have them “hit” us.
Other documents randomly have
different content
 The empress Elizabeth had a passion for building; Peter the
Great’s summer palace and even the empress Anna’s winter palace
appeared to her small and confined. Upon the site of the latter she
began to build the present edifices; during her reign was also built
the vast, elegant, and beautiful palace at Tsarskoi Selo; the palace of
Oranienbaum was reconstructed, and the fine churches of the
Smolni convent, of Vladimirskaia and of Nicholas Morskoi (in St.
Petersburg) were also erected. Some handsome private houses
were built by Elizabeth’s noblemen, and in general St. Petersburg,
which had not long before been a desert place, consisting chiefly of
wooden houses, became greatly embellished; the palace quay, as
may be seen from drawings and engravings of the time, already
showed a continuous row of huge stone edifices.
Of course all these buildings cost enormous sums which led
private persons into debt and the government into superfluous
expenditure, but it is impossible not to observe that there was to be
seen in this luxury an artistic quality which had never before existed.
The finest edifices of that period form a special style, which after
temporary neglect is now beginning to be imitated; the creator of this
style in Russia was Count Rastrelli—a foreigner, of whom, however,
Russia has the right to speak. The palaces and churches built by
Rastrelli merit description, and although painting at that time did not
represent a very high standard, yet the ceilings painted in
accordance with the fashion of the day, with bouquets of flowers and
mythological goddesses, even now attract the attention of artists.
The grandees gave high prices for pictures by foreign masters; their
houses became distinguished not only for their handsome façades
but also for the comfort of their interior arrangements; it would hardly
be possible, for instance, to imagine anything more nobly elegant
than the house of the chancellor Vorontzov (now the corps des
Pages).
All these beautiful architectural productions, and likewise those of
music and painting, were for the greater part the work of foreign
artists—visitors to Russia; but under their influence Russian artists
were formed and taste developed. The church of Nicholas Morskoi
was built by a pupil of Rastrelli. The almost daily theatrical
representations produced at court gave rise to the idea of organising
similar representations at the corps des Cadets. The empress took a
lively interest in them; she often assisted at them and lent her
diamonds for the women’s costumes. In their turn these
representations could not but assist the development of a taste for
the stage, for dramatic art and literature in general and from amongst
the number of cadet actors not a few became well known writers, as
for instance Beketov, Kheraskov, and Sumarokov.
We must dwell for a few moments on Sumarokov—a man who in
his time enjoyed an extensive literary reputation and secured for
himself the appellation of Father of the Russian Stage. The love of
literature, and especially of the stage, was already developed in
Sumarokov when he was in the corps des Cadets; when he was
afterwards made aide-de-camp to Razumovski, he could almost
daily assist at operas and ballets. At that period he read with avidity
the dramatic authors then in fashion: Corneille, Racine, Voltaire, and
Molière became his idols; he decided to try to imitate them in his own
native language then very undeveloped, and in 1747 he wrote a
tragedy, the Chorists.
It was not the merits of this work, which were very insignificant, but
the unwontedness of the appearance of an original Russian tragedy,
and besides that the fact of its being in verse, that so astounded and
enraptured his contemporaries that they proclaimed Sumarokov the
“Russian Racine”; encouraged by such a success he wrote a second
and yet, a third tragedy; he took up comedy (for which he had hardly
any more vocation) and in fact wrote a whole repertory; there were,
however, no actors; because neither in St. Petersburg nor in Moscow
did there any longer exist such company and such theatres as were
begun in the time of Peter.
Meanwhile, far away from both capitals, in Iaroslav there was
formed, almost of itself without any commands or even any
encouragement being given, a Russian dramatic company which is
indissolubly bound up with the name of Volkov. Theodore Volkov was
the son of a merchant and had been educated in the Iaroslav
seminary, where, following the example of the Academy of Kiev, and
others, representations of a spiritual or religious character were
given. They produced a great impression upon the young merchant;
when later on he managed to get to St. Petersburg and saw on the
stage of the corps des Cadets a dramatic representation given with
scenery, lighting, and mechanical contrivances, Volkov was stupefied
with rapture and astonishment. Being to the highest degree sensitive
to every artistic impression, being a painter, a musician, and a
sculptor—all self-taught—Volkov was also endued with that
constancy and patience without which even gifted natures do not
attain to any results. Volkov studied the material side of scenic art to
the smallest details—that is, the arrangement of the machinery, of
the scenes, etc.; when he returned to Iaroslav he asked his parents,
with whom he lived, to let him have an empty tanner’s shed; there he
arranged a pit and a stage, and making up a company of young
merchants like himself, sons of citizens and clerks, gave
representations which aroused the enthusiasm of all the spectators.
