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Review: Bengt Liljegren — Karl XII: En biografi
I will try not to make this review into a long essay about my own views on King Charles XII — for that, I would probably need to write an entire book.
I have been fascinated by this monarch for most of my life, and particularly by the historiography surrounding him — a subject that has generated some of the most passionate and divisive writing in Swedish letters. Against that backdrop, Bengt Liljegren’s Karl XII: En biografi is a disappointment — not because of lack of talent, but because of wasted potential.
To give Liljegren his due: he is a gifted storyteller. His prose flows beautifully, his structure is clean, and his use of anecdote is excellent. It is an easy and enjoyable read, and I was never bored. Yet behind the polish, the book suffers from a deep lack of intellectual ambition.
Liljegren’s research appears solid, and his bibliography shows he is well acquainted with both the old school — the moral and character-based historians of the 19th century — and the new school of the early 20th century, which sought to contextualize the king’s decisions within the diplomatic and strategic realities of his time. Works by Ragnhild Marie Hatton, Peter From, and others are duly cited. Yet Liljegren never truly engages with them. He recounts, but he does not argue. He narrates, but he does not interpret.
The result is a biography stripped to the bare bones:
Charles XII is presented as a brilliant tactician but a disastrous strategist whose wars ruined Sweden. This judgment — “a great tactician, but a strategic disaster” — has been repeated for more than a century. It was conventional in 1900; in 2000, it feels like a retreat. The book offers no awareness that this verdict has been challenged, nuanced, and debated across generations of historians. Liljegren rehearses the conclusions of the old school with the data of the new, producing an updated narrative with antiquated logic.
That is the core failure. It is not that Liljegren is wrong in pointing out Charles’s shortcomings; rather, he ignores the conditions that made those shortcomings consequential.
Sweden’s empire rested on a fearsome but fragile foundation — an elite army without natural defenses, dependent on diplomacy and deterrence rather than geography or wealth. Russia’s rise under Peter the Great was an existential problem without an obvious solution. Charles’s decision to strike at Russia was rash, yes — but it was also, in a grim sense, logical. It was an attempt to remove a mortal threat before it grew too large. The failure at Poltava destroyed not merely an army but the structural balance on which Sweden’s great-power status rested.
This context — strategic, systemic, tragic — receives little attention in Liljegren’s account. He gives us a lively story but no vision, a narrative without architecture.
In the broader sweep of historiography, Liljegren stands at the tail end of what might be called the modern eclipse of heroism. His Charles XII is neither the titan of Fryxell nor the detached political actor of Hatton, but a competent, doomed soldier shorn of grandeur and meaning. It is history without tragedy — and therefore, without life.
Two stars, then: one for prose, one for readability. For insight, none.
Readers of Swedish who seek a more meaningful encounter with Charles XII should turn to Frans G. Bengtsson’s classic Karl XII:s levnad, which, though written by a man of letters rather than a scholar, possesses more common sense, vitality, and sympathy than most academic treatments. For a properly scholarly account, Ragnhild Marie Hatton’s Charles XII of Sweden remains unsurpassed. On particular topics — the Poltava campaign, the mystery of the king’s death — Peter From offers detailed and thoughtful studies.
For English readers, Hatton and Bengtsson are both available in translation, though long out of print. It is worth the effort to find them. There, one still finds what Liljegren’s polished modernity lacks: a sense that Charles XII, whatever his faults, once stood at the crossroads between myth and history, heroism and modernity — and that to understand him, one must confront all four.
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