Voltaire remarks, in his ‘Age de Louis XIV.,’ that the fashion of keeping court and household fools and dwarfs, was for a time the grande mode of all the courts of Europe. It was a remnant of barbarism, he tells us, which continued longer in Germany than elsewhere. He, naturally enough, traces this mode, in its origin, to a lack of amusement of a better sort. The poor pleasure which degraded the human intellect, was only a pleasure, he says, because, in the times of ignorance and bad taste, really agreeable and praiseworthy pastimes were not easily procurable. The unphilosophical philosopher, however, forgets that the most celebrated fools were at the most refined courts; and that L’Angeli was in full swelling triumph long after Corneille had composed ‘The Cid.’ The “mode” in Germany dates undoubtedly from a very early time, if we may credit a German poetical tradition which tells us that the jester used to appear in the procession of the condemned to execution. But this incident is perhaps only the poetical filling-up of an imaginary picture.
The profession of “Fool” was so profitable in Germany, in the Middle Ages, that not only were men found ambitious to be attached to some nobleman’s house, where there were ordinarily ten or a dozen of them, but they were proud of being as it were the honorary fools of the nobles, and for this reason. Holding the rank in question, they roamed over the country, reaped considerable profits by the exercise of323 their profession, and if their licentiousness brought them into contact with the magistrates, they pleaded their privileges as fools to noblemen whom they named, and whose warrant they exhibited. The abuse of this ran to such excess, and the extravagance of fools became so offensive, that in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries the abuse and extravagance were circumscribed by various decrees; and towards the end of the last-named century, the titular or itinerant fools were suppressed altogether.I
The official fools, at the Imperial courts of Germany, were, for a long period, held in very great esteem, especially when they united in their own persons the professions of court fool and court poet. Charlemagne divided among his mimes, fools, and poets, the entire countship of Provence; and hence is said to have been the cause that wit and poesy flourished so generally in that pleasant district.
On the other hand, there were exceptional cases, as at the wedding festivities of the Emperor Henry III. at Ingleheim in 1043. The fools joked, the mimes played, the minstrels harped and sang, but the Imperial bridegroom gave them nothing. They all left the castle thirsty and penniless, and young Henry cared little for their maledictions, for he was a man of strong mind, stout heart, and good taste, and had more respect for Contractus, the chronicler, and Adalbert, the biographer, and Willeram, the translator, than for all the fools and chanters in the world.
The German laws had full as little regard for these officials, albeit princes, generally, patronized them. The Saxon law, especially, laid down that their property, at their death, belonged to the Government, which was a certain method of keeping them reckless and extravagant with what they earned when living.
They were occasionally even greater knaves than fools, an instance of which we have in the case of the jester of324 Frederick Barbarossa, who, for a bribe from the Milaners, undertook to rid them of his master, by flinging him out of window, and who nearly succeeded in the attempt. The Emperor’s cries attracted his Guard, two or three of whom seizing the stalwart fool, tossed him headlong out of the window, by which he met swift and sudden death upon the stones below.
In some cases, considerable prizes in money and dress were given to the fools who eminently distinguished themselves. Thus, in 1342, Casimir the Great, of Poland, having two jesters at his court, one of whom was a German, offered a prize of twenty florins and an entire new suit of clothes for the one who should excel the other in foolery. The two carried on their struggle in presence of a court whose laughter shook the very roof. The fools were so equally matched that it was difficult to determine which was the more skilful in his frolicsome craft. They jumped, skipped, fought, talked, sang, and illustrious warriors and fair ladies held their sides, the better to retain their breath. At length, the jesters took to some very nasty jokes, at which the august company only laughed the louder. Still the competitors were so even in their skill that the noble arbitrators could not judge between them, for the victory was to be obtained by one of the fools doing some crowning feat which the other should strive in vain to accomplish. This was at last effected by the German, but for what he did, I must refer the curious to the Noctu? Speculum of Argidius Periander.
