1

This spring Stockholm seems unable to awaken from its winter lethargy. No birds have appeared yet, let alone flowers or butterflies, and the trees are still bare. You could even say the days are finding it difficult to grow longer after such a harsh winter as befell these blessed septentrional lands. Night is falling in Stortorget Square at the heart of the city. Even though it’s not past five in the afternoon, the yellow ochre colour of the whole district is losing its intensity and, in a few minutes, will be as pale as the waters flowing under the bridges, as grey as the waters that have just passed, as cold as the waters that right now are rushing towards the sea and in a moment will have merged with it. In a scene comprising such a withered landscape, with the cold air beating against the faces of passers-by, there is no way for thoughts to be anything other than gloomy. ‘We will never see the waters of this same river go by again.’ For Stortorget is a square between bridges and, on top of that, a sad square linked to life’s violence. Even though there’s no monument to record such an event, in another time Stortorget was the scene of a crime, which the population of Stockholm termed a ‘bloodbath’. In November 1520 the Danish king, Christian II, laid siege to the Swedish regent, Sten Sture the Younger, forcing him to capitulate and the Swedes to accept him as king. He promised them an amnesty and organized a magnificent banquet lasting three days in Tre Kronor castle. Having laughed and drunk, danced, sighed, toasted, sworn, having loved, dozed, drunk and feasted again, embraced, in short having enjoyed the good fortune of being alive, on the third day, as the festivities were drawing to a close, all the participants were arrested, accused of heresy. The following morning, more than eighty citizens, mostly nobles, were beheaded in this square, forever afterwards a square of pain and wounded pride. And yet today no blood flows down Stockholm’s canals, even though the incident can still be felt in the suspicion with which Swedes view outsiders. ‘We will never bathe in these same waters because the crossing already took place.’ These thoughts are not in the landscape, they originate from a human head casting a long shadow over the waters. No, in truth it is the whole figure, tall and slim, casting that elongated silhouette, the head itself is only a small part of this Chinese shadow, the least representative part perhaps because, the way the light is positioned at the moment, it is the lower section of the body that is emphasized and enlarged by dusk’s image. The human figure rests its hands on the parapet of one of the bridges, it doesn’t matter right now which one. The hands, which are thin, with elongated fingers, cannot be seen since they are wrapped in gloves. Without a clue from the hands, it is difficult to detect whether this is a man or a woman. The figure is wearing thick, ample clothes, which are rich and well cut, though not ostentatious. There are no frills or flounces on the lower edge of its costume to say this is a woman; nor is there a moustache or beard, breeches over boots, a feathered hat, to say this is a man. They could be young, not old, nor a boy or girl, nor a face of a different skin colour, from another country. The person leaning on the bridge, watching the waters, thinks, ‘Why is it we never realize the waters are passing until we see them singing on stones a step below the level where we find ourselves unable to grasp them?’ With such thoughts, it could be said this is a man, since the head of a woman is known to be more suitable for adornments than thoughts, especially thoughts as serious and deep as these. The human figure leaning on the parapet of the bridge is a sad person. Or, if you prefer, a person, who is sad. That is all that can be said of them. Apart from the fact they are wearing a black, woollen cloak down to their feet with a hood pulled over their head. Just like a friar. And yet anyone observing this figure will know it can’t be a friar. The clothes are not reminiscent of poverty, the look is far too rebellious to countenance obedience and… well, about chastity it is better to keep quiet in times like these when there are so many lechers leading exemplary lives… and chaste people being seen to. In any case, these lips, the lips of this human figure leaning on the parapet of the bridge in Stortorget, are extremely arrogant and hardly seem made to be eaten by worms before they’ve been a storm, nest, cave, before they’ve been sought and received. Apart from this, the face is balanced, not exactly beautiful or ugly, any adjective would have to be applied without excess, pure containment, high cheekbones and a protruding nose. The eyes cannot be judged since the hooded cloak, while not covering them directly, prevents them from being clearly seen, lending them a mysterious appearance. The human figure, alone like this, on the bridge, could be that of a Knight Templar recently arrived from Jerusalem in possession of the most treasured of secrets. It could also be that of a defendant recently escaped from prison. Or – why not? – that of an artist seeking inspiration in these waters flowing and chasing each other without ever being caught. The human figure on the bridge could belong to many, different characters and it is precisely this resistance to being labelled that would annoy an onlooker. Because if someone sees, for example, a young woman with two children clinging to her skirt, then they know this is a mother hurrying across the square to reach the safety of her home before it grows cold. But a figure like this one, on view today in Stortorget, is indefinable, independent, and that is what makes it troublesome. The figure, as if feeling shunned by passers-by, who are few and far between at this hour, turns around and starts walking. Its movements lend a certain distinction to its bearing. This elegant, stylized figure is not going to leave Stadsholmen, the largest island in Gamla Stan, and, having wandered a little down its old alleyways, suddenly, as if impelled by a spring, turns back on itself and marches confidently in the direction of Tre Kronor castle, home at the time to the Swedish monarchs. For the figure watching the sad flow of the waters is not a man, but a woman; is not old, but young; isn’t just another human figure, but the real Queen of Sweden. What is she doing here alone? At such an hour? Is she crazy perhaps?… She is. Her name is Christina.

2

From Hélène Jans’ Book of Women

Herb known as common yarrow, old man’s pepper, devil’s nettle

or soldier’s woundwort (Achillea millefolium)

A modest herb, the heads of its flowers small and white, pink or lilac, which find you might in certain meadows, on hill-tops or inside forests. Gather that part of the stem which is not yet wood as far as the flower and dry the stalks in a dark corner. Some people pound them until distilling a bluish oil from them, but I myself prefer to make of them an infusion. You may give them to children to control their diarrhoea and, in larger quantities, should you wish to relieve a woman of her pains. To prepare an infusion, take two spoonfuls of yarrow for each cup of water and drink it on the same day, since it will not preserve its healing properties until the following day, the sun’s rays having corrupted it, as they do everything else. Careful you should be not to take it in large doses or for long periods of time, since whoever does so will end up dreaming of freedom and feeling a constant temptation to fly. It can also be used to make compresses with which to cure festering wounds or to wash a woman’s private parts. On two occasions, I have endeavoured to use these compresses to wash hands that bear the cracks of daily toil. The wounds heal quickly, though, since it is not the ill itself that has been treated, but only the symptoms, they will never fail to reappear. Such usage is to be recommended, but not overly enthusiastically, since nobody should be persuaded to believe in miracle cures.

