23

Have you Had a Snuff Today?

Frederick II of Prussia would probably have looked over his shoulder in irritation at this question, searching for the nearest tobacco box. They were scattered wherever he happened to be. He always had one in his pocket, just in case, because he snuffed all the time and wherever he went. He found tobacco pipes disgusting, however, as they reminded him of his father and his extensive meetings in the “tobacco college”: the smoke there was often as thick as fog and smelled terrible.

No, Frederick snuffed, and not just anything, but Spanish tobacco, which was soaked for weeks in special liquids to refine the aroma. It may contradict the image of the stingy Prussian king, but when it came to dining pleasures, good tobacco or spending on music and art, nothing was too expensive for him. Account books show that he was willing to pay 60 imperial thalers and express post for the pleasure of a pâté from Paris. On the other hand, he was highly indifferent to shuffling around the palace in worn-out shoes and crumpled up odds and ends.

It is obvious that not only the popular snuff, but also the little boxes called tabatières were highly fashionable, a must-have and a status symbol: the more precious the workmanship, the more important the wearer. These small pieces of jewelry should not be thought of as ordinary containers, even if they were used for sweets, pills or these fashionable beauty patches as well as tobacco. Usually made of gold and set with exquisite stones, they were often painted with miniatures and when they were given as gifts, the giver liked to have them decorated with his portrait.
As practical as Frederick II was, he had banned all imports from the famous French manufactories when ascending to the throne; he preferred to import the goldsmiths. His own tabatières cost between 4,000 and 12,000 thalers. The fencing master who taught the royal pages was paid 12 thalers a month. It is not reported whether a snuff box was ever included.

22

The Hun’s Hat

For at least 150 years, this object was synonymous with the unsympathetic German, especially the one in uniform: the spiked helmet or the Pickelhaube, as it was popularly known.
After it was introduced in the Prussian army in 1842, Heinrich Heine made fun of it a little later in his epic poem “Deutschland. A Winter’s Tale” and predicted trouble under thunder and lightning. But this piece was a real innovation, because with advanced war technology, the shakos used until then were no longer a real protection for soldiers’ heads, especially as the felt from which they were made soaked up water in wet weather, multiplying the weight.

Frederick William IV, during whose reign the new headgear was introduced, is said to have seen the model of this helmet during a visit to the Russian tsar and was immediately enthusiastic about it. Historians relegate this story to the realm of myth and consider the inventor to be the king’s cousin, General Frederick of Prussia, who developed the prototype together with a metal factory from Elberfeld in the Rhineland. Be that as it may, the spiked helmet proved to be successful in defending against sabres and similar weapons and was later adapted for other troop units. The peak could be unscrewed and replaced with tufts of horse or buffalo hair during parades.

On battle paintings, caricatures and in satirical films, German soldiers were often given this helmet to identify them, which was not wrong in itself, because not only the Prussians wore it, but eventually even the police. During the First World War, the spikes were unscrewed first and soon afterwards the cap was replaced by steel helmets. Kaiser Wilhelm II, whose helmet is depicted here, liked to wear it until the end, and on Hindenburg’s aged head it made one last, unpleasant appearance in the Potsdam Garrison Church.

21

The love of flower pots

The relationship between humans and plants is so old that it is impossible to say who started growing them in containers. Ancient Egyptian wall paintings show all kinds of pots, bowls and vases filled with flowers. One of the seven wonders of the world were the Hanging Gardens of Semiramis with their roof and terrace gardens, and the Greeks and Romans also had their preferences: the Athenians filled lead pots with soil and plants and placed them in the inner hall of their houses, Romans preferred stone pots instead of lead containers and even grew solitary trees in tubs. Potted plants were also popular in China and Japan. Their porcelain versions later came to Europe and were enthusiastically purchased.

In the Middle Ages, flowers were seen rather as a symbol; the garden of paradise was not only a resting place for the Virgin Mary, but was also soon painted on the ceilings of churches. However, it is safe to assume that many a housewife had clay pots of herbs on hand in winter.

With the spread of gardening in the Renaissance, pots and tubs also became more popular in Central and Northern Europe. People kept their gold wallflower in pots by the window, but laurel, rosemary and myrtle, which were popular in apothecary and monastery gardens, were also grown in pots.

