Part 25

“Hail, Christina!” shouted the assembly, won by the proud bearing of the little girl and by her likeness to her valiant father. “We will have her and only her for our queen!”

“Better yet, brothers,” cried Lars Larsson, now her most loyal supporter; “she sits upon the throne of the kings; let her be proclaimed King of Sweden.”

And so it was done. And with their wavering loyalty kindled into a sudden flame, the States of Sweden “gave a mighty shout” and cried as one man, “Hail, Christina, King of Sweden!”

There was strong objection in Sweden to the rule of a woman; and the education of this little girl was rather that of a prince than of a princess. She was taught to ride and to shoot, to hunt and to fence, to undertake all of a boy’s exercises, and to endure all a boy’s privations. She could bring down a hare, at the first shot, from the back of a galloping horse; she could outride the most expert huntsman in her train.

So she grew from childhood into girlhood, and at thirteen was as bold and fearless, as wilful and self-possessed as any young fellow of twenty-one. But besides all this she was a wonderful scholar; indeed, she would be accounted remarkable even in these days of bright girl-graduates. At thirteen she was a thorough Greek scholar; she was learned in mathematics and astronomy, the classics, history, and philosophy; and she acquired of her own accord German, Italian, Spanish, and French.

Altogether, this girl Queen of the North was as strange a compound of scholar and hoyden, pride and carelessness, ambition and indifference, culture and rudeness, as ever, before her time or since, were combined in the nature of a girl of thirteen. And it is thus that our story finds her.

One raw October morning in the year 1639, there was stir and excitement at the palace in Stockholm. A courier had arrived bearing important dispatches to the Council of Regents which governed Sweden during the minority of the Queen, and there was no one to officially meet him.

Closely following the lackey who received him, the courier strode into the council-room of the palace. But the council-room was vacant.

It was not a very elegant apartment, this council-room of the palace of the kings of Sweden. Although a royal apartment, its appearance was ample proof that the art of decoration was as yet unknown in Sweden. The room was untidy and disordered; the council-table was strewn with the ungathered litter of the last day’s council, and even the remains of a coarse lunch mingled with all this clutter. The uncomfortable-looking chairs all were out of place, and above the table was a sort of temporary canopy to prevent the dust and spiders’ webs upon the ceiling from dropping upon the councillors.

The courier gave a sneering look upon this evidence that the refinement and culture which marked at least the palaces and castles of other European countries were as yet little considered in Sweden. Then, important and impatient, he turned to the attendant. “Well,” he said, “and is there none here to receive my dispatches? They call for--houf! so! what manners are these?”

What manners indeed! The courier might well ask this. For, plump against him, as he spoke, dashed, first a girl and then a boy who had darted from somewhere into the council-chamber. Too absorbed in their own concerns to notice who, if any one, was in the room, they had run against and very nearly upset the astonished bearer of dispatches. Still more astonished was he, when the girl, using his body as a barrier against her pursuer, danced and dodged around him to avoid being caught by her pursuer--a fine-looking young lad of about her own age--Karl Gustav, her cousin. The scandalized bearer of dispatches to the Swedish Council of Regents shook himself free from the girl’s strong grasp and seizing her by the shoulder, demanded, sternly:

“How now, young mistress! Is this seemly conduct toward a stranger and an imperial courier?”

The girl now for the first time noticed the presence of a stranger. Too excited in her mad dash into the room to distinguish him from one of the palace servants, she only learned the truth by the courier’s harsh words. A sudden change came over her. She drew herself up haughtily and said to the attendant:

“And who is this officious stranger, Klas?”

The tone and manner of the question again surprised the courier, and he looked at the speaker, amazed. What he saw was an attractive young girl of thirteen, short of stature, with bright hazel eyes, a vivacious face, now almost stern in its expression of pride and haughtiness. A man’s fur cap rested upon the mass of tangled light-brown hair which, tied imperfectly with a simple knot of ribbon, fell down upon her neck. Her short dress of plain gray stuff hung loosely about a rather trim figure; and a black scarf, carelessly tied, encircled her neck. In short, he saw a rather pretty, carelessly dressed, healthy, and just now very haughty-looking young girl, who seemed more like a boy in speech and manners,--and one who needed to be disciplined and curbed.

Again the question came: “Who is this man, and what seeks he here, Klas? I ask.”

“‘T is a courier with dispatches for the council, Madam,” replied the man.

“Give me the dispatches,” said the girl; “I will attend to them.”

“You, indeed!” The courier laughed grimly. “The dispatches from the Emperor of Germany are for no hairbrained maid to handle. These are to be delivered to the Council of Regents alone.”

“I will have naught of councils or regents, Sir Courier, save when it pleases me,” said the girl, tapping the floor with an angry foot. “Give me the dispatches, I say,--I am the King of Sweden!”

“You--a girl--king?” was all that the astonished courier could stammer out. Then, as the real facts dawned upon him, he knelt at the feet of the young queen and presented his dispatches.

“Withdraw, sir!” said Christina, taking the papers from his hand with but the scant courtesy of a nod; “we will read these and return a suitable answer to your master.”

The courier withdrew, still dazed at this strange turn of affairs; and Christina, leaning carelessly against the council-table, opened the dispatches.

Suddenly she burst into a merry but scarcely lady-like laugh. “Ha, ha, ha! this is too rare a joke, Karl,” she cried. “Lord Chancellor, Mathias, Torstenson!” she exclaimed, as these members of her council entered the apartment, “what think you? Here come dispatches from the Emperor of Germany begging that you, my council, shall consider the wisdom of wedding me to his son and thereby closing the war! His son, indeed! Ferdinand the Craven!”

“And yet, Madam,” suggested the wise Oxenstiern, “it is a matter that should not lightly be cast aside. In time you must needs be married. The constitution of the kingdom doth oblige you to.”

“Oblige!” and the young girl turned upon the gray-headed chancellor almost savagely. “Oblige! and who, Sir Chancellor, upon earth shall OBLIGE me to do so, if I do it not of mine own will? Say not OBLIGE to me.”

This was vigorous language for a girl of scarce fourteen; but it was “Christina’s way,” one with which both the Council and the people soon grew familiar. It was the Vasa(1) nature in her, and it was always prominent in this spirited young girl--the last descendant of that masterful house.

(1) Vasa was the family name of her father and the ancient king of Sweden.