Though people laugh at visions and supernatural apparitions, several
have been too well authenticated to be discredited, for, should one be
consistent, it would be necessary to ignore the whole witness of
historic evidence.
A correctly drawn-up report, signed by four reliable witnesses, is the
guarantee of the truth of the incident about to be related. I should add
that the prediction set forth in this report was so set forth and cited
a very long time before the events occurred in our days which seemed to
fulfil it.
Charles XI., father of the famous Charles XII., was a most despotic
king, but at the same time the wisest of the monarchs who have reigned
over Sweden. He restricted the overbearing privileges of the nobility,
abolished the power of the Senate, and created laws by his own
authority; in fact, he changed the constitution of the country, which
before was an oligarchy, and compelled the states to vest the absolute
control in him. He was, besides, an enlightened man, steadfastly
attached to the Lutheran religion, brave, of an inflexible,
self-contained, decided character, and entirely devoid of imagination.
He had just lost his wife, Ulrique Eléonore. Although it is said that
his severity had hastened her end, he held her in esteem, and appeared
more affected by her death than would have been expected of a man so
hard of heart. After that event he grew still more taciturn and gloomy
than before, and gave himself up to work with an application that showed
an urgent desire to dispel sad thoughts.
At the close of one autumn evening he was sitting in his private
apartment in the Stockholm Palace, in his dressing-gown and slippers,
before a great fire. With him was his chamberlain, Count Brahé, who was
one of his most favoured courtiers, and his physician, Baumgarten, who,
it may be remarked in passing, set up for a sceptic, and who would have
liked people to disbelieve in everything but in medicine. This night he
had been summoned to advise on some slight ailment.
The evening lengthened, but contrary to his habit the King made no sign
of dismissal to his companions. He sat in deep silence, his head
lowered, and his eyes fixed upon the burning logs, wearied of their
company, but afraid, without knowing why, of being left alone. Count
Brahé had shrewdly observed that his presence was distasteful to the
King, and had several times hinted that he feared His Majesty was in
need of repose; but the King had signified by a gesture that he wished
him to remain. The physician, in his turn, spoke of the ill-effects to
health of keeping late hours. Charles only muttered, "Stay where you
are; I have no desire to sleep yet."
At this stage the courtiers tried several different topics of
conversation, but all fell flat at the end of the second or third
sentence. It was evident that His Majesty was in one of his black moods,
and in such circumstance the position of a courtier is decidedly
delicate. Count Brahé, suspecting that the King was brooding over the
loss of his wife, gazed for some time at the portrait of the Queen which
hung on the wall of the room, and remarked with a deep sigh--
"What an excellent likeness! Just the expression she wore, so majestic
and yet so gentle."
"Bah!" the King broke in rudely. "That portrait is too flattering. The
Queen was ugly."
He was always suspicious of there being underlying reproaches whenever
anyone mentioned her name in his presence. Then, vexed at his harshness,
he rose and paced the room to hide a blush of shame. He stopped in front
of the window which looked on to the courtyard.
It was a dark night and the moon was in its first quarter. The palace in
which the Kings of Sweden now reside was not then finished, so that
Charles XI., who had begun it, lived then in the old palace on the
promontory of Ritterholm overlooking the Lake Moeler. It was a vast
building in the form of a horse-shoe. The King's cabinet was at one of
the extremities, and nearly opposite it was the large audience hall
where Parliament assembled to receive communications from the Crown.
The windows of this chamber appeared to be illuminated with a bright
light. This struck the King as strange, but at first he thought the
light might be produced by the torch of some valet. Still, what could
anybody be doing there at such an hour, and in a room which had not been
opened for some time? Besides, the light was too bright to proceed from
a single torch. It might be the work of an incendiary, but there was no
smoke, and the windows were not broken.
Charles watched the windows some time in silence. No sound could be
heard; everything betokened simply an illumination. Meanwhile Count
Brahé extended his hand towards the bellrope to summon a page in order
to send him to find out the cause of this singular light, but the King
stopped him. "I will go to the hall myself," he said.
Whilst he spoke they saw his face grow pale with superstitious fear; but
he went out with a firm tread, followed by the chamberlain and
physician, each holding a lighted candle.
Baumgarten went to rouse the sleeping porter who had charge of the keys
with an order from the King to open immediately the doors of the
assembly hall. The man was greatly surprised at this unexpected order.
He dressed himself quickly, and joined the King with his bunch of keys.
At first he opened the door of a gallery which was used as an
antechamber or private entrance to the assembly hall. The King entered.
Imagine his surprise at finding the walls completely draped in black.