The intelligent and practical Volkov, seeing how the population of
Iaroslav flocked to his representations, named a price for them—a
five kopeck piece for the first rows—and thus little by little he
amassed a sum with which in 1752 he was able to build a general
public theatre with room for one thousand spectators.
The taste for the stage had meanwhile greatly spread in St.
Petersburg; in various private houses dramatic representations were
given at evening parties; it was therefore not surprising that the
Iaroslav theatre soon began to be talked of. The empress invited
Volkov to come to St. Petersburg with his company, as she wished to
see his representations given on the stage of the court theatre. She
was remarkably pleased with them, and four years later issued an
ukase for the establishment of a public theatre. The first director of
this theatre and almost the only dramatic writer was Sumarokov;
according to the testimony of contemporaries Volkov was one of its
most talented actors and his friend and fellow worker Dmitrievski a
great artist.
We must here speak of another still more remarkable Russian
native genius—Lomonosov. It is well known how, when he was a
youth of sixteen, devoured by a thirst for knowledge, he secretly left
the paternal roof and made his way on foot from Kholmogori to
Moscow. How unattractive must life and learning have appeared to
him in those early days! “Having only one altyn (a three-kopeck
piece) a day for salary, it was impossible for him to spend more on
food than a halfpenny a day for bread and a halfpenny worth of
kvass (a kind of beer or mead); the rest had to go for paper, books,
and other necessities.” Thus he described his life in the
Zaikonospaskvi Ecclesiastical Academy to Ivan Shuvalov and
concluded with the following words: “I lived thus for five years and
did not abandon science!” Theodore Prokopovitch, when he was
already an old man, visited the Moscow academy a few years before
his death; he noticed Lomonosov there and praised him for his
laboriousness and learning. In 1737 Lomonosov was sent abroad to
perfect himself and placed himself under the surveillance of the then
famous scholar, Wolff, who, while despising him for his disorderly
life, spoke with respect of his capacities and success in study.
Lomonosov followed the lectures of the German professors and
amused himself with the German students. The news of Minikh’s
great victories and the taking of Khotin reached him; his patriotic
feelings were aroused, and he wrote an ode. When the verses were
received in St. Petersburg everyone was struck with their harmony;
and when Lomonosov returned from Germany in the beginning of
Elizabeth’s reign his reputation as a poet had already preceded him
—the more he wrote the greater his fame became. Poetry, however,
was not Lomonosov’s strongest point, and verses do not occupy a
quarter of his entire works. His mind worked even more than his
imagination, and his scholarly writings are striking in their variety. He
composed a grammar of the Russian language from which several
generations have learned; he laid down rules of versification, the
foundation of which are even now recognised by everyone; he wrote
on chemistry, physics, astronomy, metallurgy, geology; he composed
a Russian history, wrote a hypothesis concerning the great learned
expeditions and memoranda bearing on questions of the state (as for
instance measures for increasing and maintaining the population in
Russia): in fact, Lomonosov’s extraordinary intellect seemed to touch
upon every branch of mental activity. He was made a member of the
St. Petersburg Academy of Sciences, but there the German element
reigned supreme and Lomonosov was one of those who, while
venerating the work of Peter the Great and the European learning
introduced by him, yet was oppressed by foreign tutorage and took
offence when the Germans put forward their own countrymen to the
detriment of meritorious Russians. Continual disputes and quarrels
arose between Lomonosov and his fellow members; nor, being of a
very impetuous and obstinate nature, was Lomonosov always in the
right. His rough and sharp measures frequently led him into quarrels
even outside the academy, for instance with his literary brethren,
Frediakovski and Sumarokov. All this might greatly have injured
Lomonosov, but fortunately for him he possessed powerful
protectors in the persons of Count Worontzov and Count
Razumovski, who liked to show favour to the first Russian scholar
and poet.
But the strongest, truest, and most constant of his protectors was
Ivan Shuvalov. Shuvalov had many defects—his character was
weak, lazy, and careless; but he nevertheless represented one of the
most consolatory types of his epoch: strong, energetic types were
not uncommon in the first half of the eighteenth century, but gentle,
benevolent, indulgent natures were rarely to be met with. Shuvalov
was not captivated by clamorous deeds, like the men of Peter’s time,
but by the peaceful progress of science and art. Therefore if the
weakness of his character made him an instrument for the ambitious
designs of his cousin, his heartfelt sympathies drew him towards
Lomonosov, of whom he naturally learned much and—what is of
more importance—with whom he devised means for the spread of
education in Russia. The result of these deliberations was a vast
plan for the establishment of schools throughout the governments,
and finally of a university in Moscow. The establishment of a
university seemed of the first necessity, as it was to furnish Russia
with teachers; this had been Peter’s intention with regard to the
academy: but it had not been fulfilled. In his report to the senate
upon this subject, Shuvalov wrote that it would be desirable to
appoint a “sufficient number of worthy men of the Russian nationality,
acquainted with the sciences, to spread education in distant parts
among the common people, so that thus superstition, dissent, and
other like heresies proceeding from ignorance might be destroyed.”