Pots and tubs really became a business with the advent of orangeries and baroque gardens. Huge quantities were needed then and certain types of shapes were produced in every conceivable variation, depending on the garden, budget and fashion. The magnificent planter pictured here is made of cast iron with golden female masks applied to it, a variant typical of French Baroque. Together with eight other examples, it adorns the parterre in the palace gardens of Charlottenburg.

20

What Crowns Can Tell

Crowns have always been an endangered species: reworked, loaned out, cut up or stolen. In times of war, the precious pieces were taken away, as Frederick William III did when he fled from Napoleon to Königsberg.

Before the first Prussian king crowned himself in 1701, he had an extremely precious crown crafted from pure gold and set with 153 diamonds, 28 brilliant-cut diamonds and 56 pearls. Perhaps the treasury had spent too much on it, because Frederick had to borrow the trimmings for his wife Sophie Charlotte’s crown from the court jeweler Jost Liebmann. Everything was later duly returned and the chief master of ceremonies, Johann von Besser, enthusiastically described how the diamonds had sparkled on the queen’s black curls.
His son Frederick William, later known as the Soldier King, had no use for such trinkets and fortunately left them to gather dust in the treasury. However, when he once needed money, he asked for another piece, cut it up himself and took the stones with him without any explanation.

The fact that today the first Prussian royal crowns can only be seen bare, without ornamentation or lining, is the fault of Frederick II. At the beginning of the Silesian Wars, he had the trimming removed without further ado and brought to Schönhausen to his wife Elisabeth Christine as a precaution. The lady, who was otherwise neglected by him, was probably astonished and delighted that she was given the treasure at her free disposal, as she did not want to give any of it back after her husband’s death. In the end, she had to be forced, then crown and stones were put together again to carry it ahead of the king’s corpse, as was customary at the time. After that, the trace of stones and pearls was lost. Today, sceptres, imperial swords, seals and crowns, including that of Frederick William IV shown here, are on display behind bulletproof glass in Charlottenburg Palace.

19

From Cape Town to Charlottenburg

They had come a long way when the first pelargonium seeds arrived in England. There is evidence that the plants bloomed in a garden there in 1632 and were so pretty, that their triumphant advance across Europe was only a matter of time. The colorful flower is originally native to Cape Town in South Africa and probably crossed the seas on a ship of the East India Company. By the end of the 18th century, more than 40 varieties were already being traded and it soon became a sought-after plant in bourgeois gardens and princely orangeries, as it was ideal for containers and pots.

Pelargoniums soon found a special lover in Brandenburg. Georg Steiner, born in Potsdam in 1774, was an illegitimate son of Frederick William II, who married his mother to one of his court gardeners without further ado. Georg learned the trade from scratch from his stepfather, but his father, who had always encouraged him, also enabled him to train in Kassel, and his successor even sent him on an educational trip to England. On his return, Frederick William III appointed him at the age of 27 as successor to the well-known court gardener Johann August Eyserbeck. Steiner, who was an enthusiastic plant hunter, collected more than eight thousand potted plants over the years, including many pelargoniums. Fortunately for those who came after him, he published a catalog of these treasures in 1804 in the gardening journal of the Weimar publisher Bertuch; the actual collection has been lost to this day.

It was only after a lecture by garden historian Clemens Alexander Wimmer in 2003 that the idea of bringing the pelargoniums back to Charlottenburg came up. Today, they are grown again in the palace nursery there and even have a greenhouse of their own. The gardeners there kindly overlook the fact that many people still confuse them with geraniums. After all, they both belong to the same family.

18

Secrets of the Silver Chamber

The shortage of golden plates that once almost ended Sleeping Beauty’s life in disaster would not have happened to the Hohenzollerns. Twelve plates from the ceremonial crockery and more were not to be found? Not at the Prussian court! In such a case, the silver chamberlain was immediately summoned, who would have set the familiar procedure in motion, at once.
The silver chamber was an important place, as it contained, among other things, the treasures of the ruling house, including ceremonial tableware for special and very special occasions. They were not only made of silver; gold or gilded objects were also ordered depending on fashion and event. Showpieces such as precious heavy centrepieces were preferably ordered from skilled silversmiths in Augsburg, but crystal and porcelain services were also waiting to amaze the audience and show off the wealth of the prince or king.

