Source:
The Sibyl of the North: The Tale of Christina, Queen of Sweden, pages 60 to 77, by Faith Compton Mackenzie, 1931; original scan at the Universal Digital Library
The account:
CHAPTER IV
THE BARBER OF SENS
DELICATE, neurotic and overworked, Christina became seriously ill in 1651. She went to Nyköping to meet her mother, who was returning in state from Germany. Marie Eleanore had long ago left Denmark; her old friend and admirer, Christian IV, had died.
Christina had had a good deal of fever in the last years, but it was on her way to Nyköping that her symptoms became alarming. At supper she fainted, and remained unconscious for hours; her pulse faded and she lay as if dead. Then for six hours she was racked with violent pain. What was there to do but bleed the patient? Scarcely any other remedy was known to the honest but ignorant physicians of the North. In spite of the pain and blood-letting, she continued her journey, and, accompanied by Charles Gustavus, arrived at Stockholm with a cheerful countenance. These serious attacks were attributed by her advisers to excess of sobriety — too much water, which perhaps was a dangerous drink in those days, and too little wine.
It was about this time that the Queen went to inspect the fleet that she was equipping in Stockholm. At one of her favourite hours, four o'clock in the morning, she was standing with Admiral Flemming on a short, narrow plank examining a new battleship, when the Admiral, excitedly pointing out to her the beauties of the new ship, fell, pulling the plank and Her Majesty into very deep water. One of her equerries, Count Steinbergh, leapt to the rescue and seized Christina by her skirt. The Admiral, who had sunk to the bottom, and no doubt on his upward journey clutching the nearest object, seized her by the petticoats too. A struggle between the two courtiers nearly lost Christina her life, but she was finally rescued by someone else, who dragged her out by her arms. Though she must have fallen in head first and swallowed a good deal of water, and have been exhausted by the struggle, her first command on being landed was the save the Admiral, who was still clinging to her skirts. She showed her usual high spirits and hardihood by making light of this episode, refusing to go to bed, and appealing at a public dinner the same day, when she delighted the company with her description of it. It does not seem to have harmed her in spite of her delicate state of nerves and general health.
It was her health that gave Saumaise his opportunity.
He produced Bourdelot.
This son of an apothecary called Michon, of Sens, which was in the neighbourhood of Saumaise's birthplace, had all the attributes necessary for a chevalier d'industrie; moreover, he really did know something about medicine. He inherited from his uncle, a distinguished Paris physician, his name Bourdelot, a fine collection of books and curiosities — and his profession.
He had been in Italy and boasted on his return that Pope Urban VIII had offered him a cardinal's hat if he would but stay and minister to his health, which was not unlikely, cardinal's hats having often been bestowed for less. It was at this point that his opportunity at the Swedish Court came. Gui Patin says that he himself was bidden to Sweden but refused to go, which gave Bourdelot his chance. At any rate, he arrived with very warm recommendations from Saumaise. There is not much doubt that Bourdelot was given a clear idea of the situation in Stockholm and of the necessity of turning back the tide of savants which was still pouring in from all parts. Saumaise must also be given the credit of desiring to help the Queen, for his belief in Bourdelot as a physician was genuine. Patin detested Bourdelot, but Patin was a member of the Faculté de Medicine, which was as suspicious of a free lance as any medical society to-day. He says, among other things:
"He lies nearly as much as he talks, and when he can he deceives the sick too. He brags here in good company that he was the discoverer of the circulation of the blood, and that his colleagues do all in their power to deprive him of the credit. He is a deep-dyed flatterer, grand servant of the apothecaries, and with all his fanciful bragging, a horrible liar."
This was mild for Patin, who was one of the most vitriolic haters of his day. Bourdelot continued to annoy his fellow-physicians for many years after his meteoric career at Stockholm. Among his patients were Louis XIV and the Prince de Condé.
Madame de Sevigné writes:
"I am in the hands of Bourdelot, who physics me with melon and ice, which everyone says will kill me. This idea makes me so irresolute that, though I feel myself better for what he orders me, I take it trembling."
Melon and ice! Delicious and harmless were many of Bourdelot's remedies, and his cures sometimes appeared to be miraculous, because he was primarily a psychologist, as all successful adventurers (and doctors) are. There is no doubt that, though his character was of the lightest, he was an enthralling companion.
