Vox Meditantis

St. Petersburg – 9th July 1762

The morning light filtered through the tall windows of my private chambers, casting familiar shadows across the Persian carpet that had become my sanctuary within these treacherous palace walls. I pressed my fingers against the cool surface of my writing desk, feeling the grain of the wood beneath my touch—a small comfort I had cultivated over the months of planning that had led to this pivotal day.

My daily rituals had become more than mere habits; they were the architecture of survival itself. Each morning, I began with the same deliberate sequence: correspondence first, then prayer, followed by careful attention to my appearance. These routines anchored me in a world where the ground beneath one’s feet could shift with a whispered word or a misplaced glance.

The letters before me bore the familiar seals of my most trusted allies. Gregory Orlov’s elegant script spoke of the regiment’s readiness, whilst Nikita Panin’s more cautious hand detailed the current mood within the Senate. I had learned that information was perhaps the greatest comfort of all—the knowledge that allowed one to act rather than merely react.

“Your Majesty,” whispered Maria, my most trusted lady-in-waiting, as she entered with my morning tea. Even she, loyal as she was, had taken to addressing me with the title that was not yet officially mine. I found curious comfort in this small act of faith.

I sipped the tea slowly, savouring the warmth that spread through my chest. Peter, my husband, preferred his morning vodka—a choice that had become increasingly frequent and increasingly careless. His unpredictability had taught me to find solace in predictability, in the small certainties I could control when larger forces seemed beyond my grasp.

The ritual of dressing had become an exercise in strategic presentation. Each garment was selected not merely for beauty, but for the message it would convey. Today, I chose a gown of deep blue silk, embroidered with silver thread that caught the light as I moved. The colour spoke of authority without aggression, of confidence without arrogance. The comfort I derived from this careful curation of my appearance was profound—it was armour disguised as femininity.

As I made my way through the corridors of the Winter Palace, I practiced what had become my most essential daily strategy: the art of appearing unthreatening whilst simultaneously commanding respect. My steps were measured, my expression serene, my greeting to each courtier precisely calibrated to their station and their usefulness to my cause.

“Good morning, Count Vorontsov,” I said to the aging minister, allowing just the right amount of warmth to colour my tone. He had been wavering in his loyalties, and I had learned that small gestures of familiarity could shift the balance of a man’s allegiance more effectively than grand promises.

The count bowed deeply, and I noticed the slight tremor in his hands—age, perhaps, or nervousness. I had trained myself to observe such details, for they often revealed more than words ever could. This hypervigilance had become both burden and comfort; whilst it exhausted me, it also provided the security of understanding the currents that moved beneath the surface of court life.

My morning audiences were conducted in the Blue Drawing Room, a space I had deliberately chosen for its intimacy. The massive throne room would have suggested ambition; this smaller chamber spoke of accessibility. I received petitioners and courtiers with careful attention, listening not only to their words but to the spaces between them.

Princess Dashkova arrived precisely at the appointed hour, her young face animated with the fervor of our shared cause. She had become invaluable to me, not merely for her connections, but for the energy she brought to our endeavour. Her presence reminded me that I was not entirely alone in this dangerous game.

“The regiments are prepared, Your Majesty,” she reported in hushed tones. “Orlov has ensured their loyalty.”

I nodded, feeling the familiar flutter of anxiety in my chest. To calm myself, I reached for the small silver cross that hung at my throat—a gesture that had become as natural as breathing. The cool metal beneath my fingers served as a reminder of my adopted faith, my chosen country, and the legitimacy I had worked so carefully to establish.

The midday meal was served in my private dining chamber, another space I had claimed as my own. I ate sparingly, as had become my custom during these tense weeks. Heavy meals dulled the mind, and I required every faculty to remain sharp. Instead, I found comfort in the ritual itself—the precise arrangement of silver upon white linen, the careful service of my most trusted servants.