But let’s stay with the silver chamberlain. In the meantime, he had summoned the silver servant and sent for the journal, in which the silver scribe listed the parts needed for the table and deleted the entries as soon as they were received. The overview was necessary, as it was not uncommon for a spoon or cup to be missing or for something to be repaired. The polishing was of course done by lesser staff, the silver washers. Once everything was shining properly, the table was set by silver lackeys and silver assistants under the supervision of the silver servants, and the candlesticks were filled with beeswax candles. Done! Even the thirty-fifth fairy would not have found a reason for an evil spell.

However, if the coffers were empty or a war had to be financed, whatever was in the chamber was ruthlessly melted down. If everything went well, it was possible to buy new items or receive princely gifts on important occasions. Unfortunately, no one was concerned at the time that many artistically valuable objects were lost as a result.

17

Everything Made of Plaster

A little way down Spandauer Damm, within sight of Charlottenburg Palace, a brick building houses the oldest facility of the State Museums: the plaster moulding workshop. Now over 200 years old, it was one of many establishments founded to revive industry and the arts in Prussia, after the long French occupation.

Plaster casts had been known since antiquity and when archaeologists began to excavate more professionally in the 18th century, such plaster casts were often taken on site. Admirers who were not lucky enough to own the original could console themselves with a replica. After all, casts also replaced requisitioned artworks, as Berlin had to learn the hard way after 1806 and Napoleon, who was thorough in this regard.

But that was over now and Frederick William III intended to earn a lot of money with the new workshop. In addition he wanted to educate the population and improve their taste by setting up several cast collections. In 1816, the sculptor Christian Daniel Rauch, who often travelled to Italy, was commissioned to inspect the antique sculptures available there. The practical Rauch not only sent casts, but also brought excellently trained marble workers and plaster molders from Carrara to Berlin.

What had started in Rauch’s workshop quickly grew and was supplied not only to museums, but also to art academies and private collectors. Since 1891, the collection and production have been housed in the building on Sophie-Charlotten-Straße and even survived the war unscathed. What’s more, several hundred of the 7,000 moulds are all that remain of war losses. This also applies to the Quadriga at the Brandenburg Gate. It was destroyed except for the head of one horse and could only be faithfully restored using the Charlottenburg cast.

16

‘Amara miscet dulcibus – God mixes bitter with sweet’

Friedrich Wilhelm, the Great Elector, had this written on the medal commemorating the emergency baptism of his third son. Friedrich As if the bad start wasn’t enough, a short time later the midwife dropped the infant so clumsily that he was scarred for life and was given the not exactly flattering nickname ‘Crooked Fritz’ by the cheeky Berliners.

It did not make matters any better that the older brother, favoured by his father, died and the unpopular Fritz became his successor. Later, the father’s final will complicated the situation, as the land was to be divided among all sons, including those from the second marriage: a disaster foretold for the new elector and for Brandenburg, which would have lost its rank among the German states. Without further ado, Frederick cancelled the bequest, paid off the brothers after lengthy negotiations and was finally able to begin reorganising the country according to his ideas.

He began to build, especially in Berlin, which he wanted to turn into a real capital.At the top of his list was the renovation of the no longer functional Long Bridge, on which a large equestrian statue was to be placed.We know from the records of the court librarian Lorenz Beger that Frederick intended to depict himself and had already commissioned the sculptor Andreas Schlüter with the design. But the family was not enthusiastic and pointed out the unflattering figure he would cut on a horse. The inevitable happened and so, from 1701, the warlike father rode across the Spree instead of his son, the Berlin city palace firmly in his sights. Due to the Second World War and the division of Berlin, he has to make do with Charlottenburg Palace Square today. But crooked Fritz had something up his sleeve that his father had never thought of: he would become the first Prussian king.