His effect upon Christina was immediate. She was weak and ailing when he arrived — her nerves on the rack, her constitution protesting against the outrageous way she had been overworking it. The last remedy for her ills was blood-letting. Her body was starved of sleep; she ate scarcely anything, and drank less. So indifferent was she to food that no one ever heard her express either likes or dislikes for what she ate. She had none. When she could avoid sitting down to a meal she did. State banquets, unless there was brilliant conversation, bored her, but it was naturally part of her duty, which she had never, so far, shirked, to attend many of them. On those occasions she scarcely ate.
She was not likely to die of a plethora. Yet her physicians continued to bleed her — draining the impoverished blood from her veins. Bourdelot was only just in time.
He was just in time, and Christina was immediately infatuated with him. He was, from the moment he arrived, constantly at her side, and took control of the whole situation: as her doctor he forbade visits from anyone he objected to. The savants waited forlornly for audiences.
"No one may see Her Majesty to-day!"
The word of Bourdelot went forth. There was no gainsaying it, and the Queen was perfectly happy to see no one — not even de la Gardie, now Grand Treasurer, so long as Bourdelot was there to play with her. For now she wanted to play with a light heart — her spirit was weakened by overwork, and she surrendered contentedly to the régime Bourdelot had laid down for her.
"Your Majesty needs amusement! Forget the Classics for a while and give your great brain a rest!"
This was the burden of his counsel. He himself supplied the amusement. He turned her supple mind to lighter things than dry-as-dust philosophies. He sang her Italian love-songs, his eyes half shut over the guitar he played so nimbly. If there was one thing Christina loved it was a guitar. He told her delicious tales from Paris — he discoursed of Rome, of the intriguing life there, the oranges and lemons, the warm, sunny winter days.
He taught her some splendid new oaths, of which she already had a notable collection. He filled her days with occupations in which there was not a grain of dust from heavy tomes nor a breath of stuffiness from learned beards. They invented together some enchanting new perfumes and dabbled lightly in alchemy. Christina basked in a well-being of which she had never dreamed. "Jests and ridiculous sports" were the order of the day. She realized ever more clearly as she got a keener perspective of her life — how arduous and how boring it really was. The ceremonies of State, the long harangues to which she was obliged to listen, the official duties which compelled her to take a personal share in some great ceremonial observance were abhorrent to her; the range of cultivation within which her countrymen were content to confine themselves appeared to her contemptible.
This was the limit of exasperation. She had not been concerned only for her own culture; she had built colleges, endowed libraries, established a printing-press, attended debates at Upsala — had done, in fact, everything that was possible to encourage scholarship among her countrymen. It was ungrateful work, and she was tired of it. She was not tired of learning, though she was a little tired of savants. But one could have great sport even with them. It was fun to make M. Bochart from Paris play at battledore and shuttlecock with her before a large distinguished company. Or the flute, which he had never learned. Best of all was a scene in which Meibomius, a stuffy person who had written a treatise on the music of the ancients, and Naudé, who had written another on the art of dancing, were ordered to illustrate their theories practically. Meibomius was to sing, and Naudé was to dance to his singing. As neither of these learned men had any idea of singing or dancing, and Naudé was crippled with gout, the result was excruciating, and the whole Court was convulsed with merriment at the spectacle. Meibomius, at the end of the exhibition, well aware of who was at the bottom of this joke, gave Bourdelot a resounding smack in the face, which, exciting as it was for the spectators, led to his immediate banishment from the Court.
Christina, if she ever had any sense of proportion, seems to have lost whatever shred there was of it. Bourdelot's influence was hypnotic. Her change of conduct, puzzling as it was to her Ministers, was regarded with deep apprehension by Magnus de la Gardie. It was obvious to the late favourite that his star was waning. The Queen scarcely noticed him nowadays. He went so far as to address a formal protest against Bourdelot, accusing him of slander. Bourdelot gallantly took up the challenge of this accusation, called as witnesses the people to whom he was supposed to have slandered de la Gardie, and emerged triumphant. De la Gardie's star continued to decline.