Between courses, I reviewed the afternoon’s schedule. A reception for the Polish ambassador, a brief meeting with the Minister of War, and then the crucial evening gathering where the final pieces of our plan would fall into place. Each appointment was a step in an elaborate dance I had choreographed over months of careful observation and planning.

My afternoon toilette was perhaps the most crucial comfort ritual of all. In the privacy of my chambers, attended only by Maria and my hairdresser, I allowed myself these precious moments of vanity and preparation. The powdering of my hair, the careful application of rouge, the selection of jewels—each element served both practical and psychological purposes.

I chose diamonds for the afternoon reception, their brilliance catching the light as I moved. They spoke of imperial authority whilst remaining appropriately feminine. More importantly, they reminded me of my own value, my own strength. When one’s position hangs by such delicate threads, these small affirmations become essential.

The Polish ambassador proved as predictable as I had anticipated. His flowery compliments and elaborate protocols provided a welcome distraction from the weight of what lay ahead. I found myself genuinely enjoying the familiar game of diplomatic discourse, the careful dance of words that revealed nothing whilst suggesting everything.

“Your Majesty’s wisdom in matters of state is renowned throughout Europe,” he declared, and I accepted the compliment with gracious modesty whilst inwardly noting how easily he had accepted my implicit claim to the throne.

As afternoon melted into evening, I withdrew to my private study for what had become my most sacred daily ritual: the hour of correspondence and reflection. Here, surrounded by my books and papers, I found the deepest comfort of all. The familiar weight of my pen, the scratch of nib upon paper, the measured cadence of my own thoughts—these were the tools that had shaped my destiny.

I wrote first to my dear Voltaire, sharing thoughts on governance and enlightenment that had sustained me through the darkest moments of uncertainty. His letters, filled with wit and wisdom, had become a lifeline to the intellectual world I so desperately wished to create in Russia. The act of writing to him reminded me that my ambitions extended far beyond mere personal survival.

My correspondence with Diderot followed, then brief notes to several German princes whose support might prove valuable in the uncertain days ahead. Each letter was carefully crafted, each word chosen for its precise effect. This meticulous attention to detail had become a form of meditation, a way of imposing order upon chaos.

As twilight deepened, I heard the familiar sound of Gregory Orlov’s footsteps in the corridor outside. My heart quickened—not merely from affection, though that was certainly present, but from the knowledge that his arrival meant the final act of our long-rehearsed drama was about to begin.

He entered without ceremony, his uniform pristine, his bearing confident. In his presence, I felt a comfort that transcended the political; here was a man who understood not merely my ambitions, but my fears.

“It is time, Your Majesty,” he said simply, and I rose from my desk with the fluid grace I had practiced until it became second nature.

The evening’s gathering was held in the Green Drawing Room, chosen for its moderate size and excellent acoustics. The guests arrived in carefully orchestrated sequence: first the military commanders whose loyalty we had secured, then the court officials whose support would legitimise our actions, finally the foreign diplomats whose reports would carry news of the night’s events to courts across Europe.

I moved through the crowd with practiced ease, my conversation light and gracious, betraying none of the steel beneath. Count Panin approached with news that Peter had retired early to his chambers, reportedly deep in his cups. The information should have brought relief, but instead I felt a familiar twist of anxiety in my stomach.

To steady myself, I employed a technique I had developed over months of such gatherings: I focused on the immediate sensory details around me. The warmth of candlelight on my skin, the rustle of silk as I moved, the subtle scent of jasmine that always perfumed these rooms. These small anchors to the present moment prevented my mind from spiraling into the countless possibilities that tomorrow might bring.

Princess Dashkova materialised at my elbow, her excitement barely contained. “The guards have been positioned,” she whispered. “All is in readiness.”

I nodded, then excused myself from the gathering with the explanation that I required a moment’s rest. In truth, I needed to centre myself for what was to come. I retreated to my private oratory, a small chamber adjoining my bedchamber where I had spent countless hours in prayer and contemplation.