"Who gave the order for hanging this room thus?" he demanded angrily.
"No one, Sire, to my knowledge," replied the uneasy porter. "The last
time I swept out the gallery it was panelled, as it always has been....
I am certain this hanging never came out of Your Majesty's depository."
The King, walking at a rapid pace, had already traversed more than
two-thirds of the gallery. The Count and porter followed closely; the
physician Baumgarten was a little behind, divided between his fears of
being left alone and of being exposed to the consequences of what
promised to be such a strange adventure.
"Go no further, Sire," exclaimed the porter. "Upon my soul, there is
sorcery behind this. At such an hour ... and since the death of the
Queen your gracious wife ... they say she walks in this gallery.... May
God protect us!"
"Stop, Sire," entreated the Count in turn. "Do you not hear the noise
that comes from the assembly hall? Who knows to what dangers Your
Majesty may be exposed?"
"Sire," broke in Baumgarten, whose candle had just been blown out by a
gust of wind, "at least allow me to go and fetch a score of your
halberdiers."
"Let us go in," said the King sternly, stopping before the door of the
great apartment. "Porter, open the door immediately."
He kicked it with his feet, and the noise, echoing from the roof,
resounded along the gallery like the report of a cannon.
The porter trembled so much that he could not find the keyhole.
"An old soldier trembling!" said Charles, shrugging his shoulders.
"Come, Count, you open the door."
"Sire," replied the Count, recoiling a step, "if Your Majesty commanded
me to walk up to the mouth of a German or a Danish cannon I would obey
unhesitatingly, but you wish me to defy the powers of hell."
The King snatched the key from the hands of the porter.
"I quite see," he observed contemptuously, "that I must attend this
matter myself," and before his suite could stay him he had opened the
heavy oaken door and entered the great hall, pronouncing the words "By
the power of God!" His three acolytes, urged by a curiosity stronger
than their fear--and perhaps ashamed to desert their King--went in after
him. The great hall was lighted up by innumerable torches, and the old
figured tapestry had been replaced by black hangings. Along the walls
hung, as usual, the German, Danish, and Russian flags--trophies taken by
the soldiers of Gustavus Adolphus. In their midst were the Swedish
banners, covered with crape as for a funeral.
An immense assembly filled the seats. The four orders of the State (the
nobility, clergy, citizens and peasants) were arranged in their proper
order. All were clothed in black, and this array of human faces, lit up
against a dark background, so dazzled the eyes of the four witnesses of
this extraordinary scene that not one figure was recognisable in the
crowd. Thus an actor who stands before a large audience is not able to
distinguish a single individual; he sees but a confused mass of faces.
Seated on the raised throne from which the King usually addressed his
Parliament, they saw a bleeding corpse clothed in the royal insignia. At
his right stood a child with a crown on his head and a sceptre in his
hand; at his left an old man, or rather another spectre, leant against
the throne. He wore the State cloak as used by the former administrators
of Sweden before Vasa had made it a kingdom. In front of the throne,
seated before a table covered with large books and rolls of documents,
were several grave and austere-looking personages, clothed in long black
robes, who looked like judges. Between the throne and the seats of the
assembly a block was raised covered with black crepe; against it lay an
axe.
No one in that supernatural assembly seemed to notice the presence of
Charles and the three people with him. At their entry they could only
hear at first a confused murmur of inarticulate words; then the oldest
of the black-robed judges arose--the one who seemed to be the
president--and struck the book which lay open in front of him three
times with his hand. Deep silence immediately followed. Then there came
into the hall by a door opposite to that by which Charles had entered
several young men of noble bearing and richly clad. Their hands were
tied behind their backs, but they walked with heads erect and confident
looks. Behind them a stalwart man in a jerkin of brown leather held the
ends of the cords which bound their hands. The most important of the
prisoners--he who walked first--stopped in the middle of the hall before
the block and looked at it with supreme disdain. While this was going
on the corpse seemed to shake convulsively, and a fresh stream of
crimson blood flowed out of its wound. The youth kneeled down and laid
his head on the block, the axe flashed in the air and the sound of its
descent followed immediately. A stream of blood gushed over the dais and
mingled with that from the corpse; the head bounded several times on the
crimsoned pavement, and then rolled at the feet of Charles. It dyed him
with its blood.
Up to this moment surprise had held the King dumb, but this frightful
spectacle unloosed his tongue. He stepped forward towards the dais, and,
addressing himself to the figure who was clothed in the administrator's
robes, he pronounced boldly the well-known form of words--
"If thou art of God, speak; if thou art from the Other, leave us in
peace."