Christina and Bourdelot were soon the talk of Sweden. In fact the whole of Europe was in a very short time chattering about the queer situation up in Stockholm. Bourdelot, the apothecary's valet, first favourite! He was, of course, the Queen's lover; at any rate, he encouraged her in vicious unmentionable habits. Heaven only knew what went on when they were locked together in their laboratory, ostensibly making perfumes or seeking the philosopher's stone. And was he merely showing her, expert cook that he was, how the Italians cooked maccheroni?
It was not only a feast for the gossips, but the Ministers grew grave at a state of things that threatened the fair fame of the throne. If it could have been one of themselves, it would have been perhaps tolerable, but an ill-bred foreign apothecary in absolute power at Court was an outrage on decency.
Bourdelot was not the only Frenchman in attendance on Christina. There was a remarkable young man called Clairet Poisonnet, who had been in the service of the Swedish ambassador to Poland and was brought to Stockholm by his master. Bourdelot was responsible for Clairet's entering the Queen's service. He began humbly as comfiter and keeper of the linen — a simple creature, apparently, of no education, who could not read or write. It was at a masquerade that he first attracted Christina's attention. The fashionable hairdresser was also a Frenchman and his name was Champagne. This artist, spying Clairet, and seeing that he was a handsome, fresh-coloured youth with a wonderful head of his own hair, had a fancy to put him in modish feminine clothes and dress his hair in the latest fashion. The pretty masquerade made a great sensation, and Christina was so delighted with him that she kept him almost continually in this habit, until she found that besides being diverting he was gifted with rare qualities which were too good to waste. Though he could not read or write, or perhaps because he could not, he possessed a mind of unusual alertness, a genius for secrecy and faithful service, and a capacity for keeping his own counsel even in his cups. The more he was plied with wine, as he continually was by his enemies, the more reserved he became. On the other hand, he could wring the deadliest secret out of the most seasoned spy, to such a pitch that Chanut had forbidden his servants to have anything to do with him. His memory, not having been impaired by education, was prodigious. Altogether he was a valuable creature. When there was all the trouble about Bourdelot, and Christina was anxious above all to keep on good terms with France, and possibly take refuge there if she abdicated — she must "nurse" all the alternative refuges carefully — she sent Clairet with a letter of credit between the soles of his boots to Paris, where he interviewed the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and brought back his answer safely stored in his own head.
The Queen was now shameless in her complete indifference to the canons of behaviour in church. She would sit on a chair of purple velvet, leaning her head and arms on another, dreamily gazing into space, and only when the sermon was too long, as it usually was, rousing herself and rapping impatiently with her fan, or audibly playing with her two little spaniels. Bourdelot, the atheist, was accused of undermining her faith, but this is hardly fair, as she never had had the slightest respect for the faith of her father. She was, in fact, not by nature religious, though she studied the subject as eagerly as she did everything else. She was to be converted, but she was tired of the throne long before her conversion. In 1651 she had confided to Chanut her wish to abdicate, and announced it to the Senate, but the judgment of Chanut, and indeed of all her advisers, prevailed, so she acquiesced in a situation which was daily becoming more irksome.
Her interests outside her immediate circle were still and always fixed on the South. The French situation was absorbing, and she could not resist dipping her fingers into it. One of her heroes had always been the Prince de Condé, and he, aware of this, had sent a secret letter to her from the fortress of Vincennes where he was imprisoned with his brothers, the Prince de Conti and the Duc de Longueville, begging her to use her influence with the Queen Regent, Anne of Austria. This letter is dated March 26, 1650, when the war between the Frondeurs and Cardinal Mazarin's faction had reached its climax. Richelieu's reign of cruelty had been succeeded by the Sicilian Mazarin's strange policy of leniency to the people and personal greed. His hand was against the nobles and the Princes of the Blood, and this imprisonment was his latest coup. The Prince's Fronde civil war which followed ended in their release a year later, partly through the ceaseless efforts of their fellow Frondeur, the Duc de Turenne, and greatly through the force of public opinion, the whole of Europe having been shaken by this high-handed act of Mazarin's towards one of France's great leaders. Anne of Austria was obliged to exile Mazarin, but he still kept a firm hand on French affairs from his retreat in Bruhl, and his remark when he retired, "Time is a good friend..." was fully justified, for in 1652 he was back again, more powerful than ever, and utterly indispensable in every way to the Queen Regent.
