Karl was conducted to Demotica, a little town some leagues from
Adrianople; a few of his suite were allowed to be with him and the rest
of the Swedes were kept in prison.
Through Poniatowski’s able negotiations the Sultan was apprised of the
King of Sweden’s side of the story, and the Grand Vizier Soliman was
dismissed, the Khan and Ismail Pasha banished.
But, despite the efforts of the French ambassador and various secret
friends whom Karl had in Constantinople, the Porte showed him no favor,
and so far from obtaining the succor of which he had dreamed he was
treated as a prisoner, and not allowed even to communicate with Ahmed.
Despite this, Karl, who had by no means so completely relinquished hope
of Turkish help as his friends had supposed, refused to return to
Sweden, preferring captivity to the humiliation of returning to his
realm a defeated and stripped fugitive.
The new vizier having sent for him to be present at a conference with
the French ambassador with a view to an alliance against Muscovy, the
King, deeply wounded in his pride, sent Müllern, and himself feigned
sickness, keeping himself for months enclosed in his chamber, so fearful
was he that the Turks might in some way force him to compromise his
dignity. He lived now in the simplest style, waited upon by his friends
Grothusen, Görtz, and Müllern, for he was without servants, such of
these as had survived the Bender fight being in prison, and without any
luxuries or even comforts, all his possessions having been burnt at
Varnitza, and the Porte now having ceased the princely generosity that
had rendered easy the first years of exile. The news that he received in
his confinement was of disaster upon disaster.
Sweden was attacked on all sides.
General Stenbock worthily filled the place of the King in defending his
country, and revenged the burning of Stade by reducing Altona to ashes;
but he could not long hold the field with such diminished forces against
such a powerful combination of enemies, and all the provinces of the
Baltic were lost to Sweden as well as most of her possessions in
Germany, and Stenbock was losing ground in Breme and Pomerania.
The Saxons, Danes, and Russians joined forces, advanced on
Holstein-Gottorp, the little duchy that had been the first cause of this
long quarrel; the Swedish army was destroyed, Stenbock made a prisoner,
the whole of Pomerania, with the exception of Stralsund, fell into the
hands of Russia, the Danes seized Breme, the Russians Finland, and Karl
remained at Demotica.
It was believed in Europe that he was dead; the Swedish senate implored
his sister to accept the regency; she did so, and wrote to her brother
that the councilors wished to make peace with their enemies who on every
side overwhelmed them.
Karl sent an imperious and haughty reply, saying he would send one of
his boots, if they wished for a master, and that they could take orders
from that.
In this extremity the Princess sent Count Liewin to Demotica to argue
with Karl.
This nobleman was conducted into the King’s presence by Count
Poniatowski, who had lately come from Constantinople, where he was
convinced he could do nothing more for the Swedish cause.
“You will find his Majesty changed--but not his inflexibility.”
To which Count Liewin made answer:
“If he does not return to Sweden, there is not one of us will answer for
the crown.”
Karl was shut in his chamber, away from the watchful eyes of his Turkish
guards that he found so hateful.
As he had now no domestics, Müllern and Grothusen waited on him, and
amused his dreary leisure by the reading of French poems and plays and
the tales from the sagas.
This life of confinement and idleness, together with the heart-sickness
of disappointment and hope deferred, had at last told on Karl’s superb
constitution as no fatigue or hardship had been able to; the sickness he
had so long feigned had now become almost a reality; the glory of his
strength had gone.
He had risen from his bed to receive Count Liewin and wore his old blue
uniform, black cravat, and top-boots; he was thin and pallid, the blue
eyes half-closed, his air languid and apathetic.
His face was beginning to be lined and shadowed; his fair hair was close
cropped and receding from the forehead; he was newly shaven and fresh in
his person, for he had to the full the Northern fastidiousness as to
cleanliness, but his habit was more than ever careless, and there was
not as much as a ring on his finger to show his rank.
Count Liewin, looking at him, thought he was different indeed to the
gallant youth who had left Stockholm fifteen years before, as indeed
Sweden was different to what she had been.
He went on one knee and kissed Karl’s passive hand.
“Sire,” he said, in a low voice, “all Europe thinks you are dead.”
Karl looked at him without answering.
“There is no one who can believe,” added Count Liewin, “that Sweden is
in such a pass and Karl XII still alive.”
These words seemed to move Karl, he colored and dropped his gaze.
“Tell me,” he said, “the news from Sweden.”