3

Why did everyone tell her that life carried on? Why did they insist on consoling her, when it was not consolation she wished for? Her pain would never cease, nor did she want it to cease, since death was not an insignificant episode she must keep herself away from, at a safe distance. On the contrary, like a barge being moved by the waters, she found herself at sea in death, albeit this was his death, and not hers. That said, even though she instinctively rejected the consolation of others, she was glad that spring was late this year! If there was something she did not wish to see, it was all those beautiful crocuses, yellow and pink, violet, red and orange, slowly appearing and cloaking the land in colours, that same land that would be feeding on his body and would carry on doing so until not a trace of the man was left, until there was no other sign of his passage through the world than the memories of those who had known him… or a pile of papers on which had been written his thoughts. ‘By his own hand,’ she thought. Which is why today she was writing, in order to leave a record of his presence. Or otherwise because she, Christina, could do nothing other than write. As she always had done. Especially now that her pain would not let her even sleep at night, let alone talk, govern or laugh. She liked to write, it was obvious, though it was not so much a question of taste as of a natural inclination she did not have it in her to modify. That said, whenever anyone wishes to cook, nobody asks them if they do so in order to improve the diet of their family, to boast in polite company or simply to indulge their own appetite. They like to do so, and that’s it. No more or less. No need to question it. The same thing happened to her with writing, exactly the same. She was incapable of subverting a blind force that drove her towards the pen, as others are driven towards other pleasures. But writing… writing was something else. Especially when you were a woman. And, on top of that, a queen. And, worse still, a young, marriageable queen. ‘Mais vous écrivez, c’est merveilleux, ça!’ her courtiers would say, and she immediately knew that so much encouragement could only proceed from an energetic, open and absolute disapproval. Did the queen have nothing better to do than write? Christina smiled bitterly when she thought of the others’ disapproval, since, though she seemed distant, she really wanted everybody to acclaim her, as they did whenever she appeared on the balcony of Tre Kronor, but she wanted them to acclaim her, the real Christina, not that symbol of power she carried around with her… Christina was in need of sincerity. And sincerity was not a herb that sprung up in her surroundings. Her people had respect for her, perhaps even love, but as someone who was cold and distant, and she had learned to be as the five senators to whom her education had been entrusted had taught her. The country was not going through one of its best moments. When in 1611 her father, Gustavus Adolphus, may he rest in peace, had come to power, Sweden was at war with Russia, Poland and Denmark. Then, during his reign, the country had acquired influence around the Baltic, while Stockholm had transformed into a beautiful city. ‘Beautiful… and political,’ thought Christina. And yet in 1630, twenty years earlier, the magnanimous and not highly enough praised Gustavus Adolphus had decided to intervene in the accursed Thirty Years’ War on the side of the Protestants, using religion as his pretext. Sweden had achieved various military successes, but had paid a high price in an expensive and exhausting conflict. In 1632, at the bloody Battle of Lützen, the king had lost his life and she, his six-year-old daughter, had ascended a throne from which her royal doll’s feet could barely touch the ground. Perhaps for this reason she had never been able to touch the ground as queen. She was always lost among papers, always circumventing courtly intrigues, there being so many dogs running free in the palace which might at any time snap at her fingers. She reigned by thinking, learning and studying. And while many considered her the most proficient of those who had ever been at Sweden’s helm, there was constant criticism. On account of trifles or more serious things. A couple of years earlier, she had been acclaimed as the architect who had fostered and signed peace, and yet, in recent months, public opinion had held against her the fact she had spent all the money which the Circles of the Empire had been obliged to pay to contain the troops after Westphalia. Where had all this money gone? Not on dances, or processions, or palaces, or banquets, or jewels, or fabrics, or anything else that might be considered to parade Sweden’s greatness, after all she had been supreme figure in the kingdom for seventeen years, six of them reigning, not a short period of time, when she finally got around to organizing her first celebration after ascending the throne. Oh no, she had wasted all that money on buying strange books and inviting academics to court. Heavens above! Of the many misfortunes that can threaten a country, not least among them is for the queen to be wise! She did not enjoy being bandied about on people’s lips. She would have preferred to be allowed, freely and peacefully, to throw herself off the bridge and let the waters, which are never the same, bathe her, cleanse her soul, stroke her hair. The waters happily descending, which she watched from the bridges of Stortorget, could wash and take her… But no, she was not a fool. She did not want to die. Even though he would never return. Even though it was so difficult now to distinguish hot from cold. Even though pleasure was no longer attractive, or pain so overwhelming, pain having turned soporific like a drug… Even though there was nobody at all who could understand a young queen being in love with a philosopher who was neither handsome, nor young, nor rich, nor condescending, nor courtly, nor well-mannered, nor Swedish, nor Protestant… who was dead and who, to cap it all, had never touched a single hair of her clothes even when he was alive.

4

From Hélène Jans’ Book of Women

Herb known as lady’s mantle (Alchemilla xanthochlora)

The one called lady’s mantle is a herb rather than a plant, with powerful roots, and supports a small rose with earthly leaves where a drop of rainwater or dew may take shelter. Should you find such a drop, you must make the best use of it, since it has truly magical properties. No more than five drops are sufficient to restore strength that has been weakened by the loss of a loved one. In addition, all those who drink such drops on a regular basis will be vehement, determined, certain in their actions and words, and tremendously vigorous. Even though you do not find such a magical drop, do not cast aside lady’s mantle, since it is a good plant and has healthy effects, some of which I shall describe here, but not all, preferring to keep something in reserve, since it is not fitting to be left without energy or anything to say, like those who reveal everything that crosses their minds, silence also being a good teacher. The leaves of lady’s mantle should be collected in fine weather and dried in the shade, though it is not necessary for the darkness to be complete. Then infusions can be made by adding four spoonfuls for every cup of boiling water. After the infusion has had sufficient time to brew, it can be used for the relief of cramp or the stimulation of the kidneys. Pregnant women should take up to three cups a day during the four weeks prior to giving birth, since it makes the process easier, lady’s mantle softening the flesh and lending time a helping hand. And as extract of lady’s mantle which has been dried and ground favours sweat and the exchange of fluids, I am going to use it with those suffering from apathy, indecision or a lack of vigour, illnesses more commonly found among men than women, since the former do not exchange fluids with nature as women do each month. For sufferers of apathy, it is also possible to try mixing one part of wild rose, two parts of hibiscus, a pinch of bitter orange peel which has been grated, a few elderberries and a handful of mint. This infusion should be taken willingly, sweetened with honey, and its aroma can be enjoyed as much as its taste, since it is through all the senses that we receive the desire to live and to overcome affliction.

5

Eija-Liisa entered the queen’s personal chamber, which consisted of two adjoining rooms, a bedroom and a small study, both decorated soberly, almost abandoned. ‘It looks like a monk’s cell. Ah, if only this was mine!’ And even though Eija-Liisa was quite used to passing through this private wing of the palace, she couldn’t help imagining what it would all be like if she were queen. She would spare no expense or effort in order to fill everything with beauty, purples and brocades, lace, small figures, rich curtains, flounces, insertions, paintings, tapestries, low tables crammed with oh-would-you-look-at-all-those-clever-trinkets, fans, feathers, musical instruments, refinements, colours, shapes, which strategically situated would suggest the pleasure that the enjoyment of beauty entails, as well as pointing to the natural elegance of whoever paid for and arranged things in such a way. There was not a single detail to indicate that the queen had either good taste or bad. Not even the old king, according to the more aged servants, devoted less attention to his household than his daughter, who had been educated as a boy and behaved like one as well. Eija-Liisa sighed. The queen was watching her, so she spoke before being reprimanded:

         ‘Do you need anything, madam?’