Though Christina obeyed Condé's request with alacrity, she did not have much influence in the situation. She wrote not only to the Queen Regent, but to the King, the Duc d'Orléans, the Grande Mademoiselle, Parliament and Cardinal de Retz, Mazarin's most bitter enemy. All these letters pleaded for peace, "le bien et le repos de la France", and she confided them to the care of a messenger who was to deliver each one personally and wait for an answer. The letter for the King was answered by Mazarin himself, who saw it in Council at St. Germain before it reached the King; and, finding it not at all to his liking, sent a curt message to Christina that he thanked her for her goodwill, but it was not permissible for her to interfere in the differences between a sovereign and his subjects. The other notes were answered in much the same tone, but Cardinal de Retz contented himself with polite acknowledgement. He was waiting quietly for Mazarin's shoes to be empty, with the intention of stepping into them himself, and was not at the moment going to commit himself to anything.
Mazarin's action was justified on the principle that it is one of the first maxims of government that rulers should not meddle in each other's private affairs. But Christina was not likely to be discouraged by the Cardinal's attempted snub; such a gesture could only spur her into more activity. She was kept well informed of all the secret happenings in Paris by her resident, Rosenhaue [sic], and though she did not formally interfere, she watched with deep interest the progress of events. She lost Chanut in this year, which was a great blow to her. He was sent as Minister to the Hague, and his place was taken by Picques, an inferior person whom she disliked.
Her desire for peace in France was sincere, partly because she was contemplating a visit to the Court some day in the near future, and a country at war with itself is not entertaining. Her critics asked why she was so occupied with France and so indifferent to the troubles in her own realm, which in 1650 had reached a serious climax. A bad harvest, the reckless expenditure on the Coronation, which coincided with the worst conditions known for many years, had exasperated the people. A seditious pamphlet, "Spectacles for Princes", aimed at the nobles who were bitterly hated for good reasons, warned Christina to beware of the designs of the aristocracy. She herself was never anything but beloved by the populace, in spite of her extravagance. She was a royal figure, and her decrees in their favour endeared her to her humble subjects. She was generous, but not compassionate. What she did finally to ameliorate the lot of the peasants was done greatly to annoy the nobles, and also it must be added, because her sense of justice when roused was as sane as her judgment in most things.
But she did not really care. She was deeply preoccupied with her own state of mind. More and more the trappings of the throne seemed to entangle her steps; more and more she stretched out to a fuller, freer existence. She had squeezed the juice out of ruling Sweden, and the skin was very dry, ready to be cast away. Though her attempt was frustrated in 1651, only a year after her coronation, by the dismay of the Senate when she announced her intention, she never for a moment abandoned it. She was, no doubt, flattered and touched by the pleadings of the delegation that waited upon her after the five-hour debate in the Senate. All its members, and all the notables present, joined in entreating her not to desert the throne. Oxenstierna, sober, undemonstrative man, was moved to tears. He went so far as to declare that if she carried out her threat, he and the chief officers of the State would resign their positions and leave Sweden to her fate, more as a demonstration to posterity that they had not encouraged her in a step so fatal to the realm. It is most unlikely that he or any of his colleagues would have carried out this threat, but he rightly judged that Christina would be deeply affected by such a menace to the well-being of Sweden. She gave in, and Charles Gustavus, who had tactfully joined in the chorus of dissent, saw the crown waved in front of his eyes and snatched away again without an outward sign of dismay.
Christina might well have said to her Ministers:
"How can I satisfy you? Whatever I do seems to shock you. I fill the Palace with philosophers and savants, and you remonstrate with me for spending so much on their pensions and presents. Then when I get tired of them and their dowdy inevitable wives, and find myself more amused with Bourdelot, you raise a storm and accuse me of lightness, extravagance, vice, and goodness knows what — behaviour unworthy of the Queen of a great country. Then when I offer to relieve you of my presence on the throne, you raise the biggest storm of all, and assure me that Sweden will be ruined if I abdicate. Whatever I do it seems Sweden will be ruined."
