itself, provision to meet it was there at hand. Napoleon loved to be
so served at his tables when in the field. He was irregular in the
hours of his repasts, and he ate rapidly and not over delicately. The
absolute will which he applied to most things, was exercised also
in matters appertaining to the appetite. As soon as a sensation of
hunger was experienced, it must be appeased; and his table service was
so arranged that, in any place and at any hour, he had but to give
expression to his will, and the slaves of his word promptly set before
him roast fowls, cutlets, and smoking coffee. He dined off mutton
before risking the battle at Leipsic; and it is said that he lost the
day because he was suffering so severely from indigestion, that he was
unable to arrange, with sufficient coolness, the mental calculations
which he was accustomed to make as helps to victory.
As Napoleon, the genius of war, was served in the field, Louis XV.,
the incarnation of selfishness and vice, was served in his mistress’s
bower. That bower, built at Choisy for Pompadour, cost millions; but
it was one of the wonders of the world. For the royal entertainments,
there were invented those little tables, called “servants” or
“waiters;” they were mechanical contrivances, that immortalized the
artist Loriot. At Choisy, every guest had one of these tables to
himself. No servant stood by to listen, rather than lend aid. Whatever
the guest desired to have, he had but to write his wish on paper, and
touch a spring, when the table sunk through the flooring at his feet,
and speedily re-appeared, laden with fruits, with pastry, or with
wine, according to the order given. Nothing had been seen like this
enchantment in France before; and nothing like it, it is hoped, will
ever be seen there or elsewhere again. The guests thought themselves
little gods, and were not a jot more reasonable than Augustus and his
companions, who sat down to dinner attired as deities. When kings ape
the majesty of gods, it is time for the people to shake the majesty of
kings.
Perhaps Louis XV. never looked so little like a king as when he dined
or supped in public,--a peculiar manifestation of his kingly character.
The Parisians and their wives used to hurry down to Versailles on a
Sunday, to behold the feeding of the beast which it cost them so much
to keep. On these occasions he always had boiled eggs before him. He
was uncommonly dexterous in decapitating the shell by a single blow
from his fork; and this feat he performed weekly at his own table, for
the sake of the admiration which it excited in the Cockney beholders.
But an egg broken by the king, or Damiens broken alive upon the wheel,
and torn asunder by wild horses,--each was a sight gazed upon, even by
the youthful fair, with a sort of admiration for the executioner!
The glory of the epicureanism of Louis XV. was his “magic table,”
and the select worthless people especially invited to dine with him
thereat. In 1780 the Countess of Oberkirch saw this table, even then
a relic and wreck of the past. She and a gay party of great people,
who yet hoped that God had created the world only for the comfort of
those whom He had honoured by allowing them to be born “noble,” paid
a visit “to the apartments of the late king” in the Tuileries. There,
among other things, she saw the celebrated magic table, the springs
of which, she says, “had become rusty from disuse.” The good lady,
who had not the slightest intention in the world to be satirical,
thus describes the wondrous article, at the making of which Pompadour
had presided:--“It was placed in the centre of a room, where none
were allowed to enter but the invited guests of Louis XV. It would
accommodate thirty persons. In the centre was a cylinder of gilt
copper, which could be pressed down by springs, and would return with
its top, which was surrounded by a band, covered with dishes. Around
were placed four dumb waiters, on which would be found everything that
was necessary.” In 1789 the Countess says,--“This table no longer
exists, having been long since destroyed, with everything that could
recall the last sad years of a monarch, who would have been good if he
had not been perverted by evil counsels.”
After all, the gastronomic greatness of Louis XV. was small compared
with that of his predecessor, Louis XIV. The “state” of the latter was,
in all things, more “cumbersome.” To be helpless was to be dignified;
and to do nothing for himself, and to think of nothing _but_ himself,
was the sole life-business of this very illustrious king. A dozen men
dressed him; there was one for every limb that had to be covered. Poor
wretch! His breakfast was as lumbering a matter as his _toilette_; and
he tasted nothing till it had passed through the hands of half-a-dozen
dukes. It took even three noblemen, ending with a prince of the
blood, to present him a napkin with which to wipe his lips, before he
addressed himself to the more serious business of the day.