15

A master also of the small form

Of course, the genius from Neuruppin is mainly known for his buildings. From his youth, however, he was also interested in painting, interior design and the design of furniture and porcelain.
The defeat of Napoleon and the French occupation brought about a time when building activity and orders fell considerably in Prussia, so Schinkel devoted himself more to painting. Through the mediation of his friend Wilhelm von Humboldt, he was given a job in the Chief Building Administration and, as a still relatively unknown architect, was commissioned to design interiors for Queen Luise, including the famous muslin coverings for her bedroom. Even here, he drew on an antique formal language and decorated the bed and small pieces of furniture with volutes and garlands; two flower tables even cite the shape of a Roman altar.

Later, he continued to design interiors and furniture for royal residences, which he often had made by his friend, the court carpenter Karl Wanschaff. When he was commissioned to build a summer house in Charlottenburg Park, he worked with Wanschaff again.

Meanwhile, the transition from manufacturing to industrial production was gaining momentum in Prussia and the founder of the Berlin Trade Institute, Peter Beuth, came up with the idea of publishing pattern books for craftsmen and manufacturers. Here they found decoration suggestions for everything from flower pots to steam engines, in the classicist style and antique form. Schinkel’s ideas and designs thus found their way into both arts and crafts and mass production. Today, his cast iron garden furniture is still reproduced as replicas, ornate furniture based on his designs is offered at antique fairs and the precious originals, such as the chair pictured here, can be found on display also in Charlottenburg.

14

Radiant Luise, Queen of Hearts

‘Your head shines as if surrounded by rays,
You are the star that only shimmers with splendour
when it breaks through dark weather clouds!’

These verses from a poem Heinrich von Kleist was allowed to recite to the queen on her thirty-fourth birthday could also be inscribed on her epitaph. When she died a few months later, probably of a lung tumour, it plunged not only her husband and their children but the whole country into shock and mourning. Luise, the graceful, warm-hearted one, who even a simple Prussian could get close to. The model of a wife and mother, caring, loving and devoted to her duties – but that was already part of the cult that later developed around her, depending on the spirit of the times and political aims.

Beyond the Prussian Madonna and what today would be called an It-girl, the Queen is found more authentically in her letters, informal portraits and the rooms she lived in. Her shocking unconventionality was seen by some authors as a deep-seated aversion to the effort of etiquette and and a behaviour appropriate to her status. She addressed her husband informally, read to her children every day and behaved so bourgeoisly that she even, horribile dictu, slept beside her husband in the same bed in their summer resort in Paretz. All this was also due to her marriage, which was unusually loving for a dynastic one, and to a man whose melancholy and indecision was only lifted by her affection and lust for life. When she died, his world collapsed. A few days after her death, he decided to build a light-filled mausoleum in the park of her favourite residence, instead of burying her in the gloomy Hohenzollern crypt in Berlin. Here she now lies, a sleeping beauty on a bed made of Carrara marble, the Prussian queen of hearts.

13

Wind of Change

Johann August Eyserbeck certainly didn’t whistle “Bye bye boxwood” when he was appointed palace gardener and moved to Charlottenburg in 1788. But it was clear that the son of the Wörlitz court gardener was no longer to be looking after freshly circled flowerbeds and newly spread gravel paths. A new spirit was blowing through Berlin and it spoke German, not French. With the new taste of the times, French comedy was as outdated as an over-decorated Rococo table and the Prussian capital was all about classicism. The new heroes were Schadow and Langhans, Schiller and Goethe, Hiller and Reichardt.

The king wanted a redesign of the palace gardens, full of romance and in English fashion, for which Eyserbeck had the expertise, as did Johann Peter Lenné, who succeeded him thirty years later. Under their direction, the baroque grounds were transformed into a 55-hectare landscape garden by the middle of the next century; pure nature, created through attentive work and requiring care: no more symmetry, just winding paths, hills and small lakes, in which an island nestled.

After this turn and that bend, the path offered walkers a surprising view or a cosy spot to linger for a while. Sophie Charlotte’s harbour basin had long since silted up into a pond with old carp Fontane tells us about. Woods were planted and bushes, that signalled the changing seasons with their flowers and fruits, and meadows were only rarely mown to look like untouched nature.
It is largely thanks to Lenné, who once confessed that in his youth he would rather have become a botanist, that such remarkable solitary trees as the bald cypress shown in this picture, sweetgum and white elm can be found in the park today. For the good of Berlin, things turned out differently.