Count Liewin rose and faced the King mournfully.
“Madame Royale, your Majesty’s sister, will have told your Majesty of
the state of Swedish affairs,” he answered.
“She wrote to me as a woman and I replied to her as a King,” said Karl.
“Tell me now, Count Liewin, as one man to another.”
As he spoke he lifted his eyes and gazed at the envoy with his usual
coldness.
“Affairs are so bad at home,” responded Sweden’s envoy, “that the
instant return of your Majesty is begged for--nay, demanded.”
“Demanded!” cried the King. “Your senate gets out of hand, Count.”
He spoke harshly; in his misery he was as jealous of his authority as
ever he had been in his grandeur; he refused the senate any right to
interfere in affairs save by obeying his orders (forgetting that he was
the first king to make a free Sweden enslaved), and he had never
forgiven the regency for signing, four years ago, the treaty of
neutrality at The Hague.
Count Liewin, though respectful and even humble in demeanor, faced his
sovereign boldly.
“Sire, someone must conduct affairs--we have nothing from your Majesty.”
Karl ignored this.
“And you would make peace, my sister tells me,” he said sternly.
“Sire, we may be forced to take that course,” replied the Count.
“If you do,” returned Karl, “I shall never ratify it.”
“Sire, we are attacked on all sides----”
“Cannot you defend yourselves?”
“Sire, the country is empty of money, men, and all resources.”
He wished to add--“drained by your ruinous, useless wars,” but checked
himself.
Karl glanced towards the window-place where Müllern, Grothusen, and
Poniatowski were standing.
“You hear,” he said, “how poor-spirited they become at home.”
Count Liewin flushed.
“Call us desperate, sire!” he exclaimed.
Müllern and Grothusen were silent, out of pity and respect for the King,
but Poniatowski, out of his love, spoke.
“Sire, it would be better that you should return, for there is nothing
to be hoped from the Porte.”
At these words, coming from the man who had labored so long and
faithfully in his cause, who had intrigued for him with such tireless
energy, and always so eagerly supported the scheme of obtaining
assistance from the Porte, Karl started, and a look of reproach crossed
his face.
“Alas!” cried Poniatowski, “in my great loyalty to your Majesty, I must
speak the truth--the Swedish cause is lost in Constantinople.”
“And in Europe, it would seem,” said Karl, with much bitterness, as he
rose.
“No,” put in Count Liewin quickly, “Sweden only languishes for her
King.”
“I could not return,” said Karl dryly, “in this miserable estate. I have
no army.”
“Once your Majesty is present to hearten the people an army can be
raised.”
M. Müllern ventured now to speak.
“And not only your Majesty’s army, but your Majesty’s councils need your
presence.”
“So it would seem,” replied the King dryly, “since they talk of peace.”
“And they will make peace, sire,” said Count Liewin boldly, “unless your
Majesty returns.” Karl, standing now, overtopping all of them, eyed the
speaker with a rising anger.
But Count Liewin, who knew that the very existence of his country
depended on his firmness, stood his ground.
“Yes,” he continued, “if your Majesty does not return to defend us, we
have no resource but to throw ourselves on the mercy of our enemies.”
The King turned aside with a swelling heart; these enemies were those
who had attacked him fifteen years ago, those whom he had put under his
feet so splendidly and gloriously.
He thought now of Count Piper, if, instead of acting according to his
code of chivalry and justice, and refusing any advantage to himself from
his victories, he had taken the political advantage of his success that
his minister had wished him to, if he had refrained from the mad
enterprise of endeavoring to dethrone the Czar, if he had never
undertaken the reckless expedition into the Ukraine, the results of
Narva would not have proved such Dead Sea fruits, nor he and his country
be in such peril now.
“If Count Piper had been alive he would have smiled at me now,” remarked
the King to Grothusen.
“Sire! He has been very loyal to your Majesty.”
Karl smiled; he had never been deceived in those about him.
“If Piper had had the power he would have thwarted me in all I did,
Grothusen.”
He walked up and down the narrow chamber with a languid step, for he was
sick in mind and body.
“See how many there are to persuade me against my honor!” he exclaimed.
It galled him beyond words that he must return to his kingdom a fugitive
and a beggar when his had been the most renowned name in Europe.
The miseries of Sweden were as nothing in his eyes compared to the
affront offered to his pride in this proposed return under present
conditions.
“Look you, Count Liewin,” he said abruptly, pausing in his walk, “I am
without even the money for the journey--Grothusen will tell you how much
I am in debt.”