If the Emperor Rudolph of Hapsburg kept no fool of his own, the reason was that his nose, which was of a size to make Slawkembergius swear with admiration, was the source of so many jokes, that it provided his court with fun enough, and so saved the expense of a fool. Rudolph was yet Count of Hapsburg, when, in 1264, his secret enemy Count Ulrich, of Ratisbon, resolved to attack him and the Zurich forces, of which Rudolph was General, unexpectedly.325 “I think,” said Ulric, one day, to a circle of his friends, “we have men enough to properly punch Von Hapsburg’s great nose;”—“seine grosse Nase zu klopfen.” Ulric’s fool heard the remark, and struck with astonishment, or wishing to convey intelligence to Rudolph, he repaired to the quarters of the latter to satisfy his curiosity, or any other feeling by which he was influenced for the moment. His cap and bells procured him ready access to Rudolph’s presence; and in that presence he stood for awhile, fixedly staring on the august proboscis. At length he said, “Well, it is not a mile long, after all. I can’t imagine why my master should want a whole army in order to punch such a nose. I could myself smash it flat with a blow of my fist.” “Thanks, good fool, more for your hint touching your master, than that of the power of your fist.” Therewith Rudolph protected the jester, and took the initiative in attacking the Count of Ratisbon; whom, after continued assaults, he reduced to such a condition, that Ulrich was grateful for permission to become a simple citizen of Zurich.
Throughout life the nose of Rudolph was ever provocative of remark. He was once with his courtiers in a very narrow defile, when they encountered a peasant. “Pass on! pass on!” cried the officers; “the Emperor! the Emperor!” “That’s all very well,” said the clown, “but where can I go? his nose fills up the whole valley.” The courtiers conjectured that the Imperial wrath would be excited; but Rudolph, turning his head on one side, exclaimed laughingly, “Now, friend, get on with thee; my poor nose is no longer in your way.”
Few of the Emperors appear to have extended greater favour towards the jesters than Maximilian I. And yet he found as much peril as profit in his intercourse with them. In one case he had nearly lost his life while loading a fowling-piece, by the act of a house fool, who, coming into his presence with a candle, was about to place the light on an326 open cask of powder. On another occasion he was playing with his fool at snowballs, when the jester sent one at his right eye with such violence, that the Imperial sight was weakened for a month.
I have said “his fool,” but I should have been more correct in saying “one of his fools;” for his jester, par excellence, his own very familiar friend and fool, was indisputably Konrad (or Kunz) von den Rosen, the Don Japhet d’Arménie of Scarron, and the “De Bossu” of Werner.
Konrad of the Roses was as fearless in applying a joke, as he was neat in the construction of the joke itself. When Maximilian (then Archduke of Austria and Burgundy) had once defeated Louis XI., a portion of the cavalry of the former had not shared in the victory, having early in the day betaken themselves to flight, following their leader, Count Philip von Ravenstein. Kunz was on the field, and followed the Count’s example. On other occasions he did better and more soldierly service; but for what he rendered now, he was sarcastically bantered at a court festival at which he and the Count were present. “All very good,” said Konrad, “but remember, if I showed speed, Count Philip was even more nimble than I, and was a long league ahead of me when I turned my back on the fray. Ah, Count,” he added, turning to that “rapid rider,” “you had a valuable steed that day! he flew out of danger as a bird flies in the air; and when my horse was blown, and I was compelled to draw rein, yours was still charging away with his wrong end towards the enemy.”