The senate approved Shuvalov’s proposition and in 1755 the
University of Moscow was founded.
We have given as just and complete a picture of the period of the
empress Elizabeth as is possible in view of the scarcity of
information obtainable concerning many circumstances of that time.
Elizabeth left behind her if not a great memory yet, broadly speaking,
a good one. Her administration may be reproached with much: in its
foreign policy it was not sufficiently independent; it was not
sufficiently watchful in interior affairs, where oversights occasioned
special evils; moreover examples of unlawful enrichment attained
huge dimensions. But her reign may be said to have led Russia out
of bondage to the Germans, while the level of education was not in
the smallest degree lowered, but on the contrary considerably
raised. Much that brought forth such brilliant fruits under Catherine II
was sown under Elizabeth.d

Bain’s Estimate of Elizabeth

It is the peculiar glory of Elizabeth Petrovna that she consulted

once for all the life work of her illustrious father. During the first
fifteen years after the death of the great political regenerator, his
stupendous creation, Russia, (before him we only hear of Muscovy,)
was frequently in danger. The reactionary boyars who misruled the
infant empire under Peter II would have sacrificed both the new
capital and the new fleet, the twin pivots upon which the glory and
the prosperity of the new state may be said to have turned; the
German domination under the empress Anna, directly contrary as it
was to the golden rule of Peter, “Russia for the Russians,”
threatened the nation with a western yoke far more galling than the
eastern or Tatar yoke of ruder times. From this reaction, from this
yoke the daughter of Peter the Great set the nation free, and
beneath her beneficent sceptre Russia may be said to have
possessed itself again. All the highest offices of state were once
more entrusted to natives and to natives only, and whenever a
foreigner was proposed for the next highest, Elizabeth, before
confirming the appointment, invariably inquired: “Is there then no
capable Russian who would do as well?” Moreover she inherited
from her father the sovereign gift of choosing and using able
councillors, and not only did she summon to power a new generation
of native statesmen and administrators, but she constrained them to
work harmoniously together despite their mutual jealousies and
conflicting ambitions. She herself had advantageously passed
through the bitter but salutary school of adversity. With all manner of
dangers haunting her path from her youth upwards, she had learnt
the necessity of circumspection, deliberation, self-control; she had
acquired the precious faculty of living in the midst of people intent on
jostling each other, without in any way jostling them; and these great
qualities she brought with her to the throne without losing anything of
that infinite good-nature, that radiant affability, that patriarchal
simplicity which so endeared her to her subjects and made her,
deservedly, the most popular of all the Russian monarchs. As
regards her foreign policy, it may be safely affirmed she laid down
the deep and durable foundations upon which Catherine II was to
build magnificently indeed, but too often, alas! so flimsily. The
diplomacy of Elizabeth, on the whole, was not so confident or so
daring as the diplomacy of her brilliant successor; but, on the other
hand, it was more correct, equally dignified and left far less to
chance. It must also be borne in mind that the energy and firmness
of Elizabeth considerably facilitated the task of Catherine by
rendering Prussia, Russia’s most dangerous neighbour, practically
harmless to her for the remainder of the century. This of itself was a
political legacy of inestimable value, and it was not the only one. All
the great captains, all the great diplomatists of the “ever victorious
Catherine,” men like Rumiantsev, Suvarov, Riepnin, Besborodko, the
Panins and the Galitzins, were brought up in the school of Elizabeth.
Excellent was the use which the adroit and audacious Catherine
made of these instruments of government, these pioneers of empire,
but it should never be forgotten that she received them all from the
hands of the daughter of Peter the Great.g

PETER III (1762 A.D.)

 As Elizabeth, on her death-bed, had confirmed the rights of Peter
III; and as the conspirators, deprived of Bestuzhev their guide, were
unable to act with energy, the new emperor encountered no
opposition. On the contrary, he was immediately recognised by the
military; and the archbishop of Novgorod, in the sermon preached on
the occasion, thanked heaven that a prince so likely to imitate his
illustrious grandfather was vouchsafed to Russia. Catherine was
present. She wore a peculiar dress to conceal her pregnancy, and
her countenance exhibited some indication of the anxious feeling
which she was obliged to repress. Compelled to defer the execution
of her ambitious purposes, and uncertain what vengeance the czar
might exert for her numerous infidelities, she might well be
apprehensive.
