Catherine the Great!

'Silence!' cries the Grand Duchess. 'As you may discern from my attire and my splendid painting, it is I who will break down the barriers of gender and command our forces in the field'.

'Madame ...' says the patriarch. 'Forgive my previous expectoration. But, are you sure that this is ... seemly?'

'I do, indeed, seem to think so', replies Catherine. 'And I can assure you that, whilst breaking down the barriers of gender, I am not too busy to break a few others things while I'm at it'.

'But', says Countess Yakenup. 'Commanding in battle - is that wise? Battle is dangerous and requires skills of a distinctly masculine nature'.

'Such as?' asks the duchess.

'Well', says Ignyshin, 'smoking pipes'.

Plinkiplinsk nods. 'Yes, and vodka. Drinking vodka'.

'And there's life on campaign - which is completely unsuitable for a lady' adds Pushimov.

'Yes - there's quite a lot of mud' says Ignyshin.

'And you have to piddle standing up' replies Plinkiplinsk.

'No - that's very much optional, I feel', says Pushimov.

Catherine raises an eyebrow. 'Have any of you actually studied war? The classics - Vegetius? The Byzantine emperor Maurice?' 

'Study? I mean, reading things?', cries Ignyshin incredulously. 'How would reading ladies' romances help, madame?'

'So you haven't, as I have, studied campaigning; operational art; logistics; command and control; lines of operation; decisive points?'

'I can point decisively!' says Ignyshin, pointing. 

'But madame', says Pushimov, 'there's, you know, the fighting'.

Plinkiplinsk nods. 'Yes, war - it's quite violent'.

'Have any of you actually done any fighting?' asks the Grand Duchess.

'Well, not as such. Not in a battle', admits the foreign minister.

'My brother did bully me mercilessly, though' says Plinkiplinsk.

Pushimov nods. 'Yes, and my sister was quite a scrapper'.

Catherine makes an exasperated sound. 'So really, none of you have actually fought in a battle?'

'No. No', admit the ministers. 

'And, overall', says Catherine, 'do generals tend actually to do the fighting?'

'Oh no', is the horrified reply. 'Combat is very dangerous. One can get injured or even killed. No, fighting is best left to the serfs'.

'So none of you, even those that have notionally commanded troops, have actually fought in combat?'

'I fought my chief of staff!' says Ignyshin.. 

'I punched my chef' says Plinkiplinsk, 'The cheeky Frenchman!'

'Borisov will accompany me', says Catherine. 'I'm sure that if there is any requirement to fight my own headquarters staff, then he can do the honours'.

The objections decline into a resentful grumbling.

'Now', says the Grand Duchess, 'unless anyone here would like me to put on another "special breakfast", I think that that is decided. Borisov, order the troops assembled: we march! Wurstburp or bust!'

War!

In the anteroom, the ministers are joined by Countess Yakenup, a prominent member of the faction of traditionalists. In the centre of the room there now stands a large painting of a woman on horseback, dressed in martial fashion.

'No, no, no, no!' says the Grand Patriarch in alarm. 'This won't do! A woman! Astride a horse! Legs akimbo! Ankles on show! What modern perversion is this? A lustful panoply of pleasure! Madame Duchess, to save you, I shall need to take this back to my chambers where I can examine it in detail, more fully to determine the ways in which it offends the Church!'
'The rider does look familiar, though', says the countess.
'Yes', says Plinkiplinsk. 'But I just can't place her'.
'Perhaps', says Grand Duchess Catherine, 'I might in a moment provide you with a clue. But first, to business!'

'Now, ministers', says Catherine decisively. 'There are reasons why it is that Kurland currently is a nonentity in Europe! And most of those reasons were standing before me previously in the audience chamber, bleating! It is time to instill some purpose into them! We shall galvanise! We shall reorganise! Will shall modernise! And we shall, most of all, pulverise!
'War!' shouts Ignyshin.
'War! War!' shout the others.