Kneeling before the icon of Saint Catherine—my patron saint and the source of my chosen name—I whispered the same prayer I had repeated each night for months: “Grant me the strength to do what must be done, and the wisdom to do it well.” The familiar words provided comfort not through their religious significance alone, but through their very repetition, their role as a bridge between my German past and my Russian future.

The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted my devotions. Gregory stood in the doorway, his expression grave but determined. “The moment has arrived, Your Majesty. The regiments await your command.”

I rose slowly, taking a final moment to smooth my skirts and check my appearance in the small mirror that hung beside the icon. The face that looked back at me was that of a woman transformed—no longer the uncertain German princess who had arrived at this court seventeen years ago, but an empress ready to claim her throne.

The corridors of the Winter Palace had taken on a different character in the late evening hours. Shadows seemed deeper, sounds more significant. Each step echoed with the weight of history being made. I found comfort in the familiar rhythm of my own footsteps, in the presence of loyal companions flanking me, in the knowledge that every detail had been planned with meticulous care.

We paused before the great doors leading to the throne room. Beyond them lay Peter, likely unconscious from drink, unaware that his reign was ending. I felt a moment’s pity for him—he had never understood the delicate balance required to rule effectively. His downfall had been as much about his inability to find comfort in appropriate rituals as it had been about his poor policies.

“Your Majesty,” Gregory said softly, “Russia awaits her true empress.”

I placed my hand upon the door handle, feeling the cool metal beneath my palm. This simple action would divide my life into before and after. Tomorrow I would wake as Catherine II, Empress of All the Russias. Tonight, I was still the woman who had learned to find comfort in careful preparation, in loyal friendships, in the disciplined pursuit of knowledge and power.

The doors opened, and I stepped forward into my destiny. The months of careful ritual, of strategic comfort-seeking, of deliberate preparation had led to this moment. I had transformed uncertainty into strength, vulnerability into authority, through the simple but profound act of creating order in my daily life.

As I crossed the threshold, I carried with me all the small comforts that had sustained me: the morning rituals that had anchored my days, the correspondence that had nourished my mind, the prayers that had sustained my spirit, and the careful attention to presentation that had shaped others’ perceptions of my authority.

The revolution was complete not in a single dramatic moment, but in the accumulation of a thousand small choices, a thousand deliberate comforts that had prepared me for this night. I was no longer Sophie of Anhalt-Zerbst-Dornburg; I was Catherine the Great, and I had earned that title through the simple but profound strategy of making myself comfortable with power, one carefully crafted day at a time.

The future stretched before me, uncertain but no longer fearsome. I had learned that true comfort comes not from the absence of challenge, but from the confidence that one has prepared adequately to meet whatever challenges may arise. In the months and years ahead, I would continue to rely on these same strategies—ritual, preparation, careful attention to detail, and the cultivation of loyal relationships—as I transformed not merely my own life, but the destiny of an empire.

The palace bells began to chime midnight, their bronze voices carrying across the darkened city. A new day had begun, and with it, a new chapter in the history of Russia. I stood ready to write it, sustained by the same daily comforts that had carried me through the darkness to this moment of triumph.

The End

On 9th July 1762, Catherine II successfully overthrew her husband Emperor Peter III in a bloodless coup, ending his six-month reign and beginning her transformative 34-year rule over the Russian Empire. Catherine, a German-born princess, capitalised on widespread discontent with Peter’s unpopular policies, including his reversal of Russian gains in the Seven Years’ War and attacks on the Orthodox Church. Her reign expanded Russian territory by approximately 520,000 square kilometres, bringing the empire’s population to over 37 million by 1796. Catherine implemented significant legal reforms through her Nakaz (Instruction) of 1767 and established Russia as a major European power alongside other enlightened despots like Frederick the Great and Joseph II. Her legacy of centralised autocratic rule and territorial expansion profoundly shaped Russian political culture, influencing governance models that persisted well into the modern era.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.