But she had no real foundation for the fear. Of all the sovereigns of
that or any age, Peter was among the most clement. Whether he
thought that clemency might bind to his interests one whose talents
he had learned to respect, or that her adherents were too numerous
and powerful to allow of her being punished—whether, in short, he
had some return of affection for her, or his own conscience told him
that she had nearly as much to forgive as he could have, we will not
decide. One thing only is certain—that, in about three months after
his accession, he invested her with the domains held by the late
empress. Certainly his was a mind incapable of long continued
resentment. His heart was better than his head. Resolved to
signalise his elevation by making others happy, he recalled all whom
his predecessor had exiled, except Bestuzhev. Many he restored to
their former honours and possessions. Thus the aged Munich was
made governor-general of Siberia, restored to his military command;
while Biron, who certainly deserved no favour, was reinvested with
the duchy of Courland. He did more: he restored the prisoners made
by the generals of Elizabeth, and gave them money to defray their
passage home. And, as Frederick had always been the object of his
idolatry, the world expected the armistice which he published, and
which was preparatory to a peace between the two countries.
That declaration was an extraordinary document. In it the emperor
declares that, his first duty being the welfare of his people, that
welfare could not be consulted so long as hostilities were continued;
that the war, which had raged six years, had produced no advantage
to either party, but done incredible harm to both; that he would no
longer sanction the wanton destruction of his species; that, in
conformity with the divine injunction relative to the preservation of
the people committed to his charge, he would put an end to the
unnatural, impious strife; and that he was resolved to restore the
conquests made by his troops. In this case he had been praised, and
with great justice, for his moderation. We fear, however, he does not
merit so high a degree of praise of humanity as many writers have
asserted. At this moment, while proclaiming so loudly his
repugnance to war, he was sending troops into his native principality
of Holstein, with the intention of wresting from the king of Denmark
the duchy of Schleswig, which he considered the rightful inheritance
of his family. He even declared that he would never rest until he had
sent that prince to Malabar.
Nor must we omit to add that
from the enemy he became the
ally of Frederick; that his troops
joined with the Prussians to
expel the Austrians from the
kingdom. His humanity only
changed sides; if it spared the
blood of Prussians, it had little
respect for that of Austrians. We
may add, too, that there was
something like madness in his
enthusiastic regard for
Frederick. He corresponded with
that monarch, whom he
Peter III proclaimed his master, whose
uniform he wore, and in whose
(1728-1762) armies he obtained the rank of
major-general. Had he been
capable of improvement, his
intercourse with that far-sighted prince might have benefited him.
Frederick advised him to celebrate at Moscow his coronation—a rite
of superstitious importance in the eyes of the multitude. He was
advised, too, not to engage in the Danish war, not to leave the
empire. But advice was lost on him.
In some other respects, Peter deserves more credit than the
admirers of Catherine are willing to allow him. (1) Not only did he
pardon his personal enemies—not only did the emperor forget the
wrongs of the grand duke—but on several he bestowed the most
signal favours. He suppressed that abominable inquisitorial court,
the secret chancery, which had consigned so many victims to
everlasting bondage, which had received delations from the most
obscure and vicious of men, which had made every respectable
master of a family tremble lest his very domestics should render him
amenable to that terrible tribunal. Had this been the only benefit of
his reign, well would he have been entitled to the gratitude of Russia.
(2) He emancipated the nobles from the slavish dependence on the
crown, so characteristic of that barbarous people. Previous to his
reign, no boyar could enter on any profession, or forsake it when
once embraced, or retire from public to private life, or dispose of his
property, or travel into any foreign country, without the permission of
the czar. By breaking their chains at one blow, he began the career
of social emancipation. (3) The military discipline of the nation loudly
demanded reform, and he obeyed the call. He rescued the officers
from the degrading punishments previously inflicted; he introduced a
better system of tactics; and he gave more independence to the
profession. He did not, however, exempt the common soldier from
the corporal punishment which at any moment his superior officers
might inflict. (4) He instituted a useful court to take cognisance of all
offences committed against the public peace, and to chastise the
delinquencies of the men entrusted with the general police of the
empire. (5) He encouraged commerce, by lessening the duties on
certain imports, and by abolishing them on certain exports. (6) In all
his measures, all his steps, he proved himself the protector of the
poor. In fact, one reason for the dislike with which he was regarded
by the nobles arose from the preference which he always gave to the
low over the high.