Catherine waves a calming hand. 'War, yes. But we need a war that we can win. So, who is the weakest power in Mittelheim?'
Ignishyn, the foreign minister bites his lip in concentration. 'Oooh, a quiz! I like it!'
Catherine sighs. 'You are the foreign minister - you're supposed to be an expert. Isn't that the point of foreign minsters?'
'Madame, this is a dangerously radical line of thought', says the patriarch worriedly.
'Yes', says Ignishyn. 'Because if, as foreign minister, I'm supposed to know about foreign affairs, then that would imply ...'
'... a meritocracy', adds Countess Yakanup in deathly tones. 'Appointments on the basis of knowledge. expertise and competence instead of hereditary privilege'.
There is horrified silence
'Expertise might improve our foreign policy, though' says Borisov.
'You take that back!' shouts the patriarch.

'Enough!' says Catherine, heading off what might otherwise descend into a long and bloody altercation. 'Enough! We shall begin by building our military reputation. We need to commence with easy victories against a useless military opponent'.
'Wurstburp!', everyone says in unison.

'Indeed!', says the Grand Duchess, 'my choice also. Now, our priority is to mobilise our troops and commence the campaign as quickly as possible'.

'But who shall command the army?' asks Pushimov.
'Me! Me!' says Ignyshin putting his hand up. 'Pick me!'
'Don't start, Ignyshin', says Borisov wearily. 'You know as much about war as Pushimov does about a woman's physique'.
'Possibly more than we think, then?' says Plinkiplinsk, nodding towards the altar boy.
Borisov pulls a face. 'One can climb into a carriage, Plinkiplinsk, without knowing how it is constructed'.
'Again, enough!' cries Catherine. She gestures to Borisov. Borisov bows before turning to the others and says: 'Ministers! The Grand Duchess will retire for a short while, before returning presently. Our sovereign has a very important announcement to make!' 

With that, Catherine leaves, Borisov in tow.

Time passes. There are some polite attempts at small-talk, but there is only so long that a shared interest in cruelty to the poor can be stretched.
Then, there is the neigh of a horse and the sound of clopping hooves. Borisov enters and bellows: 'Behold, good folk of Kurland! Bow before the Grand Duchess Catherine the Great - our leader and commander of all our armies!'
Catherine enters upon a white steed.

'Satan's shiny bell-end!' croaks Pushimov in horror. Countess Yakenup covers the ears of the altar boy.

Dignity!

' ... it is about dignity that I wish to speak! Dignity! Isn't that the issue? What dignity can we have as a peripheral power in the most peripheral place in Europe?' The Grand Duchess gestures dramatically, fixing the audience with her gaze. 'Don't you tire of never being able to visit other places in Europe for fear of having to admit where you come from? Don't you tire, if you do go, of conversations that never get past the question 'and where do you come from?' because your answer causes foreigners to laugh so much they rupture their corsets?'

There is much rueful nodding amongst the audience. Rather than admit to their true place of origin, many is the Mittelheimer abroad that has preferred to introduce themselves to locals as being Hessian, or Polish, or a Dundee fruitcake.

'Dignity! This is my objective! Let us put aside the tiresome debates between modernisers and traditionalists and unify behind my plan to get us out of Mittleheim!' There is silence from the audience: but this seems more interested and less hostile than hitherto.

'But', pipes up one in the audience. 'But ... aren't there certain ... geographical realities to  our being Mittelheimers such as ... ah ... being geographically in Mittelheim?'

Catherine waves expansively to her audience. 'Not, gentleman and ladies, if I conquer all of Mittelheim and then change the name'.

There is stunned silence.

'Uh, can you do that?'

'When I am absolute ruler of Mittelheim - yes! And I can change the name of my empire to whatever I like. A name that will expunge the memory of Mittelheim and instead generate awe amongst foreign peoples. A name such as  ... Prussia!'

There is another stunned silence.

'Uh, isn't that name ... taken? Can we also use it?'