Louis XIV. could not be properly got to the dinner-table, entertained
there, and removed, without a still more fussy world of ceremony,
and that of a very Chinese or Ko Tou character. The ushers solemnly
summoned the guard when the cloth was to be laid, and a detachment of
men under arms were at once spectators and guardians at the dressing
of the table. They stood by, exceedingly edified, no doubt, while
the appointed officers touched the royal napkin, spoon, plate, knife,
fork, and tooth-picks, with a piece of bread, which they subsequently
swallowed. This was the “trial” against poisoning. The dishes in the
kitchen were tried in the same way, and were then carried to table
escorted by a file of men with drawn swords. As the dishes were placed
on the table, the loyal officials bowed as though some saintly relics
were on the platter!
If there was ceremony at the coming in of the meat, how much more was
there at the coming in of him who was about to eat it! Unhappy wretch!
what splendid misery enveloped his mutton-chop! He was looked upon as
very august, but decidedly helpless. Did he wish to wipe his fingers;
three dukes and a prince only could present him with a _damp_ napkin;
but a dry one might be offered him at dinner, without insult, by a
simple valet. Philosophical distinction! Changing his plate required as
much attendant ceremony as would go to the whole crowning of a modern
constitutional king; and when he asked for drink, there was thunder
in heaven, or something like it. The cup-bearer solemnly shouted the
king’s desire to the buffet; and the buffeteers presented goblets
and flasks to the cup-bearer, who carried them to the thirsty but
necessarily patient monarch; and, when he finally received the draught
into his extended throat, all loyal men present seemed the better for
the sight.
But Louis XIV. was so well-used to this, and much more ceremony than I
have space to detail, that it interfered in nowise with the comfortable
indulgence of his appetite. He was a very gifted eater. The rough old
Duchess of Orleans declares in her Memoirs, that she “often saw him eat
four platesful of different soups, a whole pheasant, a partridge, a
platefull of salad, mutton hashed with garlick, two good-sized slices
of ham, a dish of pastry, and afterwards fruit and sweetmeats!” At the
end of such a repast as this, this “most Christian” king (very much
so, indeed!) must have been in something of the condition of the young
gentleman who went out to dine, and who, after taking enough for three
boys of his size, and being invited to take more, answered that he
thought he could, if they would allow him to stand!
The Duchess of Orleans, however, is by no means astonished at the
Baal-like ability of the king. Of her own performances in that way
she says, “I am not good at lying in bed; as soon as I awake, I must
get up. I seldom breakfast, and then only on bread and butter. I take
neither chocolate, nor coffee, nor tea, not being able to endure those
foreign drugs. I am German in all my habits, and like nothing in eating
or drinking which is not conformable to our old customs. I eat no
soup but such as I can take with milk, wine, or beer. I cannot bear
broth; whenever I eat anything of which it forms a part, I fall sick
instantly, my body swells, and I am tormented with colics. When I take
broth alone, I am compelled to vomit even to blood, and nothing can
restore the tone of my stomach but--_ham and sausages_!” Poor lady! she
reminds me of the converted cannibal Carib, who was once sick, and who
being asked by a missionary what he could eat, answered sentimentally,
that he thought he could pick a bone or two of a very delicate hand of
a young child!