Impolitic Acts of Peter III

 But if impartial history must thus eulogise many of this monarch’s
acts, the same authority must condemn more. He exhibited
everywhere great contempt for the people whom he was called to
govern. He had no indulgence for their prejudices, however
indifferent, however inveterate. Thus, in commanding that the
secular clergy should no longer wear long beards, and should wear
the same garb as the clergy of other countries, he offended his
subjects to a degree almost inconceivable to us. In ordering the
images to be removed from the churches—he was still a Lutheran, if
anything—he did not lessen the odium which his other acts had
produced. The archbishop of Novgorod flatly refused to obey him,
and was in consequence exiled; but the murmurs of the populace
compelled the czar to recall him. Still more censurable were his
efforts to render the church wholly dependent on the state—to
destroy everything like independence in its ministers; to make
religion a mere engine in the hands of arbitrary power for the
attainment of any object. His purpose, in fact, was to seize all the
demesnes of the church—its extensive estates, its numerous serfs—
and to pension the clergy like other functionaries.
In the ukase published on this occasion, he expressed a desire to
relieve ecclesiastics of the temporal cares so prejudicial to their
ghostly utility; to see that they indeed renounced the world, and free
from the burden of perishing treasures, applied their whole attention
to the welfare of souls. He therefore decreed that the property of the
church should in future be managed by imperial officers; and that the
clergy should receive, from the fund thus accumulated, certain
annual pensions, corresponding to their stations. Thus the
archbishops of Novgorod, Moscow, and St. Petersburg were to have
each 2,500 rubles; and the same sum was to be allowed for the
support of their households, of their capitular clergy, and for the
sustentation of the sacred edifices. But the twenty-three other
archbishops and bishops were to have only 3,000 rubles for both
purposes. The salaries of the other ecclesiastics were carefully
graduated. The inferior were divided into three classes—individuals
of the first to receive 500, of the second 300, of the third 150 rubles
per annum. The surplus funds were to be applied to the foundation
of hospitals, to the endowment of colleges, and to the general
purposes of the state.
Peter attempted these and other innovations in virtue of the two-
fold character which, from the time of his grandfather, the czars had
been anxious to assume, as supreme heads alike of religion and of
the state. Not even the grand lama of Thibet ever arrogated a higher
degree of theocratic authority. Indeed, our only surprise is that in
addition to their other functions they did not assume that of bishops;
that they did not array themselves in pontificals, and celebrate mass
at the altar. But they certainly laid something like a claim to the
sacerdotal character. Thus, on the death of the patriarch, Peter I
opposed the election of another supreme head of the church; and
when he found that the synod durst not venture on so far irritating
the people as to dispense with the dignity, he insisted on being
elected himself. If the sultan of Constantinople combined with
himself the two-fold character, why should it be refused to him? The
reign of Peter was too short to permit his designs of spoliation to be
carried into effect; but, by confirming the dangerous precedent of his
grandfather, he had done enough, and his successor Catherine was
enabled to complete the robbery which he commenced.
But the most impolitic measure of Peter—that which rendered
those who might have defended him indifferent to his fate—was his
conduct towards the imperial guards. Two regiments he ordered to
be in readiness for the Danish war. This was contrary to custom. In
the faith of remaining near the court, most of the soldiers had
embraced the military life; and they were as indignant as they were
surprised when told that they must exchange the dissipations of a
metropolis for the fatigues and privations attending a distant
campaign. They were offended, too, with the introduction of the
Prussian discipline, which they found by experience to be far more
rigid than that to which they had hitherto been subject; and they
patriotically condemned the innovation as prejudicial to the military
fame of the empire. Still more irritating was the preference which he
everywhere gave to the German over the native troops. His most
intimate friends were Germans; the officers around his person were
of the same nation; Germans directed the manœuvres not only of his
household but of all his regiments; and a German—Prince George of
Holstein, his uncle—was placed at the head of all the imperial
armies.
Couple these acts of imprudence with others of which he was
hourly guilty. In his palace of Oranienbaum he constructed a
Lutheran chapel; and though he appears to have been indifferent to
every form of religion, he held this in much more respect than the
Greek form, which in fact, he delighted to ridicule. If churchmen
became his enemies, the people in general were not likely to
become his friends when they heard of a boast—probably a true one
—that in the last war he had acquainted the Prussian monarch with
the secrets of the imperial cabinet. Lastly, he insulted men of honour
by making them the jest of his buffoons.
