Oxenstiern.—­Those beaux esprits judged according to their predominant passion.  I have heard young ladies express their admiration of Mark Antony for heroically leaving his fleet at the Battle of Actium to follow his mistress.  Your passion for literature had the same effect upon you.  But why did not you indulge it in a manner more becoming your birth and rank?  Why did not you bring the muses to Sweden, instead of deserting that kingdom to seek them in Rome?  For a prince to encourage and protect arts and sciences, and more especially to instruct an illiterate people and inspire them with knowledge, politeness, and fine taste is indeed an act of true greatness.

Christina.—­The Swedes were too gross to be refined by any culture which I could have given to their dull, their half-frozen souls.  Wit and genius require the influence of a more southern climate.

Oxenstiern.—­The Swedes too gross!  No, madam, not even the Russians are too gross to be refined if they had a prince to instruct them.

Christina.—­It was too tedious a work for the vivacity of my temper to polish bears into men.  I should have died of the spleen before I had made any proficiency in it.  My desire was to shine among those who were qualified to judge of my talents.  At Paris, at Rome I had the glory of showing the French and Italian wits that the North could produce one not inferior to them.  They beheld me with wonder.  The homage I had received in my palace at Stockholm was paid to my dignity.  That which I drew from the French and Roman academies was paid to my talents.  How much more glorious, how much more delightful to an elegant and rational mind was the latter than the former!  Could you once have felt the joy, the transport of my heart, when I saw the greatest authors and all the celebrated artists in the most learned and civilised countries of Europe bringing their works to me and submitting the merit of them to my decisions; when I saw the philosophers, the rhetoricians, the poets making my judgment the standard of their reputation, you would not wonder that I preferred the empire of wit to any other empire.

Oxenstiern.—­O great Gustavus! my ever-honoured, my adored master!  O greatest of kings, greatest in valour, in virtue, in wisdom, with what indignation must thy soul, enthroned in heaven, have looked down on thy unworthy, thy degenerate daughter!  With what shame must thou have seen her rambling about from court to court deprived of her royal dignity, debased into a pedant, a witling, a smatterer in sculpture and painting, reduced to beg or buy flattery from each needy rhetorician or hireling poet!  I weep to think on this stain, this dishonourable stain, to thy illustrious blood!  And yet, would to God! would to God! this was all the pollution it has suffered!

Christina.—­Darest thou, Oxenstiern, impute any blemish to my honour?