         ‘No, I didn’t send for you.’

         ‘I know, but… now that you’re back… I saw you walking in the square from the look-out upstairs and thought you might perhaps wish for some company tonight.’

         ‘No, Eija-Liisa, I don’t need anything.’ Christina’s voice had just delayed spring for a little longer. It would be difficult for Stockholm to blossom again after such a layer of ice.

         ‘Well, I could always wait here and then later…’

         ‘I won’t be needing you later either.’ Were the conversation to carry on like this, the flowers would decide never again to see the light.

         ‘Madam, I wanted to talk to you. In another time…’

         ‘In another time, the world was different. You know? We shall never bathe in the same waters twice.’ Christina raised her hand in a gesture of authority that cut short any attempt on Eija-Liisa’s part to protest. ‘Stop there. If I need you, I will send for you. I’m trying to write, so would be grateful if you wouldn’t abuse the confidence we once shared. I do not like to be disturbed when I’m writing.’ Her eyes went back to controlling her hand, which in turn directed the pen…

         ‘Yes, madam.’ Eija-Liisa curtsied slightly, as if in obeisance. Something flicked across her mind and, on a sudden impulse, she went over to the queen and kissed her ardently on the lips. Christina barely responded. The kiss did not affect her or touch her even. One might say it left her indifferent and, as her companion went out, she plunged back into her writing.

6

From Hélène Jans’ Book of Women

Recipe for not moving

Should you wish to provide a cure for women in the habit of miscarrying, you will do so in this way: when the suspicion arises that the woman might be pregnant, smear turpentine over the eyes above the kidneys, let it be ever so fine. And prepare powders of fat and mastic, dragon blood, and red coral which stops the flow of menses and sperm, and corrects a woman’s white purgations. Add all of these things in equal parts. And having smeared the turpentine, shower her with it all over. And let it flake off of its own accord. At the time in which she is accustomed to miscarry, apply the remedy again, fifteen or twenty days before, since it is very effective, and I could say that with this remedy I have attended the birth of creatures who could have had at least fifteen siblings, so often have their mothers miscarried. And while mastic and dragon blood may be used by witches, do not be afraid, since this is only one of many understandings about the human body. Many of those called witches are only women who have lost their wealth or been abandoned, most of them old, who devote themselves to alleviating the pains of others, which is why they are pursued or executed by those unwilling to accept that pain, however natural it might be, is not a good thing and turns a human being into a beast, the relief of which is an art and knowledge. Does the religion of Jesus not command us to take pity on the hungry and thirsty, on the poor and naked? How much more then should we pity the one who suffers? And I shall say no more on this, since I wish to remain free of suspicion and healthy.

7

Walking down the alleyways of Gamla Stan, one quickly perceives the opinion the Swedes have of their queen, ‘She’ll make do with grocery boys as much as pretty girls’, and a guffaw cuts the air. This opinion, however, is not just, nor is it a question of what she’ll make do with or not, but rather a question of what she likes or doesn’t. In this respect, there would be plenty to talk about, since she doesn’t like men and women the same, she likes them different. As she also likes some men differently from others and some women differently from others. The queen leads a rather promiscuous life. One might say she leads the life of a poor rich girl, since rich girls cure the ills that wealth appears to produce by turning licentious. But all this no longer matters. It doesn’t matter that the Swedish people simultaneously love and hate her, it being the duty of any monarch to receive such contradictory sentiments and accept them. In fact, there are few things that can matter now, since she has been invaded by a warm sense of nostalgia. First of all, she wept for the death of her friend, then for several days she entered a state of tense calm, as if nothing had happened. She may have been expecting to see him enter the room where they used to converse and she went so far as to include an audience with him in her schedule for the following day. She refused, a simple act of power, to let death beat her without putting up a fight. Not this time, this time was important. But as the days went by without him, she had to resign herself and accept that nothing would ever be the same again. After that, Christina decamped to a distant place called melancholia, which was probably several leagues away from Stockholm. One might say she was not there, in body or soul, when she was called for. She allowed herself to be carried along by the waters of destiny, desperate that she could not be desperate, that her character and royal education did not permit her to pull her hair, scratch out her eyes, tear her flesh, uproot trees and perform other miracles which would serve to make her grief notorious. She moved into the house of sadness and almost nothing was left of that exuberant Christina who amused her subjects with salacious stories about the many, varied visits she received in her four-poster bed. Not now. Now her womb was cold ground and no sun would ever make her tremble with desire. So the Swedes might as well stop lolling their tongues, it was no longer a question of grocery boys or pretty girls – unless that was what they wanted? And by the by the truth in this matter, as always, veered off in several directions, the story was never as superficial as it seemed, there was another level. Apparently, when Christina was still a girl, the ladies of her court had played a daring trick on her, a common trick in palaces such as hers, palaces belonging to all-powerful monarchs driven by adolescence. They hired some pedlars on their way through Stockholm to perform a rather unusual service. The two of them, man and woman, both young and attractive, a glorious sight, were to lie together in one of the palace rooms while the ladies, who were also young and fair, though less experienced, destined to keep the door of their skin intact for the husband who bought them, watched on from an adjoining chamber, through peepholes which were not that small, made in the wall probably for another purpose, if not better, at least easier to justify. The pedlars agreed. And the young ladies, Christina included, were able to see, or at least glimpse, that in such circumstances it is normal for there to be plenty of shoves. ‘Hey, get out of the way, it’s my turn,’ palatine courtesy in some cases goes by the board, as I was saying, they were able to see how the man covered his companion, tense muscles, inflamed mouth, the dark shadow of hair, desire written on features, the aggressive curvature of his member. ‘What’s that then?’ ‘Oh, come on, don’t tell me you don’t know!’ Meanwhile the naked man was undressed seven times, as many as there were ladies watching, were he asked, he could easily say he’d been with seven different women that evening, in a way at least, while… Christina becomes obsessed with the gypsy girl. Her black locks splayed on the pillow, her face bore a cheeky, provocative expression, her breasts, round and large as balls, invited caresses. A few moments later, when the man reached his climax, it was as if someone had beaten him with a whip, he fell down defeated and the game quickly came to an end. The ladies covered their peepholes, all except Christina, who was incapable of forgetting the hot, swarthy gypsy girl, being so cold and fair herself… the gypsy girl, pure provocation, who moved her ankle bracelets in time to the rhythm, everything turned into music, and through fleshy lips emitted savage screams: the image of her loud, laughing pleasure drove Christina out of her wits.