Circumstances much less numerous and much less cogent than
these would have sufficed so ambitious, able, and unprincipled a
woman as Catherine to organise a powerful conspiracy against the
czar. But he was accused of many other things of which he was
perfectly innocent. In fact, no effort seems to have been spared to
invent and propagate stories to his disadvantage. In some instances,
it is scarcely possible to separate the true from the false. Whether,
for example, he, from the day of his accession, resolved to divorce
his wife, to marry his mistress, to set aside Paul from succession,
and to adopt Ivan, still confined in the fortress of Schlüsselburg, can
never be known with certainty. That he secretly visited that unhappy
prince seems undoubted; but we have little evidence for the
existence of the design attributed to him. If, in fact, he sincerely
contemplated raising the daughter of Count Vorontzov to the imperial
throne, he would scarcely have adopted Ivan, unless he felt assured
that no issue would arise from the second marriage. He could not,
however, entertain any regard for a consort who had so grievously
injured him, and little for a boy whom he knew was not his own. And,
as there is generally some foundation for every report, there seems
to be no doubt that Peter had promised to marry his mistress if she
survived his wife. The report was enough for Catherine: on it she
built her own story that her life was in danger; and that if her son
were not designed for a similar fate, he would at least have that of
Ivan.

Catherine Plots against the Czar

The anxiety of the empress to secure adherents was continually

active; and as her husband passed so much time in drunkenness,
her motions were not so closely scrutinised as they should have
been. Gregory Orlov, her criminal favourite, was the man in whom
she placed the most reliance. Gregory had four brothers—all men of
enterprise, of courage, of desperation; and none of them restricted
by the least moral principle. Potemkin, afterwards so celebrated, was
the sixth. This man was, perhaps, the most useful of the
conspirators, as by means of his acquaintance with the priests of the
metropolis he was able to enlist that formidable body in the cause.
They were not slow to proclaim the impiety of the czar, his contempt
of the orthodox faith, his resolution “to banish the fear of the Lord”
from the Russian court, to convert churches into hospitals and
barracks, to seize on all revenues of the church, and to end by
compelling the most orthodox of countries to embrace the errors of
Luther. The archimandrites received these reports from the parish
priests, the bishops from the archimandrites; nor was there much
difficulty in obtaining an entrance for them into the recesses of the
neighbouring monasteries. The hetman of the Cossacks, an officer
of great authority and of great riches, was next gained. Not less
effectual than he was the princess Dashkov, who, though the sister
of Peter’s mistress, was the most ardent of the conspirators: perhaps
the threatened exaltation of that sister, by rendering her jealous, only
strengthened her attachment to the czarina. Through the
instrumentality of this woman, Count Panin, the foreign minister and
the governor of the grand duke Paul, was gained over. Whether the
argument employed was, as one writer asserts, the sacrifice of her
sister, or whether, as another affirms, she was the daughter of the
count, who notoriously intrigued with her mother, is of no moment.
What is certain is, that the count was exceedingly fond of her; and
one authority expressly asserts that he became acquainted with the
details of the conspiracy before her, and admitted her into the plot.
This, however, is less probable than the relation we have given; for
the princess had long been the friend of Catherine.
Her activity was unceasing. A Piedmontese adventurer, Odart by
name, being forced to leave his native country for some crime, and
having tried in vain to obtain a subsistence in the neighbouring
capitals, wisely resolved to try his fortune in St. Petersburg—a city
where guilt might reside with impunity, and where it had only to be
successful to win the applause of mankind. As he had a
considerable knowledge of the fine arts, especially of music and
painting, he had little difficulty in obtaining an introduction to the
princess Dashkov. She, who had a shrewd insight into human
character, soon perceived that this supple, crafty, active, sober,
intriguing, unprincipled foreigner was just the man that was required
to act as spy and confidential agent. He was introduced to Catherine,
whose opinion confirmed that of her favourite. No choice could,
indeed, have been better. Little cared he in what service he was
employed. If a partisan were to be gained, no man could be more
insinuating: if an enemy were to be removed, he had his pistols and
his dirk, without which he never appeared in the street. His
penetration soon enabled him to secure the aid of two other bravos
—the one, Possik, a lieutenant in the guards; the other, Globov, a
lawyer in the employment of the senate. Of the character of these
men, some notion may be formed from the fact that Possik offered to
stab the emperor in the midst of the court. He knew how to ally
duplicity with desperation; he was at once the hypocritical intriguer
and the remorseless bravo.
Through the same Princess Dashkov, Volkonski, major-general of
the guards, was won; and by Potemkin, or his ghostly allies, the
archbishop of Novgorod was soon in the secret. The hetman of the
Cossacks went further. Great as was the danger of entrusting that
secret to many, he assembled the officers who served under him,
assured them that he had heard of a conspiracy to dethrone the
emperor, too irresistible to be appeased; and exhorted them to seize
the favourable moment of propitiating the favour of the czarina,
rather than, by remaining hostile or inactive, to bring down
vengeance on their own heads. His advice had all the success that
he could desire.