Christina must stay, but Bourdelot must go. That was the burden of everyone's thoughts and desires round about the Court. The clergy, too, were horrified. Her behaviour in church — it was really scandalous, and that villainous atheist was surely partly responsible. They forgot that Christina had never been remarkable for piety at any time. All they knew was that the piety of the people would be seriously undermined if the Queen set such an unhappy example of levity at public worship in the House of God. For some reason the heads of the Church did not feel themselves called upon to remonstrate with her. They deputed, of all people, the Queen-Mother, who was living in comparative obscurity as near to her daughter as she dared.
Marie Eleanore therefore administered at great length the reproaches and admonitions with regard to Bourdelot that seemed to be appropriate.
Christina listened in an embarrassing silence, the blue eyes gazing fixedly. Marie Eleanore began to stumble under that cold, comprehending gaze.
At last Christina interrupted her.
"Leave these matters to the priests, my dear Mother. I know quite well who has sent you, and I will give them good reason to regret their interference."
Marie Eleanore, as usual, burst into tears and retired. Christina, on being told six hours later that nothing could stop her weeping, said that she had brought it on herself, but was finally persuaded to go and see her mother. She talked of anything but the cause of the trouble, and the result of their little conversation was that the Queen-Mother retired to Nyköping.
It seems unlikely that a man of such light character as Bourdelot could have any but a negative influence on Christina's faith. He certainly influenced her mode of life to such an extent that she never went back to the dull paths of duty that she had tried to follow before her breakdown in health and his arrival on the scene. But Chanut and Descartes were the first to light the torch of Catholicism. It flickered very faintly at the beginning, and even its faint flickerings were regarded with misgiving by Christina herself. This is the only explanation, unless she was a monster of insincerity, of her attitude towards the Landgrave of Hesse when she heard that he was intending to join the Roman Church. She wrote him a strong letter:
"Since I am of a third religion which, having found the Truth, has disregarded their (Lutheran) opinions, which it has rejected as false, it is right that I should speak as a neutral person, who will only touch upon a single point which you must appreciate; it is honour that I would wish to insist upon. Surely you know how those who change are hated by those from whose sentiments they turn away, and don't you know, from many illustrious examples, that they are distrusted even by those whose ranks they join? Think, if you please, how important to the reputation of a Prince is the opinion held of his constancy, and be sure you do a great wrong to your own, if you make so grave a mistake. When you have considered the circumstances I have mentioned, I feel sure you will change your mind."
As this letter was written as late as 1652, when Christina was already in communication with Rome, the only explanation is that she was, as it were, talking to herself, and trying to resist the impulse that was carrying her with ever-gathering force, right out into the open. She longed for freedom and emancipation from the tedium of ruling a people she no longer loved, the shedding of responsibilities no longer endurable. The fact was ever more apparent that she was irresistibly drawn to the South; that she was enamoured of the Latin temperament, and in consequence turned almost with loathing from the crude directness of her countrymen. When a Northern woman loses her head over a Latin she seldom finds it again. In the case of Christina it was not one man at this period — it was a whole race that had captured her heart. Bourdelot, a Latin if ever there was one, was the first of a long procession of foreign favourites, and it will be seen that they were true to type, till the great one arrived.
It was a nation that Christina loved: it was Italy for whose soil she longed. She dreamed of orange groves, of winter sun, of a salon that should eclipse all other salons, where she could talk on equal terms with the great minds of the time, herself, freed from the trammels of a throne, shining by virtue of her own fine gifts; the lodestar of European culture, not surrounded as at Stockholm by needy sycophants, but by the cream of civilization.
In 1651 Don Giuseppe Pinto Pereira [sic] arrived in Sweden as Portuguese Ambassador. As he knew no Latin, he could only communicate with Christina through his secretary, who acted as interpreter. This secretary falling ill, the duty of interpreter fell upon the Ambassador's confessor, Macedo, a Jesuit. During an audience the confessor was electrified by Christina's announcement in Latin that she wished to consult with someone of his profession, but that such absolute secrecy must be observed that no letters must pass. The Jesuit managed to conceal his emotion at this amazing communication, and the audience was concluded without Pereira suspecting anything. Other audiences of the same exciting nature followed, and then Macedo announced that the air of Sweden did not suit him and begged to be given his congé. The Ambassador refused, but Macedo took French leave. When Pereira asked Christina's permission to have him followed and brought back, she replied that she could not allow anyone who found Sweden unhealthy to be forced to remain.