         In effect, were we to walk down the alleyways of Gamla Stan, we might get the wrong idea about the queen. Her subjects are particularly fond of telling stories that might never have happened. And this serious, studious, deep, imaginative woman has bigger problems than to decide who she’s next going to take a tumble with. First of all, the death of the philosopher, who, according to hearsay, never went to bed with her, but who, for this very reason perhaps, created a fascination in her. Yes, a fascination that bordered on the intellectual, when it comes to human attraction there is a great deal of variety and there are those who, having aired half of Stockholm, come to rest in dry dock, so to speak, meaning in a platonic relationship. Christina’s second problem, no smaller than the first, is what lies ahead. The best informed sources in the palace claim that the General Assembly of States, Sweden’s highest governing body, is going to ask, this is how they express themselves, though ‘ask’ is more or less the same as ‘demand’, is going to ask Her Majesty the Queen, Christina, daughter of Gustavus Adolphus, sadly fallen in battle, queen of ours since the year 1633, that she get married. That she get married, as simple as that, that she marry, for God’s sake, get married, enter into holy matrimony, in order to see if, by getting married, her uterine fury calms down and, first and foremost, to secure the stability and union of the crown in the future. She has had enough fun, the business of a queen is to reign, which includes giving birth to new monarchs, not to have fun, nor to experience forbidden sensations, and certainly not to study or write. There’s sin in writing too, you know? Which is why today Christina cannot stop. Her friend died almost three months ago, the one who wasn’t as intimate as she would have liked, and on his account she is drawn to melancholia. But she cannot go there. She is not allowed to be sad. Being a queen is not altogether easy… Christina is horrified. Because they want to make her belong to a man, to turn her into a possession, a womb for reproduction. And she cannot do that. Be it for the Crown of Sweden or the memory of her father, for whatever reason, she has spent the last ten years promising herself that she will never be a mother. And she won’t change her mind. When she wonders what he would say, were he alive, she discovers that the philosopher would think she was right. She doesn’t want to be a mother and considers there must be a reason why she is strange, with many lovers and not very restrained, as would befit the queen of a Lutheran nation. She thinks she doesn’t want to be a mother because she is different. And yet were somebody to study her closely, were there psychologists in the court at Stockholm who undertook royal therapy, they would find that she still sighed and wept and observed mourning for something that had happened ten years earlier. The problem is that psychologists have yet to be invented. And if we are relating such an episode here, it is not so that we can tell ugly stories about the lives of others, everybody goes through this valley of tears as best they can and, just because you’d say ‘I shall never drink of this water’, it doesn’t mean that you should fill yourself with the misfortunes of others or go about spreading vile rumours. The reason we have taken it upon ourselves to discuss this little matter, this petite affaire, as the more conceited would say, there being plenty of those in the court at Stockholm, is because many believe this incident was key in Christina’s impetuous decision not to be a mother, even though her eyes followed after any child who happened to be passing, an extreme that, if confirmed, would be only natural.

         The point is that in the spring of 1640 Christina’s mother, Maria Eleonora of Brandenburg, maiden name Hohenzollern, resolved to quit Sweden. She had nothing to do there, though it might be said in her defence that the life of a decorative widow at court is not exactly exciting, there being nothing to set one’s mind to, not even needlework, the viola, harp, books of chivalry, or a passing interest in politics. And with your prayer book in your hand all day long, you’re not going anywhere, especially if you happen to be a young, widowed queen and the bumpkins at court will insist on not filling your ears with sweet nothings out of respect for the late king, who, if he wasn’t exactly a prize lover when alive, still manages to frighten off the blowflies when dead, the exact opposite of what the widow wanted. She resolved to escape, to slip off unnoticed. And she might have turned into chimney smoke, or steam from a pot of broth, or morning dew, and vanished into thin air, as in a real Scandinavian saga, such was the intensity of her wish to abscond, were it not for the twists and turns of history, which gave her an admittedly secondary, miserable role in the chronicles of Sweden. What the poor queen didn’t realize was that she’d become bait, the history of courtly love, which is reserved for the noble class and necessarily adulterous so that it might at the same time be pure and disinterested, must have been an invention of males to seduce married women who had not allowed themselves to be seduced as young maidens. Eleonora, some time before, had fallen in love not so much with a man as with a handful of letters which arrived in the utmost secrecy from the neighbouring rival Denmark. She felt how each letter gave her hope, each line made her younger, and she deduced that her figure, which was still more than presentable, together with her fame as an intelligent speaker, had encouraged the Danish king Christian IV to prefer her over any of the ladies on offer in Copenhagen, without stopping to consider whether this little king might be concealing annexationist impulses, since men always seem to be thinking about the same thing when suddenly they surprise one with that business about power and glory. And she began to dream of the best way to escape her cage and fall into the arms of the king. ‘Do you think he’s handsome?’ ‘Ah, madam, how could he not be handsome, being the king?’ ‘And will he be courteous and affectionate?’ ‘Given what he says in all those letters, how could he not be?’ Toying with their secret, Eleonora and her ladies indulged themselves in the excellencies of the unknown Denmark, a perfect haven for lovers, as it said in the inflamed royal correspondence. They decorously fluttered their eyelashes, feeling utterly ashamed of all the things they came up with on their own – ah, what a bevy of ladies! – all of them to do with the way lovers in Denmark behaved. And while waiting for the best moment to escape, they decided it was better that the daughter didn’t know. ‘Given how fussy and rigid she is!’ ‘Besides she would hardly understand, she’s still too young!’ ‘And a bit butch, if you ask me.’ ‘Anne, please, you’re talking about your queen!’ ‘Excuse me, madam, it’s just how she seems.’ ‘Yes, you’re right, she is a bit butch…’ When the opportune moment arrived, the widowed queen, feeling like a single queen at last, having for years been relentlessly pursued down palace corridors by the shadow of her late husband, giving her humid nights and tumultuous dreams, asked if she and some of her ladies could move to another wing, with the excuse that they wanted to fast for several days. Permission granted, the keepers of royal honour understood in time that there was direct access from this wing to the garden, but never imagined that there could be any harm in a breath of fresh air. Until one night Eleonora fluttered across the garden like a butterfly. On the other side, a carriage with the Danish coat of arms hidden behind curtains was waiting and, without anybody seeing, it swept her down the road to Nyköping. There she embarked for the island of Gotland, where two warships – the Danes not hanging about when it came to showing the world what a woman’s honour was worth – escorted her to freedom, freedom, needless to say, bearing the name of Copenhagen.