While these most vicious and in every way most worthless of men
were thus employed in her behalf, Catherine was no less active. She
knew that Count Panin espoused the cause of her son—less,
perhaps, from affection to his charge, than from the hope of
exercising more power under an infant emperor than under one of
the mother’s enterprising character. Her promise, that his influence
should be second only to her own, made him her willing instrument.
His defection constrained the rest of the conspirators: there was no
more heard of a regency; and Catherine was to be proclaimed
autocratrix of all the Russias.
Without increasing unnecessarily the number of the initiated, she
yet prepared the minds of many for some impending change, and
rendered them eager for its arrival by her artful and seasonable
insinuations. If an officer of the guards stood near her, she
whispered in his ear that the emperor had resolved on disbanding
the present force, and exiling its chiefs; if an ecclesiastic, she
bewailed the fate of the pure orthodox church; if a less interested
person, she lamented her own misfortunes and those of her son—
both doomed to immediate imprisonment, and she, at least, to an
ultimate death. If a senator were near, she deplored the meditated
destruction of the venerable and patriotic body to which he belonged;
the transformation of the debauchees, perpetually around the
emperor, into judges; and the substitution of the Code Frederic for
the ancient law of Russia.
By these means she prepared the minds of the people for the
revolution: her affability, in fact, was the theme of their praise. But
she did not trust merely to their good will. She knew that, unless two
or three regiments were secured, the insurrection might not find
immediate supporters, and that the critical moment might be lost.
Without money this object could not be obtained; and though both
she and her confidential agents voluntarily disbursed all that they
could command, and converted their most valuable effects into coin,
the amount was alarmingly inadequate. In this emergency she
applied to the French ambassador for a loan; and when he showed
less readiness to accommodate her than she expected, she
addressed herself, we are told, to the ambassador from England,
and with more success. But this statement is untrue: it was not the
English ambassador, but an English merchant, who furnished her
with the sum she demanded. With this aid, she prevailed on the
greater part of three regiments to await the signal for joining her.
Though the conspirators were, in point of numbers, formidable,
their attempt was one of danger. Peter was about to leave Russia for
Holstein, to prosecute the war against the Danish king; and of the
troops whom he had assembled, though the greater part were on
their march, some were now with him, and might be induced to
defend him. Besides, the two great divisions of his fleet were at
Kronstadt and Revel, and nobody could foresee how they would act.
The conspirators agreed that he should be taken by surprise; that
midnight should see him transferred from the throne to a dungeon.
The festival of St. Peter and St. Paul—one of high importance in the
Greek church—was approaching: the following day the emperor had
resolved to depart. It was to be celebrated at Peterhov; there it was
resolved to arrest him.
But accident hastened the execution of the plot. Until the arrival of
the festival, Peter left St. Petersburg for Oranienbaum, to pass in riot
and debauchery the intervening time. Accompanied by the most
dissolute of his favourites, and by many of the court ladies, he
anticipated the excesses which awaited his arrival. That he had
received some hints of a plot, though he was unacquainted alike with
its object and authors, is exceedingly probable. His royal ally of
Prussia is said to have advised him to be on his guard, and several
notes are supposed to have been addressed to him by his own
subjects. If such information was received, it made no impression on
him; and indeed its vagueness might well render him indifferent to it.
But on the eve of his departure, when the superior officer of Passik,
who had accidentally learned that danger attended the steps of the
emperor, denounced the lieutenant, and the culprit was arrested, he
had an opportunity of ascertaining all the details of the conspiracy.
He treated the denunciation with contempt; affirmed that Passik
belonged to the dregs of the people, and was not to be dreaded; and
proceeded to Oranienbaum. The culprit, though narrowly watched,
had time to write a line to the hetman, whom he exhorted to instant
action, if they wished to save their lives. The note fell into the hands
of the princess Dashkov, who immediately assembled the
conspirators.
Not a moment was to be lost: the presence of Catherine was
indispensable; and, though it was midnight and she was at Peterhov,
seven leagues distant from St. Petersburg, one of the Orlovs went to
bring her. He arrived at the fortress, entered a private door, and by a
secret staircase ascended to the apartments occupied by the
empress. It was now two o’clock in the morning: the empress was
asleep; and her surprise was not unmixed with terror, when she was
awakened by a soldier. In a moment she comprehended her
situation: she arose, called one of her women, and both, being
hastily clad in a strange habit, descended with the soldier to one of
the gates, passed the sentinel without being recognised, and
stepped into the carriage which was waiting for her. Orlov was the
driver, and he urged the horses with so much severity that before
they had proceeded half way from Peterhov to St. Petersburg, they
fell down from exhaustion. The situation of the empress was critical:
she might at any moment be overtaken; and she was certain that
with the dawn of day Peter would acquire some more definite
intelligence of the plot. In a state bordering on distraction, she took
refuge in the first house that she approached: it was a tavern, and
here she burned the letters which had passed between her and the
conspirators. Again she recommenced her journey on foot: by good
fortune she met a countryman with a cart; Orlov seized the vehicle,
the peasant ran away; Catherine ascended it, and, in this undignified
manner, she, her woman, and Orlov entered St. Petersburg about
seven o’clock on the morning of July the 9th.