12

A Tea Set in Silver and Wood

A silver tea service in German Art Déco style? It could only be Bauhaus! But the designer is named as Karl Heubler and reading up later one realises that Heubler taught and worked at a completely different school: not in Dessau, in Berlin-Schöneberg. But who, apart from enthusiasts and specialists, still knows the Reimann School? Founded in 1902 by artisan, sculptor and pedagogical all-rounder Albert Reimann, it soon became known for its avant-garde objects. Through the training of thousands of artisans, artists and designers, the ideas of Bauhaus and the German Werkbund were implanted into the people’s everyday lives and so these products had a style-defining effect on an entire generation.

Founded as a student workshop for small sculptures, the school soon merged with the Technical School for Decorative Arts, established classes for poster art, stage design and advertising and eventually even opened a film department. Between 1902 and 1943, over 15,000 students were trained in its classrooms and workshops. As was often the case at this time, the end came with the Nazis seizing power. The Jewish Reimann had to emigrate and ten years later the school buildings were finally destroyed in a bombing raid.

But back to the tea set. It is on display alongside other metal objects from the Reimann school in the Bröhan Museum, now located in an annex to Charlottenburg Palace. Karl Bröhan, an entrepreneur and excessive art collector, focused his interests on the arts and crafts of Art Nouveau and later added Art Deco, Functionalism and Berlin Secession. The collection, which he donated to the state of Berlin in 1981, is unique in its form and abundance and presents its treasures over several floors in the former barracks of the Royal Life Guards in Charlottenburg’s Schlossstraße.

11

All roads lead to …

Rome, is the old saying, and they met at the Forum Romanum’s Milliarium Aureum, the golden milestone: a bronze column, erected on the orders of Emperor Augustus and marking the ideal centre of his Empire. From here, the most important roads led to many provinces; their capitals and the corresponding distances were engraved in golden letters on the column. Distances were measured in a thousand double steps, in Latin mille passus, equivalent to 1.5 kilometers. Rome left us the system, the marker stones and the word mile as one of many extremely practical gifts.

More than a millennium and a half later, when there had long been a lively courier and postal service across Europe, the need for standardized distance measurements became urgent. People wanted to know how long it took to reach their destination and how much they had to pay for the journey or the delivery of the mail. But this required standardised measurements. In the German east, the Electorate of Saxony passed a state resolution in 1722 that mileposts were to be erected along postal roads, and a Saxon postal mile was introduced, which corresponded to one hour’s journey and around 9 kilometres.

Prussia followed the Saxon model a little later, introducing the Prussian mile and, like her neighbour, changing the measurement to 7.5 km after 1840. As in Rome, distances were given from the center of the capital; whether this was at the old Leipzig Gate or rather marked by the Eagle Column at the Berlin City Palace is not entirely certain. In any case, the beautiful column with a crowning gold sphere near Charlottenburg Palace is said to have been designed by Friedrich August Stüler based on an Italian model, which brings things full circle in an very amusing way.

10

Prussia’s Tenth Muse

Music, especially Italian music, meant a lot to Sophie Charlotte. And so she had a small opera theatre built in her palace park, incidentally the first free-standing one in Berlin. Musical to the tips of her fingers, she sang excellently, knew how to compose and sometimes sat among the musicians at performances – at the harpsichord, which she mastered brilliantly.

At her court there was never a day without chamber music and Liselotte von der Pfalz, her favourite aunt in Versailles, had a folding harpsichord made for her to take with on travel. It was no coincidence that singers, prima donnas and composers, whom she brought to court and invited to stay, raved about her. So much so that the famous Italian composer Arcangelo Corelli dedicated his violin sonatas op. 5 to the queen. Was it true that she heard and supported the fifteen-year-old George Frederic Handel in Berlin? Maybe, but she certainly would not have missed the opportunity.

As legendary as the concerts and French theatre performances in Lietzenburg were the lavish parties, which Sophie Charlotte liked to stage herself. She often complained about a lack of money – compared to the opportunities in her former home in Hanover, those in Berlin were rather meagre. But she made the best of it and when she died far too young, her music collection alone, which unfortunately never came down to us, was estimated to be worth a tonne of gold.