         Christina, contained, icy, sober, well educated, calm, Christina, the queen with plaits, without breasts, in a short suit that revealed her legs, Christina, the fugitive’s offspring, wept, shouted, threatened, spat, roared, snorted and for several nights wet her bed. Christina didn’t understand, didn’t ask, didn’t pardon. When she learned about the incident, what many called the affaire, she was playing with her rag doll and dreaming of becoming the mother of thirty children, not knowing – ah, who can enlighten a queen? – how they were made, nor that having thirty children meant being torn thirty times, weeping, lamenting having been born, as well as having one’s graceful silhouette turned into a large balloon for a total of two hundred and seventy months. When she learned about the incident, what the more ironic courtiers would call the affaire, she tossed the doll to one side and immediately those around her saw that she was dry, astonished, amazed, stupefied, finished. Because, being a queen, who is Christina going to ask what the young, widowed queen, her mother, was lacking? How can a queen dressed in ankle socks ever imagine that her mother sought words of passion which were not to be found in the court of the hero wounded in battle? Christina, finished, upset, furious, vengeful, spent three years persuading the great men, the five senators, the Assembly of States, the highest power of the country she only symbolized, she was too young to wield, apart from being too butch in appearance, that it was only proper and right the queen and her lover be punished. Finally, in 1643, Christina’s eyes glowed with the heat of revenge when she managed, with all the solemnity required, to have Sweden declare war on Denmark for the insult committed against the memory of Gustavus the Great, which contravened the respect due to the Queen, her daughter, the illustrious body of Senators of the Kingdom and the Royal House of Brandenburg in its entirety. If she did this, it wasn’t because she was strict, or pious, or respectful towards her family, or protective towards the dignity of the crown, or wicked, or conceited. If she did this, it was because she couldn’t accept that her mother hadn’t shared her secret.

         Needless to say, Christina’s anger had to be contained. A year later, she managed to rid herself of the regents when she came of age and fully assumed the role history had given her. Though, for things to go well, she was forced to sign the Treaty of Brömsebro, according to which Sweden and Denmark became friends again. Sweden made the most of the royal anger, the appeasement of monarchs, as of gods, requiring whatever is done in bed to be paid for in gold. And yet, sticking to our story, we shall say that from 1643 onwards the queen, who no longer wore ankle socks or a short suit, who now had breasts and had mastered the sideways glance, decided that she wasn’t going to abide by any of the rules of monarchical life. And she enjoyed the intimacy of her ladies, who instructed her in forbidden games, even if her mother had thought that frolicking in the bedchamber wouldn’t suit her. And she also enjoyed, let it be said, the fact that in the palace there were chamberlains, accountants, officials, leasing agents, scribes, secretaries, councillors, masters of dancing, masters of French, masters of any art under the sun, players of instruments, no pun intended, such as the viola or harp, when it comes to playing on others, there are some real artists, all of whom are gentlemen, so they could reveal what it is they have that makes them so interesting. Which is to say nothing of the menservants, gardeners, stable boys, cooks, who, while not possessing the elegance or affected manners of the others, do possess the same attributes that make them so interesting, never was a democracy so well served as in these matters. In short, Christina celebrated the fact that a queen is also a woman, like others… No, not like others, because Christina promised she would never have children herself, so she wouldn’t let them down, disappoint them, insult them, deny them, so she wouldn’t do what her own mother had done to her on the day she decided not to reveal her secret.

8

From Hélène Jans’ Book of Women

Plant known as motherwort (Leonurus cardiaca)

A plant with a rough stalk, oval leaves and pink flowers. It is agrestic and sylvatic, not at all desirous of keeping company with domestic crops, like those who receive a hard knock during childhood and are never able thereafter to fully trust those around them. It has to be picked whole and dried in the shade. The infusion, made with one spoonful per cup, should be taken twice a day to relieve a woman’s nervous disorders: headaches, excessive appetite, the sensation of anxiety, palpitations when they are exaggerated, and bad dreams. It is exceedingly bitter, but if its acidity is eliminated by being sweetened with honey, as I have seen it done, it will no longer banish bad dreams, though it may still combat the other illnesses. That said, there may be other, better remedies for these.

9

When the philosopher arrived in Stockholm, it wasn’t by chance, since she herself, the queen in person, had invited him to come. She had first become acquainted with his works, since he wasn’t exactly a nobody of slippery presence. And the works that reached her royal hands were pleasing and made her whisper slowly, ‘Now why would he say that? How can he dare say such a thing?’ And that was enough, since everyone knows that curiosity is the first cloak of Love. So it was, for the queen had never read anybody so convinced that they could change the direction of the universe with words and challenge the authorities, a person who wasn’t always quoting other famous names. She liked this. She liked the fact he was so daring, so solid, so sure of himself. She enjoyed Dioptrics, The Meteors and Geometry, she even enjoyed the introduction, though that nonsense in Book IV pleased her rather less, since it seemed to her not to sit very well with the rest of the discourse, it was all so scientific, in particular the part in which he suggested, given that he, the philosopher, could think of perfections which were not inside him, since they were foreign to human nature, and given that such perfections had to originate from somewhere, then God must exist. Christina rather thought this forced reasoning concerning the existence of a supreme being could only be because he was trying not to fall foul of the most illustrious doctors in theology of the faculty in Paris… Unless, that is, and here she laughed to herself maliciously, the philosopher was waiting for someone in the audience to exclaim, ‘What do you mean, without perfections, if you possess them all?’ And there never could have been such a blessed fool in all the world or, if there was, he existed only in order to arouse the curiosity of a queen. But curiosity, Love’s cloak, is treacherous, since she immediately wished to find out what someone who expressed themselves in such terms had to teach her. She wanted to discover the tone of his voice, and how he fared in the verbal sparring that took place at court. And she wondered about the colour of his eyes, the nobility of his soul, the shape of his hands, how he resisted suffering, though, unfortunately for the philosopher, Christina wasn’t very good at distinguishing between what the soul does and the body dreams – or is it the other way around? Well, however that may be, Christina could bear it no longer, patience not being one of her virtues, the austere, puritanical education she had received being the education of a queen who had not been taught to wait long before attaining her caprice. One of her courtiers was the French diplomat Monsieur Chanut, a known correspondent of the philosopher, and all she had to do was follow procedure. According to the custom of the day, a high-ranking lady or gentleman who wanted to establish contact with another person, even someone they had never met, had to do so by means of a mutually trusted intermediary. And, in every way possible, such form was observed. The strange thing about the case was not this. When, at the next reception in the palace, Chanut was called to one side by Her Majesty, the fact she requested him to intervene in her correspondence so that she could pose certain questions that interested her to the renowned philosopher did not cause even the slightest surprise in spinning or dancing or conversational circles. Nor was anyone surprised that such a cultured queen should wish to be taught by the most qualified person available. Nor was it surprising that she should use Chanut as her mediator: he was far too ugly for anybody to think he might be the object of her desire. No one was surprised that, as of this moment, the queen appeared to be happy and in a good mood, greeting Chanut with the same slight gesture of the hand that hunters use with their falcons, ‘Do not give up, my friend, I know you will bring me my prey.’ No. The surprise was as a result of Chanut’s expression when Christina, Queen of Sweden, asked him her question, which, according to witnesses, was something like ‘what reason drives us sometimes to love one person over another before we have had a chance to discover their merits?’ And off he went, with a look of thunder, ready to convey her question to the most fashionable thinker of the moment, with an ‘I wonder what you think you’ll get out of this’, suppressing what he believed to be the pure, unadulterated truth of the matter, that the queen had the hots for the philosopher, or so he’d heard. But Christina didn’t mind. She found out through her spies, which is why she had them, everything that was said in the various spinning, dancing, conversational circles at court. She found out Monsieur Chanut’s opinion of her. She found out what the whole of Stockholm thought, Madame Chanut having taken it upon herself to let her know with that manner of controlling the look which women use to punish each other, and, delighted to have caused so much scandal, she sat down to wait for an answer, feeling calm, scintillating, certain of her coup, though she never would have put it like this. And, though nobody seemed to care about the outcome of her endeavours, the answer duly arrived. It was, according to all the international conventions for correspondence with respectable people of high lineage and extraction, and on top of that someone of the opposite sex, a measured letter addressed to Chanut in ambiguous terms which, however, made it clear who was the object of so much thought. As is normal in such cases… So that Christina might be pleased… So that the letter might be enjoyed at court, in spinning circles… So that everyone might find some enjoyment, except for the poor Chanut, who was forced again to play the role of homing pigeon. The answer arrived, and was pleasing, and it went like this:

‘I once loved a girl of my own age who was a little cross-eyed. The impression caused by the sight of her on my brain, whenever I gazed at those lost eyes, became linked to the impression that caused the passion of love to arise in me in such a way that, for a long time afterwards, whenever I met someone with a squint, I felt more inclined to love that person than others, simply because they had this defect, and I didn’t know why. In fact, now that I have pondered this matter and realized it is a defect, I no longer feel moved in quite the same way.’

         On the basis of this letter, if Christina felt pleased, it must have been because such a famous philosopher had deigned to reply to a question posed by a woman, not another wise man, a woman with a bad reputation, widely considered to be the greatest public instigator of all time. Because otherwise, by which I mean were Christina’s question an ambush or trap with which she hoped to capture the gentleman’s attention, there wasn’t much in the letter for her to be content about. Christina herself was not cross-eyed, in fact her eyes had a straight and deep way of looking, though they were a little prominent. And the philosopher appeared to be telling her, ‘Listen, girl, when it comes to falling in love, little or nothing is chosen, and the heart seems to be spilling out of the ears instead of getting on with the business of beating and pumping blood, which is what it should be doing. But if it’s advice you require, never hesitate to consider the merits of those you fall in love with.’ Well, any reservation would appear to be on the part of the one telling this story, since Christina herself was determined and not to be brushed aside. People said she liked men as much as women, but, however much she might have indulged the pleasures of the body, her heart was still intact and it seems she replied, ‘If it’s merit I should be after, you are well enough endowed.’ The weeks after that saw her busy writing letters, as she devoted herself to her new-found correspondence.

10

From Hélène Jans’ Book of Women

Hand cosmetics

Women’s hands suffer greatly in the performance of their daily chores, most being unable to keep their skin smooth and fine as a result of the many tasks they have to achieve each day. Therefore, if you would protect yourself against such ills, you can make some cosmetics I will now explain. Take a bowl of juice from unripe grapes, and another of cow bile, half a bowl of grated soap, three ounces of seed oil, three ounces of poppies, an ounce and a half of bitter almond oil, an ounce of stalk oil, and a little ground sulphur, plus a little mercury deadened with saliva. Put it all together in a glass and leave it on the fire, until the soap disintegrates, and once the soap has melted, pour the mixture into a glass jar and cure it in the sun for nine days, stirring it two or three times each morning so that it doesn’t settle. Once it is cured, you can spread it on your hands. The more you wear it without washing it off, the better it will be, since your hands will shine as if they hadn’t been forced or consumed by the trials of life. Because every time you wash, you are depriving the body of life by discarding into water that which belongs to it. Dirt is the only thing that should be washed, the human body having its own personal aroma, which is different in every individual, so that, just as we can be recognized by the eyes according to our appearance, so we can be recognized by the nose according to the scent we give off. I have yet to see a mother who couldn’t recognize her child by its smell, or a lover who wasn’t driven crazy by the fragrance of his sweetheart, and those who are always using mixtures to hide what they consider to be revolting are in fact eliminating part of their own being. But hand cosmetics don’t hide anything at all, they simply prevent ills from entering the fingers or palms, lest anybody think, on seeing you in a poor state, that all you do is move your fingers and you never work with your mind.

11

Letter from Monsieur Descartes to Queen Christina of Sweden,

end of 1649

Madam,

         Should it happen that a letter was sent to me from the heavens, and I myself saw it descending from the clouds, I should not be more surprised or receive it with more respect and veneration than that with which I have received the letter Your Majesty saw fit to write to me. I consider myself so unworthy of the appreciations it contains that I can only accept it as a favour and grace, for which I feel even more indebted precisely because I can never repay it. The honour done to me on being required by Monsieur Chanut on behalf of Your Majesty more than compensates for the reply I gave you and, on being informed by him that my words have been favourably received, this has made me feel so obliged to your good person that there is nothing more I could hope or wish for in return for such a trifle, especially from a Princess whom God has placed in such a lofty place, surrounded by such important matters as you have charge of, whose slightest actions can be so determinant for the general Good of all the earth. Anyone who loves Virtue should consider himself particularly fortunate when afforded the opportunity to render her some service. And since I profess to belong to this group, I venture to affirm that there is nothing so burdensome Your Majesty could ask of me that I should not be always willing to do everything in my power to bring about, nor should I do so with less zeal or perfection than if I had been born a Swede or a Finn…

12

From Hélène Jans’ Book of Women

Remedy for asthma

A remedy for breathing well can be found by cooking eggs in cat grease, since a cat, just as it produces sneezing and itching, is capable of curing them as well, while its blood relieves difficulties in breathing for anyone who has them. Eggs mixed with cat grease should not only be given to anyone suffering from asthma to eat, but also anything that would normally be cooked for this person with butter should be cooked with grease, it constituting a wonderful remedy. That said, one mustn’t always think that a person who has difficulty breathing is asthmatic. I have seen people stop breathing because they were in Love’s embrace, just at the point when the words won’t register in the brain, a problem that is particularly common among young lovers, under the influence of love the blood doesn’t flow as it ought to, and that is why they become self-absorbed, preferring dreams to work, and whenever they try to say something, especially if it is in the loved one’s presence, they are heard repeating ‘I can’t find the word, it won’t come’. It is also possible to stop breathing as a result of shock, though the sensation is never quite so pleasant, some even dying upon receipt of a letter that is unexpected or that reveals something untoward they could never have imagined before reading it.