“We could raise more money in Constantinople,” said Grothusen quickly.
“For my part I do perceive that this return of yours is imperative,
sire.”
The King gave his friend a strange look.
“Grothusen, do you recall a little dog I had, named Pompey, that died in
Saxony? I thought you loved me well, but now I perceive that no one
loved ever as did that beast--he never sought to turn me from my will!”
“Sire!” cried Count Liewin desperately, “does your Majesty mean that you
will not return to Sweden?”
“Aye,” replied Karl, “we will return, Count, we will return!”
He seated himself wearily, rested his arm on his crossed legs, and
shaded his bent face with his hand.
M. Müllern signed to Count Liewin that the audience was ended; he and
Poniatowski conducted the envoy from the chamber, leaving the King alone
with M. Grothusen.
For a while Karl sat motionless, so uniformly cold and reserved was he,
even with his intimates (and those few now with him had become of a
necessity very intimate in this close, prison-like life), that this man
with him now, his nearest friend, expected no confidence from him, even
at this moment. But for once the inflexible pride of Karl gave way to
the despair in his heart.
“Oh, Grothusen!” he cried, “how differently I dreamed it all!”
“Sire!” answered Grothusen, profoundly moved, he could say no more; the
King was not to be deceived by trite comfort, and his friend knew of no
real consolation.
“Peter Alexievitch has all I had--all I want!” continued Karl, in a
terrible, broken voice. “The cunning Muscovite! Had I been a well man at
Poltava I had broken him as he broke me!”
He rose, clapping his hand down on his sword-hilt, a fury in his blue
eyes.
“But as it is, he wins--he has my provinces, my seas, my commerce, my
people as his slaves, my generals as his prisoners--_he_ wins, that
drunken savage, Grothusen.”
“He too may meet his Poltava,” said Grothusen fiercely.
The King gave a short laugh, with an effort controlling his rare
passion.
“Could we decide it face to face, man to man, I should have no fear of
the issue, ruined as I am,” he said, looking down at his sword arm, “for
he is very sick, Grothusen, and worn out by many vices. He has a camp
follower for his wife, an idiot, rebellious son--after all, I would not
be the Czar of Russia.”
Then with an effort to put so bitter a subject from his mind he turned
sharply to his friend.
“How much money do we owe?” he asked.
Grothusen named a sum that sounded large even to the King’s prodigality,
but he had always been utterly reckless of money, had refused even to
glance at accounts, and had encouraged his followers to be the same.
These were all sums of money owing to the French ambassadors to the
Porte, Thomas Cook, and other English, and Jews of Constantinople, to M.
La Motraye, the French gentleman of Bender, besides to all the members
of his suite.
Karl chafed at all this like a lion tickled with straws.
“We must have more money,” he said impatiently. “Pay these usurers cent
for cent--get it, somehow. I must send an embassy to the Porte to say
farewell. You must go, Grothusen, and with some magnificence.
Poniatowski thinks the Sultan might lend money if he will not lend an
army.”
“Your Majesty is resolved to return then?” asked the courtier, some hope
springing in his heart at the thought of this dreary exile at length
coming to an end.
“What else can I do,” returned the King, “when they break my authority
in my absence?”
He made no reference to the wretched condition of his unhappy country
and Grothusen knew that he never would; if he cared in the least for
Sweden, or regarded her merely as the arsenal from which to take his
weapons of war, it was impossible to tell, but he always showed an
unconcern amounting to indifference to all that concerned the true
welfare of his subjects.
“Grothusen,” he said suddenly, “the son of Aurora von Königsmarck was at
the battle of Stade, was he not?”
“Yes, sire,” replied Grothusen, wondering at this change of subject, “a
brilliant lad, they say.”
“His mother defied me once,” remarked Karl, with his ugly smile. “She
was a surprising woman--what happened to her?”
“I do not know, sire--she left the Elector years ago.”
“If she is alive,” said Karl grimly, “she will be pleased to hear of my
present state.”
Grothusen looked startled and bewildered, but the King said no more; he
was thinking, irrelevantly, of John Rheinhold Patkul.
The execution of this man, his one barbarity, was the sole fruit of his
victories--the only thing that he had achieved and that no one could
take away from him; the might of the Czar and all his allies could not
put together the broken bones of Patkul.
Karl moved abruptly, checking his line of thought.
“Well,” he said, “let us make our preparations to return home.”