'Is it, you know, allowed?' asks someone else.

Catherine shrugs. 'I am, of course, just thinking out loud. It could be any name that I like; or indeed', she looks at them slyly, 'that you might like!'

'Oooh! Oooh!' someone cries out. 'Let's be Spain - I've always wanted to go there!'

'No', cries another in a rapture of excitement. 'Let's be Britain - I've always hated them: then we can ban the drinking of tea! And ban ships!'

'Yes! Yes! And ban the use of that annoying snarky superior sort of sarcasm that they think passes for a sense of humour!'

'Or', says someone else in hushed tones, 'we could be Lilliput!'

'Yes! Yes!', cries another. 'And we could force the serfs to pretend to be really, really small, whereas we could pretend to be giants, and then squash them with our feet! Our naked, naked feet!'

'All excellent ideas, everyone', says the Duchess. 'But of course, to achieve this goal, we must first unite behind my agenda and conquer Mittelheim!'

'Huzzah! Huzzah!' cries the audience. 'Long live the Grand Duchess! Long live Catherine the Great!'

The Grand Duchess acknowledges the newly enthusiastic praise of her leading subjects. Not wishing to risk spoiling the mood with anything so tawdry as evidence or policy details, she retires to her antechamber.

Speech!

The Grand Duchess is announced. There is an unenthusiastic smattering of claps and then obstinate silence from the assembled audience of notables. There is an atmosphere in the room: uncooperative; predatory even - the same sort of ambience that might attend an attempt by a penguin to extol the virtues of a vegetarian diet at a polar bears-only cooking club. Catherine clears her throat and then commences speaking.

'In the months since the unfortunate and unknown events that led to the death of my beloved husband ...'
'You had him strangled!' shouts out a voice from the back.
'And where our investigations have sadly still yet to unearth evidence of  the assault upon him ...' perseveres the Grand Duchess.
'You had him strangled here, at breakfast!' shouts someone else. 'We were all there!'
'... by an unknown assailant ...' continues Catherine.
'It was Borisov!' shouts another. 'We saw him do it. You said "Borisov, strangle him. Give that neck a good wringing!"'
'... and where unfounded allegations against me have been spread by unknown persons ...'
'Everyone here!' squawks a voice. 'We saw it! Hello! We were there!'
'... malefactors and miscreants, who will be garrotted as soon as I identify them ...'
'Yes, no one knows anything' says her audience, suddenly nodding. 'Not a thing, At all. It's quite a mystery'.
'... It has become evident that not all here support the new direction in which I wish to take our beloved country'.

'But', says Catherine, softening her voice and making conciliatory gestures with her hands, 'it is time to put the unfortunate events surrounding the manner of my ascension behind us. It is time that I, the first female ruler of Kurland, lead our beloved Grand Duchy into a new age of vigour! With your help, we shall make our country great again, and I shall become the most famous Catherine that Europe will ever know!'

One of the dignitaries puts his hand up. 'There is that other Catherine, my lady - you know, the wife of Czar Peter III of Russia. They do say that she has some metal'.

'Pah!' scoffs the Grand Duchess, bridling. 'Peter will reign for decades, and his witless wife will no doubt die as a nonentity! She will be Catherine the Utterly Mediocre, whereas I shall be Catherine the Great! Anyway, she isn't even a real Catherine - what is her actual name, Borisov?'

'Sophie of Anhalt-Zerbst, madame', says Count Borisov.

'Yes, that's right', says Catherine dismissively, 'Sofa of  Anal-Slurps'.

'Madame! Dignity!' cries Borisov. There is some grumbling amongst the audience. No ruler of the duchy has ever before had the temerity to use in public the word 'slurps'.

'Anyway ...' continues the Grand Duchess ...

Serf's Up!