At a later period even than that of the Duchess of Orleans above
mentioned, the German taste could hardly be said to have improved. For
instances of this, I need only refer to the Memoirs of the Margravine
of Bareuth. This lady was the daughter of that Frederic William of
Prussia, whose portrait is graphically drawn also by his own son, and
with additional light and shade by Voltaire. The Princess Frederica
subsequently married the Prince of Bareuth--a _mésalliance_ which did
not displease her easy parents;--they were not as proudly vexed at it
as Isaac and Rachel were at the marriage of their son Esau with the
daughter of Beeri the Hittite, which certainly sounds as if Esau’s
father-in-law had been a pugilistic publican;--the Princess Frederica,
I say, paints a portrait of her father in very broad style. He used to
compel her and his other children to come to his room every morning at
nine o’clock, whence they were never allowed to depart till nine in
the evening, “pour quelque raison que ce fût.” The time was spent by
the affectionate sovereign in swearing at them, and he added injury
to insult by half-famishing them. He begrudged them even a wretched
soup made of bare bones and salt. Occasionally, they were kept fasting
the whole day; or, if he graciously allowed them a meal at his own
table, the royal beast would spit into the dishes from which he had
helped himself, in order to prevent their touching them. At other
times he forced them to swallow compositions of the most disgusting
description--“ce qui nous obligeait quelquefois de rendre, en sa
présence, tout ce que nous avions dans le corps!” He would then throw
the plates at their heads; and, as his children rushed by him to escape
his fury, the paternal brute, whom it is too much flattery to himself,
and too much injustice to the brute creation so to name, would strike
fiercely at them with his crutch, and was eminently disappointed when
he failed to crack their little, hard, royal, but very dirty skulls.
It is known that this madman would have slain his own son, “the rascal
Fritz,” as he, “the great Frederic,” as the world afterwards was used
to call him; and little doubt can exist that the great Frederic owed
most of his great vices, and none of his great qualities, to the
education which he received at the knees of his infamous sire.
The history of the German courts abounds in traits connected with the
table, but I am compelled to go little beyond the announcement of such
a fact. One or two more, however, I may be permitted to notice before
finally leaving this section of my multifaced subject.
Ernest the “Iron” was, perhaps, the least luxurious of his race. He
married Cymburga of Poland, the lady who brought into the Austrian
family the thick lips, which to this day form a characteristic feature
in the imperial physiognomy. Cymburga cracked her nuts with her
fingers; and when she trained her fruit-trees, she hammered the nails
into the wall with her clenched knuckles! Their table was at once
copious and simple. Their son Frederic had less strength both of body
and judgment. At near fourscore years of age he suffered amputation of
the leg, in order to get rid of a cancerous affection. He was “doing
well” after the operation, when he resolved upon dining on melons. He
was told that such a diet would be fatal to him, as it had already been
to one Austrian archduke of his house. Frederic reflected that he would
probably die at all events, and that he had already reigned longer than
any emperor since the days of Augustus, namely, fifty-three years. “I
_will_ have melons,” said he, “betide what may!” He ate unsparingly,
and death followed close upon the banquet.
Frederic would neither drink wine himself, nor allow his consort to do
so, although physicians declared that, without it, she was not likely
to achieve the honours of maternity. She did abstain, and despite what
the oracular doctors had asserted, she became the mother of Maximilian,
a prince who drank wine enough to compensate for the abstinence of
both his parents. His second wife, Bianca of Milan, whom Maximilian
the “Moneyless” married for her dowry, was, like the lady in Young’s
Satires, by no means afraid to call things by their very broadest
names; and she died of an indigestion, brought on by eating too
voraciously of snails! They were of the large and lively sort, still
reared for the market in the field-preserves near Ulm. If my readers
should feel sick at the thought, let them remember their juvenile days,
and “periwinkles,” and be gentle in their strictures. Leopold the
“Angel,” the second son of the Emperor Ferdinand, surpassed even his
father in abstinence. He reared the most odoriferous of plants, but
inflicted on himself the mortification of never going near enough to
scent them; and, poor man! he thought that thereby he was adding a step
to a ladder of good works, by which he hoped to scale heaven!
The grandson of Ferdinand, Joseph I., was a somewhat free liver, and
his intemperate diet was against him when he caught the small-pox. But
the medical men were fiercer foes than his way of life; for when the
eruption was at its worst, they hermetically closed his apartment, kept
up a blazing fire in it, gave him strong drinks, swathed him in twenty
yards of English scarlet broadcloth, and then published, on his dying,
that his majesty’s decease was contrary to all the rules of art. His
brother and successor, Charles, did for himself what the doctors did
for Joseph. In 1740 he had the gout, and _would_ go out hunting in the
wet. He was subsequently seized with what would now be called incipient
cholera, and he _would_ eat--not melons, like some of his obstinate and
imperial predecessors, but that delicate dish for an invalid, mushrooms
stewed in oil! He ate voraciously, and the next day symptoms ensued
which, he was informed, heralded death. Charles, like Louis Philippe,
would not believe his own medical advisers; and there was some reason
in this, for they stood at his bed-side, disputing as to whether
mushrooms were a digestible diet or the contrary. The emperor dismissed
them from his presence, ordered his favourite mushrooms, ate the
forbidden “fruit” with intense gastronomic delight, and died in peace.
