TRANSLATOR’S NOTE
“CHARLES XII” was written during the years 1727 and 1728. It is more than 170 years since it was first translated into English. Opinions of its merits differ widely. Macaulay, classing it with Boswell’s “Johnson” and Marmontel’s “Mémoires,” says that it “may be perused with delight by the most frivolous and the most indifferent.” Carlyle goes even further: “‘Charles XII,’” he writes, “may still pass for a model in that oft-attempted species of biography; the clearest details are given in the fewest words; we have sketches of strange men and strange countries, of wars, adventures, negotiations, in a style which for graphic brevity rivals Sallust. It is a line engraving on a reduced scale of that Swede and his mad life, without colours, yet not without the foreshortenings and perspectives of a true picture. In respect of composition, whatever may be said of its accuracy and worth otherwise, we cannot but reckon it as greatly the best of Voltaire’s histories.”
Adverse criticism, on the other hand, began as early as 1732, when La Mottraye, who had lived on terms of intimacy with the King, wrote a scathing criticism of Voltaire’s work. Voltaire succeeded in making a laughing-stock of this gentleman, but the publication of the works of Nordberg, the King’s chaplain, and of Adlerfelt, his chamberlain, shortly afterwards, did bring discredit on some of Voltaire’s details. Of the modern school of critics, Mr. Nisbet Bain, who has made a special study of original authorities, does not hesitate to call the book a “romance.”
Underlying this difference of opinion is the time-honoured question of the “scientific” as opposed to the “epical” treatment of the lives of the great. The history of any great man’s career is a kind of epic poem, and, to borrow Mr. Birrell’s words, “I do not see why we children of a larger growth may not be interested in the annals of mankind simply as a story.”
It must, indeed, be admitted that Voltaire is no precise or scientific historian; but, in the portrayal of the life of a man of action, rapidity and charm of style is surely as important as the careful tracing of cause and effect.
Voltaire’s literary style is famous; but work of high literary merit always suffers in translation; so that any roughness in the present rendering must be attributed to the translator and not to the author.
“Ett vet jag som aldrig dör—
Det är dom öfver död man.”
One thing I know that never dies—
The verdict passed upon the dead.
“The history of Sweden is the history of her kings,” and of those kings the most striking is undoubtedly Charles XII, the Lion of the North. One of the few heroic figures in a prosaic age, he seems to belong rather to the times of Alfred the Great and Charlemagne than to those of Richelieu and Louis XIII. He has well been called “the last of the Vikings,” for the extraordinary nature of his adventures no less than his dauntlessness and endurance make him a kind of Saga-hero. The stories told of his childhood show the beginnings of those Spartan powers of enduring hardship which made him the idol of his “brave blue boys” in later life.
It is said that at the age of six he almost killed himself by leaving his bed in a Swedish mid-winter to “harden himself” by sleeping on the bare boards. The obstinacy which was the most marked characteristic of his boyhood developed in after years into the resolution with which as a mere youth he faced the treachery of his neighbours. “I am resolved,” he said in his first speech to his Parliament, “never to begin an unrighteous war, but I am also resolved never to finish a righteous war until I have completely humbled my enemies.”
In all matters of convention he was “in his simplicity sublime.” He cared nothing for the pomp of sovereignty, and always wore a soldier’s plain buff coat; he took his meals standing, spreading the bread and butter, which was his usual fare, with his thumbs. His letters to his sister (whom he addresses as “mon cœur”) are full of real affection, and a glance at them dispels the popular illusion that he was cold and heartless, just because he could resist the blandishments of Anna von Königsmarck!
Apart from occasional lapses into the fatalism characteristic of his race, he seems to have been devout. Shortly after his accession he ordered the titles “Our Most Gracious Majesty” to be removed from the liturgy, on the ground that “Almighty God is not appeased by high-sounding titles but by the prayers of humble and faithful hearts.”
He was the last to lose heart in adversity; he lost his Empire with as good a grace as he won it. “It is only requisite,” he wrote after Pultawa, where all was lost but honour, “not to lose courage, or let go the conduct of affairs.”
His early death was a disaster not only for Sweden but for the whole of Europe, for he was the first to realize and check the growing power of Russia.