9

Victoria’s Laurelstoria

Victoria, the personification of victory in Roman mythology, was the virgin patron goddess of the emperors and the Roman Empire. Thousands of years later and with the change of a consonant, the goddess has made herself at home in Berlin, enthroned on the Brandenburg Gate, disguised as the so called Golden Else on the Victory Column, and standing in Charlottenburg in several versions. She always has the laurel wreath with her as her symbol.

As everyone knows, Preußen has always loved its victories. How fortunate that there was a sculptor in Berlin who knew a thing or two about Victorias. In the 1820s, Christian Daniel Rauch was involved in the restoration of two antique Victoria sculptures from the 1st century AD and subsequently developed an idealised type, which he created for the Valhalla near Regensburg, among other places.

Meanwhile in Berlin, King Frederick William III had purchased a column made of red granite at the trade exhibition of the Berlin Academy. It was a work by the stonemason Christian Gottlieb Cantian, who created the granite bowl in the pleasure garden from the same block of stone. The king liked the column so much that he ordered a second one, but was not sure what to do with it. Karl Friedrich Schinkel, asked about this, suggested adding a Corinthian capital and a marble base. The ensemble was completed with two Victoria figures, immediately ordered from Rauch, with laurel wreaths and palm branches. The king was fortunate enough, as the columns, now eight metres high, were erected just one month before his death in June 1840. They still stand today on both sides of the path behind Charlottenburg Palace, near the Schinkel Pavilion.

8

Ghost Games

Being the successor to the great Frederick II would have been a difficult endeavour in itself. As the son of his eldest brother, whom he greatly hated, Frederick William II had bad luck from the start. His uncle gave him a broad education, but it constrained the child and, being worse, left out any instruction in politics and government affairs. The old king probably wanted to rule out from the outset that his nephew could outshine him.

Unable to rule alone after his coronation, Frederick William was dependent on an advisory board, which, to make matters worse, included two Rosicrucians. This esoteric order combined Christian and antique with enlightenment mysticism, creating a wild mixture to which the amiable and musically gifted but weak young king quickly fell victim. Already enthusiastic about spiritualism and occultism, Frederick William II not only joined the Rosicrucians, but also met often with his closest advisors in the small Belvedere Palace for one séance after another.

Again and again, the two Rosicrucian knights played apparitions of famous dead people, from Marcus Aurelius to Leibnitz, using concave mirrors and ventriloquists hidden in adjoining rooms. Frederick William’s mistress, the Countess of Lichtenau, did not believe in this magic and was to be separated from him, and not only for this reason. A contemporary described a gruesome séance in which the frightened man sat alone in a room, haunted by distorted shadows and tormented by the eerie sounds of a glass harmonica. Conjured spirits warned him and threatened punishments if he did not give up the countess. Distraught and in mortal fear, he called for help, but was left to stew until finally led out, completely exhausted. He gave up his mistress but remained friends with her. It is said that he never returned to the Belvedere.

7

Beginnings

Works by Käthe Kollwitz hang in many museums around the world; there are exhibition venues dedicated solely to her and in some cases they coincide with important stages in her life. One is the museum in Berlin, the city where she spent most of her life, another is a little one in Moritzburg in Saxony, where she stayed after being evacuated during the Second World War and died shortly before its end. There is none in Königsberg, now Kaliningrad, where she was born and which was her anchor point for 24 years. Yet many of the motifs of her works are already set here.

Her maternal grandfather belonged to a free church, her father was a lawyer, but was unable to find a job in Prussia due to his socialist beliefs and became a bricklayer instead. Her mother had lost her first two children and the death of her youngest brother was a formative experience for Käthe. On forays through the old city, the girl fell in love with the faces of the boatmen on the river Pregel and the people in the harbour pubs; here she saw, long before the working-class districts of Berlin, the conditions under which the poorest members of society lived. She later wrote in her diary that at first it was not pity that drew her to these people, but that she found a beauty here that spoke to her.