The table of the great Frederic of Prussia was regulated by himself.
There were always from nine to a dozen dishes, and these were brought
in one at a time. The king carved the solitary dish, and helped the
company. One singular circumstance connected with this table was,
that each dish was cooked by a different cook, who had a kitchen to
himself! There was much consequent expense, with little magnificence.
Frederic ate and drank, too, like a boon companion. His last work,
before retiring to bed, was to receive from his chief cook the bill
of fare for the next day; the price of each dish, and of its separate
ingredients, was marked in the margin. The monarch looked it cautiously
through, generally made out an improved edition, cursed all cooks
as common thieves, and then flung down the money for the next day’s
expenses.
The late King of Prussia was a sensible man with respect to his table
arrangements. On gala days, and when it concerned the honour of Prussia
that the royal hospitality should assume an appearance of splendour,
his table was as glittering and gastronomic as goldsmiths and cooks
could make it. But in the routine of private and unofficial life, it
was simply that of an opulent merchant, something, perhaps, like that
of Sir Balaam after he had grown rich. Even then he partook only of
the least savoury dishes, and it was seldom, indeed, that he exceeded
a third glass of wine. His example enforced moderation, but it did not
mar enjoyment, for he loved every man around him to be merry and wise.
His own wisdom he manifested by a characteristic trait in 1809. The
royal family had returned to Berlin for the first time since the war
had broken out in 1806. The court marshal, deeming that the piping
times of peace were going to endure for ever, waited on Frederic
William, and asked what amount of champagne he should order for
the royal cellars. “None,” replied the king; “I will drink neither
champagne nor any other wine, until all my subjects--even the very
poorest--can afford to drink beer again.” The incident was made
public, and the king’s poor neighbours were especially delighted. Many
of them testified their gratitude by sending from their gardens or
little farms various articles for his table. The king ate thereof with
pleasure, and did _not_ forget the givers.
I have spoken of his moderation, but here is an additional trait from
his table worth mentioning. When he came to the crown, the grand
marshal proposed a more extended list of viands for the royal table.
“Marshal,” said the king in reply, “I do not feel that my stomach has
become more capacious since I became king. We will let well alone, and
dine to-day even as we have done heretofore.”
In another page I have spoken of Bishop Eglert supping with the king.
Such a guest was not an unfrequent one at the royal dining-table. On
one occasion the bishop had preached before the court in the morning
from Luke xiv. 8-11: “When thou art bidden of any man to a wedding, sit
not down in the highest room, lest a more honourable man than thou be
bidden of him; and he that bade thee and him come and say unto thee,
Give this man place, and thou begin with shame to take the lower room,”
&c. &c.
The bishop profited by the opportunity to expatiate on the virtues of
diffidence and humility, insisting on their observance as necessary for
the preservation of our happiness. Now, many dignified officials were
present at the banquet in question, and the bishop, who had entered the
saloon last, (which does not say much for the courtesy of those who
preceded him,) meekly took his place at the lower end of the table.
There the king’s scrutinizing eye fell upon him; and “Eglert,” said
Frederic William, “I see you are self-applying the text from which you
preached to us to-day. But, if I remember rightly, it is also written,
‘Friend, go higher.’ Come, then, take this chair that is near to me!”
and the simple but highly embarrassed prelate walked blushingly to the
station appointed him, and all in his vicinity began to recognise a man
whom the king himself delighted to honour.
This anecdote reminds me, albeit it be “rue with a difference,” of
one told of the second of the seven Dukes of Guise, Duke Francis.