Catherine Usurps the Crown

No sooner was Catherine in the capital than she was joined by the
hetman; and, accompanied by him, she hastened to the barracks of
the troops which he commanded. Four companies immediately
declared for her; their example constrained the rest of the regiment;
three other regiments, hearing the acclamation, and seeing the
people hurry to the spot, joined in the cry; all St. Petersburg was in
motion; a report was spread that she and her son had just escaped
assassination by order of the czar; her adherents rapidly multiplied:
and, accompanied by about two thousand soldiers, with five times
that number of citizens, who loudly proclaimed her sovereign of
Russia, she went to the church of Our Lady of Kazan. Here
everything was prepared for her reception: the archbishop of
Novgorod, with a host of ecclesiastics, awaited her at the altar; she
swore to observe the laws and religion of the empire; the crown was
solemnly placed on her head; she was proclaimed sole monarch of
Russia, and the grand duke Paul her successor; and Te Deum
concluded the eventful ceremony.
From the church she proceeded to the palace occupied by the late
empress; the mob crowded to see her, and to take the oath of
allegiance; while the more respectable portion of the citizens were
awed into submission, or at least into silence, by a report that Peter
had just been killed by falling from his horse. To gratify the populace,
the taverns were abandoned to them: the same fate visited the
houses of all who were obnoxious to the conspirators; intoxication
was general; robbery was exercised with impunity; the palace, to
which Catherine had hastened, was strengthened; a numerous
guard was stationed in its defence; a manifesto was proclaimed; a
notification was delivered into the hands of each foreign minister,
and the revolution was complete.
One object of the conspirators had been to close every avenue of
egress from the capital, that Peter might not be acquainted with the
revolution until it was too powerful to be repressed. All the troops in
the vicinity were called within the walls; but there was one regiment
about sixteen hundred strong, which lay between the city and
Peterhov, the conduct of which was doubtful. Without the slightest
knowledge of what had taken place, the colonel arrived in the city,
and was soon persuaded not only to declare for the new sovereign
but to prevail on the regiment to follow his example. He was
successful; and, with the whole body, he returned in triumph to the
capital. On this very day Peter had promised to dine with Catherine:
on reaching Peterhov he was surprised to hear of her flight.
Vorontzov, the father of his mistress, the father also of the princess
Dashkov, who had witnessed without repugnance the dishonour
alike of his wife and daughter, proposed to the emperor to visit St.
Petersburg to ascertain the cause of her departure; and, if any
insurrection were meditated, to suppress it. He arrived in the
presence of the empress, was induced to swear allegiance to her,
and was ordered to retire into his own house.
But Peter had already been informed of the revolution; and he
traversed with hasty steps the gardens of Peterhov, indecisive and
terrified. Yet he was not wholly deserted. The brave Munich, whose
locks were ripened by age, and whose wisdom equalled his valour,
advised him instantly to place himself at the head of his Holstein
troops, march on the capital, and thereby enable all who were yet
loyal to join him. Whether the result would have been such as the
veteran anticipated, viz. a counter-revolution, may well be doubted;
but there can be no doubt that a considerable number of soldiers
would have joined him, and that he would have been able to enter
into negotiations with the hostile party. He was too timid to adopt the
suggestion: nothing, in fact, could urge him to decisive action. When
informed that Catherine was making towards Peterhov, at the head
of ten thousand men, all that he could resolve to do was to send
messengers to her with proposals. His first was that the supreme
power should be divided between them; the second, when no reply
was deigned to his letter, that he should be allowed to leave Russia,
with his mistress and a favourite, and pass the rest of his days in
Holstein. She detained his messenger, and still advanced.
Munich now advised him to embark for Kronstadt, and join his
fleet, which was still faithful; but unfortunately he delayed so long
that one of Catherine’s emissaries had time to corrupt the garrison of
the fort: on arriving, he was prohibited from disembarking, and told
that if he did not immediately retire his vessel would be sunk by the
cannon of the place. Still he had a fleet at Revel; and if it were
disloyal he might escape into Prussia, Sweden, or Holstein. With the
fatality, however, which characterised all his measures on this