There was so much useful knowledge, common sense, and actual bravery about him of the Roses, that some authors, like Manlius, refuse to rank him among official fools. “The Soldier and Wit of Maximilian,” is a term applied to him, and we have an instance of his good sense, when he counselled his Imperial master, at a certain disturbed period, in 1488, not to enter Bruges, as he would certainly be seized by the327 citizens, and be laid up hard and fast in the castle. Maximilian refused to follow the advice, and entered the city, only to meet the fate foretold him. The fool, wiser in his generation, rode boldly in at his master’s side, through one gate; and quietly out, quite alone, through another. He was a faithful fool, however, and returned secretly, after awhile, in order to rescue his “dear Max.” On one dark night, he swam the moat, hoping to be able to convey a rope to the illustrious captive; but he had no sooner glided into the water than he was attacked furiously by some old swans, who did not relish the intrusion. He with great difficulty escaped drowning, and got back to shore. He subsequently repeated the attempt to liberate his master, and the means he adopted will remind the reader of an incident in ‘Ivanhoe.’ No persuasion could induce Maximilian to avail himself of the opportunity offered him by Konrad. It was not that the Prince was at all influenced by a reluctance to leave the jester to be hanged,—for the latter, after gaining access to his master, in a priest’s dress, was to stay behind, and run the chance of being hanged, while Maximilian went off in the sacerdotal guise. But Maximilian suspected that the term of his imprisonment was nearly at an end, by more legitimate means. Konrad rated his patron with affectionate sharpness, but in vain; the jester was obliged to pass out through the groups of guards in waiting, looking as much like a priest, and feeling more like a fool, than when he entered.J
328 As a common mountebank at court entertainments, we have one sample of the quality of Kunz, at the marriage at Augsburg, in 1518, of the Margrave Casimir of Brandenburg with the Bavarian Princess Susanna. At the festivities which followed the match, Kunz was seated on the edge of a reservoir, with a preaching monk, and two or three others, witnessing a foot-race, got up to gratify the more illustrious personages. At the shout which rose on the race being won, the jester fell backwards into the reservoir, as if by accident, dragging with him the monk, whom he managed to duck soundly, and who in his turn pulled in several others by his struggling. The excellence of this joke was that not only was the monk nearly drowned, but that Konrad, on emerging from the water, accused him of being the original cause of the mischief, whereupon the poor preacher was nearly pummelled dry by the indignant yet laughing bystanders, and to the great satisfaction of “persons of quality.”
It is very clear, I think, that the inspiration of a fool was not always trusted to, and that a joke was sometimes suggested to him, by his master, when the latter had a particular purpose in so doing. I find a trace of this suggestion in the case of a costly joke which the jester of the Roses would certainly not have dared to make on his own responsibility. A deputation from the Venetian States had presented to the Emperor a magnificent goblet of the purest crystal. At the banquet, given in honour of the Ambassadors and their Government, Konrad was in high, loud, and active mirth. So active indeed that he contrived to hook his spur in the tablecloth, and dancing off, to pull away329 with him everything on the table, the crystal goblet included, which lay in fragments on the ground. The Ambassadors were indignant, and they cried loudly for a flagellation for the fool. Maximilian, however, refused to gratify them. “You see, worthy sirs,” he remarked, “that the thing was only of glass, and that glass is very fragile. Had it been of gold, it would not have broken; and even if it had, its fragments would at least have been valuable.” The Kaiser the more felt this, as he was sorely in want of gold;—of which Konrad told him he would have enough and to spare, if instead of being Sovereign he would take the office of a Minister.
The freedom with which the fool treated his great patron is seen in the incident at the card-table, at which Kunz was playing, the monarch standing by him the while. The game, at which much money was staked, was won by him, who under certain circumstances held, and could play, four kings. Kunz had only three, but after playing his third, he suddenly seized upon Maximilian, and crying, “Here is my fourth and winning king,” swept the whole of the stakes into the pockets of his white trunk-hose, slashed with scarlet. Then throwing his light-blue cap upon his head, and buckling to his girdle the sword, outside whose sheath he carried knife and fork, and pulling together his blue and yellow vest, and fingering complacently his ample and well-curled beard, he walked off laughingly, every tiny bell in his bonnet ringing merrily to his laughter, as he passed along.