13

This time, the letter the philosopher addressed to the queen did not do the rounds of spinning circles. Which is hardly surprising, since spinning circles were first created for the purpose of spreading misfortunes: rendezvous he didn’t turn up to, improper caresses she allowed and even took pleasure in, blunders and other such incidents that went against the standards of good taste. There was never a dance at court where it was said everything was going swimmingly, the queen had read the work of a philosopher and asked him a malicious question by means of an intermediary and from there, murmur, murmur, mumble, mumble, one came, another went, and over a period of months there wasn’t a subject they didn’t discuss. What did come out in the end is that, once the time for questions was up, she arrived at a decision, since if curiosity is the first cloak of Love, then daring is the second, and invited the philosopher to come to her and take up the post of expert in her court. And since Christina knew he was always a little withered, down in the dumps, unable to make up his mind, she went so far as to arrange the transport, letting him know that, should he decide to come, there was a warship of the Swedish Armada at his entire disposition. Christina must have been heavily under the influence of the little winged god with the bow and pointed arrows since she didn’t realize she was doing exactly what King Christian of Denmark had done with her mother, albeit in reverse, something she had strongly objected to, but when Love is at our heels, a warship hardly seems enough. The warships, however, had never been as happy, or justified, as when they devoted themselves, in such episodes belonging to the Swedish crown, to serving as a means of transport for idle lovers. Especially when their new purpose required several alterations which ended up improving their look: get rid of those munitions and bring some rose petals instead for when he comes on board; move away that cannon, no, actually don’t move it away, you can use it to give the welcoming salvos; instead of suckling-pig, serve him wild strawberries with freshly squeezed orange juice; instead of maps, let the tables hold bowls overflowing with exotic fruits; and hang some curtains, wax that floor, scatter a few books about the place, forget all about mobilizations and make his bed with clean sheets, since however little Christina seemed to pay attention to her own household, at least in Eija-Liisa’s opinion, she wasn’t so dumb as to overlook the scenery that best suited seduction. Love sweetens all and, in such questions, the Scandinavians were just as punctual and meticulous as in everything else. There is even the story of a Swedish admiral who enrolled on a Dutch ship for a mission overseas, nothing that matters here, and had to wait in the Antilles for three months. While waiting and waiting, all he could do was drink coconut beer and deflower native girls. Just like that, in whatever way he fancied, he assaulted any girl that was passing, with the change in temperature he noticed his body was out of sorts and, having nothing else to do, it seemed like a good idea to indulge his pleasures. And happy he was until the day he ventured to take on the spiciest girl on the island, who was quite a sight to see when she swayed her hips in front of the admiral, poor man, he knew all about the separation of mind and body, he didn’t need to read the philosopher for that, though when it came to reading he hadn’t even read his own dispatches, poor man, as I was saying, in his assault on the fair mulatta he must have left his mind placed firmly inside his body because the fact is he fell in love. He fell terribly in love. He fell in love in that savage, impulsive manner felt by those who have done much and experienced little. And when he went to her at night, he who was so used to taking a tumble and initiating an attack, he heard her speaking softly and melodiously, ‘not like that, my love, you’re hurting me’, and even though he couldn’t understand, having only ever spoken his rough, native dialect, one day he removed his blunderbuss, and the next, ‘not like that, my love, but gently’, his blunderbuss and cartridge belt, and then, ‘not like that, my love, you’re killing me’, his blunderbuss, cartridge belt, sword, leggings and spurs – after all what did he need all this equipment for? – and slowly, ‘not like that, my love, it’s not good’, slowly, ‘not like that, my love, try like this’, while receiving lessons in Caribbean levity, ‘that’s right, that’s it, keep going, my sweet’, he ended up just as his mother had brought him into the world, all wrapped in suavity and devoted, with that meticulousness inherent in Nordic peoples, to the very unmilitary task of making love as best as possible. Of course, the Swedish Armada had to dismiss their high-ranking official since the tall, rough blond man, who by now was known throughout the island, had decided to move in with his mulatta and raise mestizos in a coconut hut. But to stick to my story, the point is when Christina offered the philosopher a warship for his journey, she was doing exactly the same as the king of Denmark she had cursed so much, that is use official vehicles for the purposes of seduction and place her own personal desires above the respect owing to interests of State. And it might be noticed, in this respect, that Christina was a little tardy, it doesn’t matter that she was a queen, since anyone who analysed her behaviour could see she was at the dance and holding her partner by the waist. Now that is the man’s position, not the woman’s. However much she flirted, Christina had retained some of her more masculine features. And if I keep on about it, it’s because what she was offering was over the top, even a blind man could see that, how much more then a philosopher who had just sent a manuscript called Passions of the Soul off to the printer’s? What’s more, the philosopher was not in love with the idea of being a kept expert, he’d never been a courtier, not just because he was ugly, or so I’m told, but because he showed consideration and disinterest towards everyone, his only refinement, he boasted, was to have none, and obviously such characteristics won’t take you far at court. And so it was. To begin with, it seemed he was reluctant and didn’t say yes or no, he just put off his answer. He wrote to friends about the queen’s invitation, sharing his scruples about making the journey: he had enemies all over the place in his capacity as the author of a new philosophy, he was a Roman Catholic and therefore perhaps shouldn’t move to a Protestant country, and I don’t know what else, and all his correspondents quickly realized the philosopher was making things up, inventing problems, when in fact he was already preparing his luggage. And so it happened. In October 1649, he arrived in Stockholm, lingering on the bridge in Stortorget, life being full of coincidences, he arrived and rested his hands on the very same parapet his sweetheart would lean on several months later to stay on her feet when overcome with grief. While watching the waters, he felt a wave of sadness, not a particular pain owing to one problem or another, just sadness. He wasn’t affected by an ill mood, nor was he of the opinion that life had failed to smile on him, no, it wasn’t that. He wasn’t living in misery or confronted by a repulsive situation, nor did he consider himself insignificant or that his existence had no meaning. He wasn’t bored or out of sorts or withered or sentimental, he felt in the prime of life, young, his future awaiting. It’s just that on the bridge in Stortorget it was as if all the sadness of the universe had overwhelmed him, that of the waters leaving because the crossing had already taken place, that of the lifeless planets with no other choice than to wander eternally through an endless void, that of the flies whose demise would come later that evening. The point is that somehow, on seeing his Breton gentleman’s form reflected in the waters, he knew he’d come to Stockholm in order to die… and would die there.