Macedo sped to Rome with the news. The General of the Company of Jesus lost no time in dispatching two zealous missionaries, Francesco Malines, professor of theology at Turin, and Paul Casati, professor of mathematics in Rome. They arrived as Italian gentlemen of leisure and were presented at Court in the usual way. Christina soon guessed who they were, and asked one of them in an aside if they had letters for her. A nod was enough. Christina was delighted. This was one of the most exciting intrigues she had yet enjoyed. If the Swedes knew what these two dark gentlemen portended! If the Chancellor could guess what went on at the private audiences of these pleasant Italian travellers!
As might be imagined, the task of the two instructors was not an easy one. Christina soon proved that she knew as much about theology as they did, and every point was argued with such ruthless logic by the royal pupil that they began to lose courage. At last, after having reduced them both to a state of bewilderment and despair, she suddenly said:
"Perhaps, after all, I am nearer to becoming a Catholic than you guess."
"At this", says Casati, "we were like men raised from the dead."
Then followed long discussions. She suggested that after her conversion she should take the sacrament in the Lutheran church once a year. On this point her advisers were quite clear. The Pope would never consent to that.
"In that case", she declared, "I must renounce the throne."
Her way was clear; here was a case of conscience!
Renunciation of the throne for Religion's sake! Impressive enough the Sibyl of the North turning from the faith for which her father died. But what would not Rome think of a young queen who renounced all to follow God? At the same time, her people must not know of her whole resolve until her affairs were well established. The shock of her abdication would be enough for them. There was her income to be considered. A great deal of tact would be necessary to induce the States to grant her a revenue equal to her needs. She knew pretty well all about the financial condition of Sweden, which had hardly recovered from the expenses of her coronation, and was not likely to be enthusiastic about financing an absent queen, least of all a Papist. A strong mind and an indomitable purpose were necessary to override any misgivings that might be lurking in her thoughts as to the honesty and justice of her demands upon the realm she was deserting. A pretty hard head was needed to carry off what might easily be described as a piece of sharp practice against her people.
The two emissaries from Rome having departed, Don Antonio Pimentelli de Parada [sic], Envoy Extraordinary from the King of Spain, helped to keep alight the torch lit by Chanut. This courtly diplomat arrived at the Swedish Court in 1652, and may be said to have overlapped Bourdelot in the Queen's good graces. She was instantly attracted to the suave Southerner, who opened his career at once with a pretty piece of diplomacy.
When Christina received him in formal audience, seated upon her chair of state, he approached her, gave a profound obeisance and retired hurriedly without uttering a word. Christina found this behaviour delightfully provocative, and readily consented to another audience. He then declared that he had been so overcome by the splendour and greatness of Her Majesty that he was tongue-tied, and could do no more than bow and retire. Here was the kind of flattery, spoken with passionate sincerity, which Christina enjoyed, and from that moment began a very pleasant and exceedingly close friendship with Spain's Envoy. So close that the French Court, hearing of it, began to get anxious. Christina was flirting with Spain now. That would never do.
The development was considered so serious that Chanut was ordered to visit Stockholm and inform on the situation. His report was reassuring. Christina was amusing herself with Pimentelli, whom she found very good company. That was all. Bourdelot's day was over. The Queen yielded with a good grace to her subjects' entreaties to be rid of him. He had served his purpose, and now Pimentelli was here, who was, after all, equally amusing and a man of quality as well. Bourdelot went to Paris and opened his successful career there as a fashionable physician.
"Master Bourdelot rides in a chair followed by four equerries. He declares that he has performed miracles in Sweden", says Patin.
Well, from one point of view, perhaps he had.
Christina wasted no time in sentimental regrets for her favourites or for anything else in those days. Finding a letter from Bourdelot in a packet that arrived from France, she put it to her nose, and then held it out to a lady-in-waiting to smell, crying:
"Ha! It stinks of medicine!"
She threw it on the fire without reading it.
So ended the reign of the Barber of Sens.
Above: Kristina.
Above: Pierre Bourdelot.
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