If all Konrad’s jokes had been as harmless, albeit as bold as this, there would have been little wherewith to reproach him. But some of his jests will not bear repeating, and others are only remarkable for their silliness. Some were quiet and telling; as when a too grossly flattering genealogist curried favour with the Emperor, by showing him a pedigree which traced his descent from Noah.—“Bravo!”330 exclaimed Von den Rosen, who was present, “then the Kaiser and I are cousins, through the patriarch. I did not know I was of half such good blood!” Maximilian smiled approvingly on the fool, and then contemptuously on Master Johann Stabius, poet and genealogist, who had thought to get crowns from a King, and only obtained sly reproaches from a fool.
Finally, it may be said that the hand of Konrad was as heavy as his tongue was sharp. One scene in the life of this jester, exhibits him in a melodramatic light, that reminds one of the days, or nights, of “Raymond and Agnes, or the Bleeding Nun.” Konrad was once compelled to pass the night at a sorry inn, in a wood, through whose intricacies he had lost his way. It was kept by brigands; but the joyousness of Konrad won him the heart of the waiting-maid, who bade him beware of the male-servant who would come to take away his supper-tray, and who would extinguish the light, as if by accident, in order that the poor traveller might be murdered in the dark, by the landlord and his fellows. Konrad, by good luck, had with him a dark-lantern; this he lighted and concealed beneath his coat; and when the incident occurred for which the maid had told him to be prepared, the jester went to work in terrible earnest. As soon as the candle had been extinguished, he turned on his lantern, and saw himself in presence of three ruffians with very menacing looks and stilettoes. Kunz’s own poniard was quicker than theirs: having buried it in the bosom of the bandit nearest to him, he addressed himself to the landlord, of whose companions one lay dead at his feet, and the other had suddenly fled. The traveller did not kill his host, but bound him tightly, with the ready aid of the female servant, who was herself a sort of prisoner, and delivered him to that justice which begins with much needless form, but which has a rope and a noose at the end of it.
331 It was soon after this exploit that Konrad von den Rosen lost his Imperial master, Maximilian. The poor fool loved his patron; “I followed him near for a long while,” said he, “and I will follow him closely now.” And so it was! Konrad followed Maximilian, when Germany, too busy to think of him, was talking of Charles V., Luther, and the Diet of Worms.
The last-named Emperor, however, was himself no illiberal patron of official fools and dwarfs. Both figured, like living caricatures, amid the splendours of his Imperial court. One of the latter, who seems to have been both dwarf and buffoon, a Pole grandiosely named Corneille de Lithuanie, is spoken of as having figured with such distinction at a tournament held in Brussels on the first Sunday in February 1545, as to have carried off the second prize. The first was gained by the Count d’Egmont, for having broken the greatest number of lances; but on Corneille was conferred the second, for having been the next best in the ranks, and for general gallantry.
Charles had native fools in his other dominions. In Spain, we meet with that excellent jester, Don Francis; also with Pedro de San Erbas and Zapata. There was another in the service of Charles, named Pape Theun, who had originally exercised some office of trust. Of these, Francis was the wittiest; but it is said that the sharpness of his wit brought about his assassination. He was certainly mortally wounded by assassins, but his wit kept by him to the last. He was assailed at his own door, and his wife, hearing the consequent disturbance, cried out from within to know what was the matter. “Nothing at all, mistress,” exclaimed the fool, “they have merely killed your husband.” Another fool, Perico de Ayala, who was a retainer in the house of the Marquis de Vilena, attended on Don Francis while he was dying, and piously asked him to pray for poor Perico in the next world. “I will, I will,” said Francis; “but,332 Perico, suppose you tie a string round my little finger, lest I forget it.”
This specimen of wit does not say much for the official fool; and it is still worse in the case of Pedro de San Erbas, the only incident connected with whose office, with which I am acquainted, reveals rather the wit of his master than his own. Thus we are told, that after the abdication of Charles, he held a court at Valladolid, to receive the farewell compliments of the nobles and ladies of the vicinity. When the ceremony had concluded, Pedro approached to take leave of his old patron. At seeing him, Charles took off his hat, and Pedro thereupon asked if the act was one of courtesy, or simply to indicate that he was no longer Emperor. “Neither, Pedro,” answered the prince; “I do it to signify that all I can give you now is this simple token of civility.”