Our attention turns briefly, dear reader, to developments in the Grand Duchy of Kurland; or, more specifically, to events occurring in the ducal palace. Having been very recently elevated to the position of Grand Duchess, Kurland's ruler, Catherine, must now conduct for the first time a formal meeting of her court. She doesn't seem entirely enthusiastic about this prospect.

'I am not entirely enthusiastic about the prospect of meeting the court', declares Catherine, morosely. She is currently in an antechamber, along with her most significant advisors - the Grand Patriarch of Mittelheim, Alexi Pushimov; the Minister of the Interior, Gregori Plinkiplinsk; the Minister of Artillery and Police, Konstantin Borisov; and the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Arkady Ignyshin.

The Duchess pulls uncomfortably at her dress, trying to get the bits that don't fit, to fit less badly.

'Why must I wear this formal attire! I am the Grand Duchess Catherine! I can have men executed at the drop of my hat, and yet you are telling me that I can't wear britches?'

'It would be unseemly, my lady, for any in the court to see your ankles,' replies the Grand Patriarch Pushimov.

Pushimov had  been taken from his post as priest in a tiny Siberian village and had been appointed Patriarch of all of Mittelheim. It wasn't a promotion.

Catherine fixes the Grand Patriarch with a steely look. 'Pushimov, I don't think that you are entirely behind my new regime. It can't be for love of my husband, the previous Duke. I know that you to had reservations about his suitability'.

'There was something about him', nods the Patriarch.

'I agree: something about his britches ...' agrees Plinkiplinsk.

'You mean the way that he never put them on?' adds the Borisov.

'Exactly', says Plinkiplinsk.

'Madame', says Pushimov carefully, 'of course, I am the loyalist of your most loyal servants but ... it is your modernising agenda ...'.

Catherine snorts. 'Patriarch, I seek only to remove the burden of arbitrary tyranny'.

'But your commitment, my lady, to ending the torture of serfs ...'

The Grand Duchess grimaces. 'No, no - I have no intention of doing that. I just want to replace arbitrary tyranny with a much more focused and efficient form of oppression. Why should torture be arbitrary when I can create a very specific list of reasons for applying hot implements to my social inferiors'.

The Patriarch winces. 'Madame - these are dangerously liberal views'.

'I fear, Patriarch, that you take too much pleasure in hurting my non-Orthodox subjects'. 

'It's not pain, my lady', says Pushimov earnestly. 'It's just Catholicism leaving the body'.

Catherine seems unmoved. 'As the first woman to rule Kurland, it is my duty to change things for the better! To smash the patriarchy!'

'Is that a good idea?' asks the patriarch. 'Aren't there other things that you might prefer to do, my lady. Other woman's things like ... ah ... talking to other women?' Moving swiftly onwards before he is tested on other things that women might do, Pushimov bows. 'Madame - if you are ready, then I shall go through and announce your arrival'. Pushimov bows again, and leaves the room, followed by a young altar boy.

There is a moment of silence before Catherine then says: 'That little boy that follows the patriarch around ...'

There is some embarrassed shuffling of feet on the part of the remaining ministers, and some very studious examination of the ceiling.

'It's his son' says Borisov finally.

The Grand Duchess frowns. 'But isn't the Grand Patriarch supposed to be celibate ...'

'Technically, yes', replies Borisov.

'How can one be technically celibate?', asks Catherine.

'Well, my lady', says Plinkiplinsk. 'You know when Duke Kloshavin wasn't supposed to marry his horse, on account of him already being married; and also, you know, the new bride being a horse'.

'Yes'.

'But he then actually married his horse anyway and kept bringing her to palace balls in a dress'.

'Yes'.

'But we just agreed not to talk about it?'

'Yes'.

'Well, I think that that is the definition of 'technically' not doing something'.

The Grand Duchess nods grimly. 'Ah, so 'technically' none of my courtiers are backstabbing treacherous dogs planning to depose me as soon as they can catch a glance at my ankles'.

Plinkiplinsk considers this for a moment. 'Well, yes, madame. Exactly. Technically'.