14

From Hélène Jans’ Book of Women

Recipes for aromatic waters

Despite what I said about preserving the body’s own smell, it is normal for a woman to adorn herself, to prepare, comb, perfume, anoint herself as if she were a goddess, so that she might forget her precious body will one day be the food of worms. And since men are used to encountering polished lovers, I myself have fallen into the defect of wishing to please and arouse passions, as if people were able to improve on the basis of unctions. And though we mustn’t overuse them, nature does offer fragrances for our satisfaction. To prepare a musky scent that is sure to help in the spells of lovemaking, take one part of orange-flower water, two parts of rosewater, a little melilot water, a touch of myrtle and of the spiny rose known as musket. With all these waters in a phial, add a pinch of amber and of ground musk, and then a little more musk for good measure. Cover the phial and leave it in the sun to cure, stirring it every morning for nine days, after which it is ready to use, though you must be careful who you give yourself to smell to, lest you provoke unrestrained passions and excitements you are unable to attend. There is also a strong, pleasant fragrance in water made by collecting a pound of red roses, another of orange blossom, another of laurel buds and another of white lily roots, together with two ounces of cloves and half an ounce of lavender. Once all these things have been mixed, they must be distilled slowly, on a low heat. The resulting waters are extraordinarily fine and produce pleasant aromas at times when the only passion in life comes through the nose. While all the senses nourish pleasure and offer rest and happiness, they do not all work the same: sight feeds lust, hearing tenderness, touch love, taste glut and smell nostalgia, which is not considered a passion by theologians, but rather the embers that spark the fire.

15

It is impossible to say whether the first time they met was just as each of them had imagined, they were so used to exchanging letters and opinions, had come to know each other so well, on so many different levels, and now all that was missing was the decisive encounter face to face, which would give them information about the other’s gestures, features, niceties. They probably weren’t overly impressed, not at first sight, which is always so deceptive. It was a clear, cool morning in the month of October. He wished to find his feet in this place whither he had just arrived in order to set about writing, which was his profession, he couldn’t imagine himself as an adornment at court, the mere idea, whenever it occurred to him, caused him hurt. But before undertaking any new work, he thought it highly recommendable to pay his respects to the queen who had issued the invitation. In short, this is what he said to himself, though it wasn’t exactly an act of pure courtesy, if the truth be told, his heart harbouring a warm, stimulating, gaseous sense of curiosity to make the acquaintance of this woman with whom he’d exchanged so many words. And curiosity, as we have said before, is anything but innocence. This meant that while he believed himself to be a man of mature age, who had seen everything there was to see, reasonably settled, able to control his instincts, this man who thought of himself as an automaton, this philosopher who knew how to separate mind from body, was dying to see the woman lying naked beneath the etiquette of queen.

         Her Majesty, meanwhile, felt nothing, women soon being taught to rein in their emotions, and Christina, with her fondness for writing, which we all know comes to old women who are wise beyond their years, was, after all, of a certain age. And while women are soon taught to rein in their emotions, so that by the age of twelve or thirteen they have them under lock and key, this is even more the case with refined women in Nordic courts. Especially if they are queens. Especially if they are marriageable queens. Which is why Christina felt absolutely nothing on that morning. Except, perhaps, for a heavy, viscous substance that had entered her stomach, causing her something akin to nausea, though it wasn’t that, and a vague, unstable, idiotic dizziness. Nothing that wouldn’t pass soon. Which is why we can say, fussy chroniclers of the story as we are, in honour to the truth, that Christina felt absolutely nothing on that morning, were it not for the sensation that her body was a little too big and she would like to shrink, become lower, smaller, not wanting to be a head taller than the philosopher… But, as for sentiments, absolutely nothing. On waking in her royal bed, she heard a blackbird sing in the garden and took it as a sign that all would be well, but that wasn’t feeling, that was just interpreting life. She combed herself three times, her hair not staying the way she liked: loose and clean, which indicated freedom of spirit, and curly, which showed tenderness and attention to others. In the mirror, she realized, God damn it, that her eyes were swollen and had bags, but I don’t know why I include such a detail in this veridical account, since it has nothing to do with the way she felt inside, it being only natural that someone, especially a queen, should be concerned about her appearance. On getting to her feet in order to cover the short distance separating her private chamber from the drawing room where she had decided to receive the philosopher, she felt nothing at all, save a small cramp in her right leg, a shiver down her spine, damp hands, an icy tingling at the roots of her hair, trembling in her eyelashes, a flush on her cheeks, and nipples that were like two blossoming almonds, hard and projecting forwards. But, as for feeling, real feeling, nothing at all… She made him wait long enough for him not to notice that she was the one who’d been waiting for him. She finished writing whatever it was that she had been writing, cleared her throat and entered the corridor. That morning, the carpets clung to her shoes, delaying her progress. Her skirts, three layers of cloth on top of legs whose hairs were standing on end, got strangely caught up. As if she had never been known to receive anybody! She cursed her woman’s garments and wished she could have been wearing riding breeches, to make her more agile, or better not, what a terrible misfortune it would be to appear before someone, before a man, with her body silhouetted by trousers! That morning, the objects arranged along the corridors, the clocks, small figures, tapestries that Eija-Liisa had placed at strategic points along her route, struck Christina as so extremely absurd that she couldn’t stop looking at them, as though her mind had been scattered through Tre Kronor’s neglected corners. At halfway, she suddenly felt scared and thought about turning back, was already effectuating her retreat, when she remembered the royal pride of the Houses of Vasa and Brandenburg and forced herself onwards. Before turning the door handle, she saw Magnus, a member of her inner circle, with whom she barely exchanged two words, she wasn’t in the mood for insinuations and regretted the fact that everybody in the palace considered this ignorant, oafish count to be her lover, she only hoped they didn’t talk to him about her own obsessions. And before she could take flight, turn to dust, chimney smoke, evaporate, dissolve in the sea, vanish completely, she opened the door. A bow. There he was. A greeting. There he was. Polite conversation. There he was. Set formulae. There he was, indeed, the philosopher, the longed-for companion of her intellect, pure soul and spirit, there he was, in mind and body. Yes, also in body. And having felt absolutely nothing all morning, she allowed herself to be infused with her royalty, and all the blood that ran blue down her veins began to issue orders: have the fires lit in all the guest rooms, move this here, that there, the best time for me to meet is early in the morning, when my head is not weighed down with matters of government, and so on, and so forth. She barely allowed him to speak. It was all over in a minute, she turned on her heels and returned to her room, distant and glamorous as befits a queen. But, as soon as she closed the door, a strange kind of humidity stained the hard wood and, were it not that this would appear exceedingly odd in someone who most assuredly never felt anything, one might have ventured that Christina was crying, her nerves had not permitted her to be herself, on this day either, had not permitted her to exclaim, ‘How glad I am that you are here at last! Thank you for coming! I was dying to meet you and talk to you, and should like it very much if you could tell me that not everything I’m doing is futile and, while being surrounded by a bunch of country bumpkins, I haven’t grown completely vulgar, and I don’t know what else to say, the words won’t come while you’re in front of me, matters of government took over my life until your letters arrived and brought me to my feet, moved the gears of my brain, removed me from the fantasies of being a princess and helped me see that some things were important and happiness in life consisted in seizing the little we are allowed to know, and there’s so much else I would like to say… were it not that I am firmly resolved never to feel anything.’

Text © Teresa Moure Pereiro

Translation © Jonathan Dunne

This title is available to read in English in Philip Krummrich’s translation – see the page “Novels”.