Of Zapata nothing is known save his remark when Charles, who owed his entire household a year’s salary, once observed to his courtiers, after teasing the fool for a long time, “He will soon pay me back again.” “Ah!” exclaimed Zapata, “what can I pay back, when not a soul under your roof has received a doit of their salary for a twelvemonth?” This remark showed the bold freedom rather than the wittiness of Zapata’s tongue. As for Pape Theun, he seems to have been rather a practical than a loquacious joker. He was insolent rather than witty of speech, and when this insolence brought him into disgrace, the jokes he played to recover the goodwill of his master were coarse jokes, acceptable to coarse people in coarse times, but the repeating of which would assuredly not be acceptable to my readers.
To return to the fools who exclusively belonged to the Imperial court of Germany, the next remarkable individual of the class is Nelle, attached to the household of Matthias II. Nelle not only attended the celebrated meeting of the States, assembled at Ratisbon in 1613, but he presented to333 the Emperor a volume, exquisitely bound, which contained, as he said, the record of all that had been accomplished by the statesmen. Matthias opened the book, and found it all blank paper, “Why, there is nothing written here,” said the monarch. “Exactly so,” answered the fool, “because there was nothing done there; and so my record is truthful.” I cannot say, however, that this was so witty as the reply of the Speaker of the Commons to Elizabeth, when the latter, at the end of a session, asked him what they had passed; “An it please your Majesty,” said Mr. Speaker, “we have passed two months and a half!”
Another story is told of Nelle. In his moody master’s reign Lutherans and Papists were at open strife; and a Bishop Clesel, in Vienna, was excessively indignant that the sheep of his own particular pasture flocked every Sunday out of the capital, to listen to a Lutheran monk in the neighbouring village of H?rnals. In great wrath, and open court, he besought the Emperor to prohibit the people from leaving Vienna on the Sabbath for the village in question. Matthias replied that he did not know how this was to be effected; and looking at the fool, he added, “Nelle, can your wit help us in this matter?” “It is the easiest thing in the world,” rejoined Nelle; “you have only to send the Bishop to H?rnals, and bring the Lutheran monk to preach in the capital, and you will not find a soul desirous of leaving Vienna on the Sunday.”
The Emperors certainly allowed a license to their jesters which no one else dared to take advantage of. Thus, at the court of Ferdinand II., we hear of a silly courtier who endeavoured to amuse the illustrious circle by his imbecilities. Jonas, Ferdinand’s favourite fool, began answering him according to his folly. But this so offended the noble simpleton of half a hundred quarters, that he exclaimed, “Fellow, be silent; I never stop to talk with a fool!” “Well, I do,” replied Jonas, bending over the courtier’s seat as he stood334 behind the pompous gentleman’s chair, “and therefore be good enough to listen to me in your turn.”
This courtier did not resemble Charles VI., at whose court the greatest favour was enjoyed, not indeed by a professional wearer of cap and bells, but by a saucy wit of the name of Steffens. The latter had been a clerk, and his readiness of repartee had so endeared him to the monarch, that he elevated him to the rank of Count, and so entirely surrendered himself to the jesting Count’s company, that none of the ministers, not even Prince Eugene himself, could obtain an audience, without being previously kept waiting an hour. I have read however more of Steffens’ reputation for wit than examples of the wit itself. M?ser cites an instance which seems to me to have more impertinence in it than true humour. For example, in 1724, Count von Mikosch died of poison. “What is popularly said of Mikosch’s death?” asked Charles of Steffens. “Well,” answered the latter, “I will tell you, if you will make me a present.” The Emperor put some gold pieces in the hand of this mercenary fellow, who rejoined: “The people say that it was the devil who carried off Mikosch; and they add, that if he had lived longer, and you had continued to trust him and follow his counsel, the devil would speedily have come for your Majesty also.” It will be seen by this, that whatever humour there may have been under the ancient fool’s cap, there was not much of it to be found beneath the coronet of this lackered Count Steffens.