At this time, women were not allowed to study at an art academy; the only way out was private tuition and a few so-called ladies’ academies, painting and drawing schools that were reserved for women. The nineteen-year-old first attended the women’s academy of the Association of Female Artists in Berlin and then studied at another school in Munich. Her first known self-portraits date from this time, which eventually became more than a hundred and formed a contrast and counterpoint to her later works, which are so well known today: compassionate, accusing, supportive portraits of those who had no voice in society.

6

Fer de Berlin – Berlin Iron

Some names often remain in historical memory because of a single sentence, a small anecdote. This was the case for Princess Marianne from the House of Hesse-Homburg, who was married to the younger brother of the Prussian King Friedrich-Wilhelm III. ‘I gave gold for iron’ – with this slogan she appealed in 1813, shortly before the start of the Wars of Liberation, for gold donations from patriotic women to finance the fight against Napoleon. This movement gave rise to the fashion of wearing finely chiselled, filigree rings, necklaces and earrings made of black patinated iron.

However, the production of jewellery was only a small branch of iron art casting in Prussia. It began in 1784 in the small town of Lauchhammer with the first successful casting of a sculpture. Twelve years later, the Royal Iron Foundry was founded in Gleiwitz in Silesia, followed by a second one in Berlin in 1804. Steam locomotives and iron bridges, fountains, monuments and street lamps were produced as were smaller objects based on antique models, table decorations and filigree accessories for ladies’ clothing.

Designs by important artists such as Schinkel, Rauch and Schadow made the Fer de Berlin famous and popular throughout Europe. The growing number of competing foundries, but above all the emergence of bronze casting, which was technically easier to handle, led to the decline of the foundry after the 1850s. It finally went out of business in 1874. Some designs have retained their popularity since then, and you can buy replicas of the classicist garden furniture designed by Schinkel even today.

5

Carpets, Furs and Hot Drinks

“I wish I could sleep through the winter!” complained Walther von der Vogelweide, and over the centuries freezing castle and palace residents would have agreed with him. It was certainly easier to heat a small manor house than a princely residence, but basically everyone struggled with the same problems. The rooms were too high, the heating facilities not effective, fuel was expensive and the state and parade rooms were draughty.

So what to do in a cold palace? There were many fireplaces, beautiful and decorative in appearance, but limited in their effect: roasting at the front and icy at the other side. High-backed chairs helped a little, but more so the various fireplace screens: thick and warm fabrics, often beautifully embroidered, were clamped between wooden or cast-iron frames. It was clever to use the three-winged ones, which the freezing resident could put around themselves like a paravent.

Of course there were stoves, sometimes built in such a way that they could be lit from an adjoining room. This also warmed the wall, at which a gentleman could casually lean against. But stoves could not be retrofitted everywhere and often they would have spoiled the architecture. Wood panelling, textile wall coverings, tapestries and carpets, on the other hand, were attractive and easier to replace. Fur-lined dressing gowns, padded throws and petticoats, hats, gloves and a copper hot water bottle for bed were the simple things to defy the cold; in addition a sip of hot spiced wine or chocolate warmed you from the inside. And when the cold penetrated the air too strongly through always leaky glass panes, the castle could be converted into a summer palace and the court moved to the better-equipped winter residence.

4

All the birds are already here

Well, not all of them. But English bird lovers would be just as happy in Charlottenburg as the local walker who unexpectedly comes across a hawk, woodpecker, buzzard or tawny owl. Many species live in the park, are passing through, maybe visiting or breeding here. With some luck you can see the speedy wren or a tiny goldcrest, not even ten centimetres tall and with a golden stripe on its head, like a jewellery-addicted punk.

Water birds are also present, swans, various types of duck, even exotics like mandarin ducks, which maybe have strayed here from the zoo and found their new surroundings suitable. Familiar residents are grey herons, dignified, bizarre birds that like to perch in trees, not at all afraid of the public and extremely interested in the fish in the carp pond, they have to share with a few beavers. On some paths you can come across red squirrels and around the Belvedere a herd of Gotland sheeps is grazing until autumn: the best natural lawnmowers one can find.