This celebrated individual was, during one part of his bloody career,
engaged in the service of the Pope, to fight the battles of the latter
against the King of Naples. He was not successful, and his holiness
showered down upon him mordant epigrams and invitations to dinner.
He had accepted one of the latter, and repaired to the sacro-regal
board, after a day in the course of which he had been engaged serving
as acolyte in the Papal chapel, and holding up the trains of very
obese cardinals. In the banqueting-hall of the descendant of the poor
fisherman, he meekly took the lowest seat. He had scarcely done so,
than a French lieutenant endeavoured to thrust in below him. “How now,
friend!” said the haughty enough Guise; “why pushest thou so rudely to
come where there is no room for thee?” “Marry!” said the soldier, “for
this reason, that it might not be said that the representative of a
king of France had taken the last place at a priest’s table!” It was a
bold piece of table-talk to so powerful a man as Guise, who recovered,
and added to his reputation when he subsequently regained, Calais from
the English. Previously to this last feat, when the occupation of
Calais formed the subject of conversation at social boards, there arose
the proverbial expression applied to the bravest of untried men, and
honourable to the reputation of our own ancestors,--“_He_ is not the
sort of man to drive the English out of France!” The proverb died out
of French society from the day when Guise drove old Lord Wentworth out
of Calais, and cheated his duchess out of the silks which he found
therein, and in which he attired the courtesans whom he invited to his
ducal but _not_ dignified table.
It may fairly be asserted that kings may wear as graceful an aspect as
guests at others’ tables, as they do when enacting the host at their
own. The Prince Regent, dining off the mutton which he had helped to
cook at Colonel Hanger’s, is indeed no very edifying spectacle. I
will introduce my readers to a royal guest of what Hamlet would call
“another kidney.”
When the Prussian general Koeckeritz had completed his fiftieth year
of service in 1809, he was residing in modest apartments, becoming
his celibate condition, near the Neustadt Gate at Potsdam. On the
dawn of the day of his martial jubilee, he was harmoniously greeted
by the bands of the garrison; but the hautboys did not discourse such
sweet music as was conveyed to him in a letter from the king, full of
expressions of gratitude for services rendered by him during a long
half century to the crown. At a grand review held in honour of the day,
the king embraced him in presence of the army, giving in his person the
accolade to every other faithful soldier who had served as long; and
when this had been done, Frederic William not only declared he would
escort the old warrior to his plainly furnished lodgings, but requested
to be invited to the _déjeuner à la fourchette_, which he assumed must
then be wanting. Koeckeritz had the pride of Caleb Balderstone, and he
turned pale at the idea of exposing his domestic economy to the eyes
of a king and court. He grew eloquent in excuses, protested that he
was unworthy of the honour designed for him, and piteously muttered
an apologetical phrase about “old bachelors.” “Then why are you a
bachelor?” asked the monarch: “I have often counselled you to marry,
and this very day you shall be punished for your disobedience.” “Well,”
said the general, with a sigh, denoting the resignation of despair,
“if it must be so, I trust your majesty will allow me a few hours in
order to make fitting preparation.” The spirit that possessed Caleb
Balderstone suggested this petition. “Not five minutes!” exclaimed the
sovereign; “you surely have a crust of bread and a glass of wine to
give to us who are your comrades, and we desire no more! Come along,
gentlemen!”
Of course, no further resistance was to be thought of, and the gay and
brilliant escort led the grave Koeckeritz along, looking very much like
a criminal who was about to be hanged with riotous solemnity at his own
gates.
But, when he reached those gates, his surprise was extreme. The
threshold was covered with flowers, the little hall was lined with
the royal servants in their state suits, and the space in front of
the house was partly occupied by a score of “trumpets,” who no sooner
perceived the approach of the hero of the day than they received him,
as our theatrical orchestras do stage kings, with a “flourish.” It
is hardly necessary to add, that when the old general conducted his
guests within, he found there such a banquet as Aladdin furnished his
widowed mother with by means of the lamp. Everything was there, whether
in or out of season; and the rare-looking flasks promised pleasure
less equivocal than that held out by a Calais Boniface upon his cards,
whereon his English visitors were told, that “the wine shall leave you
nothing to hope for!”