The smaller courts of Germany, as a matter of course, followed the fashion set by the Emperors. At Anspach the Margraves were ordinarily their own fools; but towards the end of the last century the little court found intense delight in the religious folly, if I may so speak, of a poor ex-artist named Bayer. He was reasonable and witty on every subject except prophecy and the Apocalypse; and it was precisely from his madness on these points that the Margrave335 and his courtiers drew most delight, till indeed they nearly drove the poor fellow mad on every other subject as well.
Baden, too, had its fools of various degrees; and indeed the Margrave Philip kept two, Lips and H?nsel von Gingen. The wit or fun of the latter seems to have consisted in his pride, which would never permit him to sit at meat with other jesters who accompanied their lords to the court at Baden. Lips was so great a favourite that he sat in the council-chamber when Philip was presiding. Lips was once asked his opinion on a vexed question which the counsellors could not solve—the admission of the Jews into Baden. “Oh, let them in, let them in,” said Lips, “and then we shall have all religions among us, even a little Christianity!”
The jester had occasionally to endure a very superabundant measure of hardship, as for example, when policy or revenge brought about the murder of Duke Ludwig of Bavaria, on the bridge over the Danube at Kehlheim, in 1231. The great but hidden perpetrators of the deed thought it convenient to lay the crime upon the Duke’s fool, Stich. He was told that his ducal master having exasperated him by sundry bad jokes, Stich had suddenly stabbed the Duke with his bread-knife. “Ah!” said the poor fellow, as he stood at the gallows, “that some one ought to be hanged for murdering the Duke, I can very well comprehend; but that that some one should be me, I do not comprehend at all.”
To another of Louis of Bavaria’s fools, the King of Bohemia once gave a goblet of such strong wine that the tipsy jester declared he could be content to be a fool through eternity, if he might only always be permitted to drink such wine. But this is far inferior to the quiet observation of the Connaught man, after a long pull at a whisky flask; that, had his mother first brought him up on such beverage, he would never have been weaned. And the Bavarian is not less inferior in his336 wit to another Hibernian, who, on hearing a senseless drunken man pronounced dead, coolly remarked, “Dead is he? I wish I had half his disease.”
It must be confessed, however, that it is difficult to place fairly the German fools or joy-makers before a foreign public. Many of their brightest sayings turn on the point of some sparkling pun which, when rendered into English, is, as the Germans themselves would say, for a translation, completely “overset.” On the other hand, the feats of some of these joy-makers are incredible, although related in solemn Latin by grave bishops, like Dubravius, the diocesan of Olmütz. This prelate speaks at great length, in his ‘History of Bohemia,’ of a certain Zytho, who was brought to the Bohemian court by the Emperor Wenceslaus, in 1389. In that century, and in that which preceded as well as that which followed it, the court at Prague took most delight, not in witty jesters, but in astounding conjurors, jugglers, magicians, and sorcerers. Individuals of this quality were retained in the sovereign’s household, and their achievements were of a nature to do credit to the professions which they exercised. It was when a body of these were exhibiting in presence of Wenceslaus, then on a visit at Prague, that the Emperor produced his own wonderful man, Zytho, ordering him to excel, if he could, those rivals in his vocation. Zytho (so we are seriously told by the episcopal historian) went quietly up to the most accomplished of the wonder-workers, and—swallowed him! The Duke of Bavaria was angry at thus being deprived of his principal performer; and Zytho, at the command of Wenceslaus, reproduced him after a fashion that stirred to thundering laughter that unrefined assembly. The Bishop further tells us that Zytho could change his shape at will; produce any animal required, out of any material, and, in short, work marvels in which the prelate believes, and I do not. On one occasion, at a court banquet, he changed the hands of various of the guests into337 hoofs, in order to prevent their taking up the costly viands provided; and on another occasion, seeing a courtier put his head out of window, Zytho made spring from his forehead such a gigantic pair of antlers that the poor gentleman could not draw his head in again, whereby, says the right reverend historian, he produced such laughter as was............