All of this makes the Charlottenburg complex so interesting: 55 hectares with more than 50 different biotopes and, in addition to the many animal species, hundreds of plant species. A paradise that Berlin has to thank for Johann August Eyserbeck and Peter Joseph Lenné above all , who have transformed the palace gardens little by little into a landscape park based on the English model since the end of the 18th century.

3

Fragile Beauties

The first description of excotic Chinese porcelain came to Europe with Marco Polo a thousand years ago; from the 14th century onwards, risk-taking traders such as the Venetian brought the first pieces home, precious and sought after because of their rarity and fragility and on their way into princely art chambers.

Three centuries and some new trade routes later, porcelain was still a luxury item, but now imported in such quantities that it could be daily used. The dawning fashion of Chinoiserie and new pleasures such as coffee, tea and chocolate did the rest. And so large lidded vases and figurines could be found in the cabinets and fine crockery on the tables of the wealthy clientele.

Many princes were afflicted by the expensive porcelain disease and not only Saxony’s Augustus the Strong bought and exchanged whatever he could afford. Sophie Charlotte also had a small cabinet set up for herself; a surviving inventory book from 1705 lists more than four hundred porcelain objects. However, the large cabinet built by the architect Eosander was not completed until a year after her death and, in its firmly established grandiosity, corresponded to her husband’s need for representation.

He soon owned the largest porcelain collection among the German imperial princes, but soon his successor Frederick William I did business with the Saxon king: some vases, mugs and orange pots went to Dresden for 600 dragoons. From a historical point of view, this was a very bad exchange that cost the Saxons dearly, at the latest with Sophie Charlotte’s grandson and the Seven Years’ War.

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A Passionate Gardener

We do not know whether the castle in Caputh, which Sophie Charlotte returned to her husband as unsuitable, lacked a nice garden. The village Lietze, which she finally requested, had enough potential for a complex like the garden she knew from home in Herrenhausen. Together with her mother, who loved gardening passionately, the princess had visited gardens in the Netherllands as well as the magnificent grounds in Versailles.

Thanks to her godmother Liselotte, sister-in-law of Louis XIV, the competent garden architect and Le Nôtre collaborator Simon Godeau came to Lietzenburg, of course for a princely salary. He created the first German ornamental garden in the French style instead of the Dutch ones that were common here. The impressive complex included elaborate broderies with a fountain in the middle, flanked by tree rows and bosquets. The artistically curved ornaments made of three-colored gravel and lawns bordered with boxtree led down to the water, where yachts could dock bringing visitors from Berlin.

A flower garden was created to the west of the palace and the cabbage pictured here probably grew in the somewhat remote kitchen garden, along with other vegetables, fruits and herbs. After 1705, Godeau planned an orangery and a hundred years later another kitchen garden was created with plum trees, vines and mulberry espaliers. After the destruction of the Second World War the baroque garden was restored to its original appearance and today visitors can stroll here as the queen once loved to do with her friends.

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La Serena – the Cheerful One

On an October Sunday in 1684, the goddess Fortuna had finally an hour to sit back and relax: The marriage contract between Frederick, Elector of Brandenburg, and Sophie Charlotte of Hanover had been signed, and when the sun rose the next day at Herrenhausen Palace, the Berlin’s future was set on a new and better path, in the long run.

The Elector’s new wife was almost sixteen, with black curls, blue eyes and white skin, as beautiful as Snow White, talented, witty and interested in many things. Her mother had provided her with a remarkably broad education and was her role model and anchor until the end of her life. Through her, Sophie Charlotte became acquainted with great minds and artists, whom she later brought to her own court. The philosopher and scientist Leibniz in particular became a friend and dialogue partner and later claimed that some of his works would never have been written without Sophie.

But first she had to learn to assert herself at the court of her father-in-law. The best way to do this was to get away from time to time, having a little residence of her own a bit further away. So she found the village of Lietzenburg, where she built a summer palace, a Muses’ Court, informal, but full of music, theatre, discussion and laughter, making them both famous in Europe. She was not able to enjoy this for long – Fortuna was a fickle goddess. When she, the first Queen of Prussia, died at the age of 36, the grief-stricken Leibniz wanted to rename Lietzenburg Castle after her as Sophiopolis. The grieving king took pity on his Berliners and so the palace is now called Charlottenburg.