in the person of Joseph Frohlich, for whom he had ninety-nine different
suits made, and who in his full dress was often seen in the streets of
Dresden. He was not the only fool at this court, for we learn that when
the Prussian “joker” von Gundling died, the court fools of Dresden went
into mourning for their colleague, wearing crape bands twenty ells in
length, and mourning cloaks so long that they or others were always
tumbling over them.
A singular instance of what was considered to qualify a man for being
a court fool, presents itself in the case of Conrad Pocher, jester
to Philip the Upright, Elector Palatine. Pocher was a cowherd, and
was once sent a-field, with a boy to attend him. The boy was sick and
feeble, and Pocher, out of compassion, hung him to the branch of a
tree. He was tried for the murder, but he defended himself with such
humour, on the ground that he had greatly benefited the helpless little
cow-boy, that the court was in ecstasy, and the Elector, recognizing
Pocher’s merits, immediately appointed him to the post of official
jester. Little is said of his wit. His jokes were of a very lumbering
nature. He would crop the tails of the Elector’s cows, that they might
look like the Elector’s horses; and once, when his master laid siege
to a small town, which he wanted to reduce by famine, and accordingly
occupied the passes leading to it, Pocher lay for three days across a
ditch which ran in the direction of the town, in order to hasten, as he
said, the surrender of the place!
Another Palatine Prince, Duke Wolfgang of Neuberg, had a far wittier
fool in “Squire Peter,” as he was jokingly called. It was once remarked
to the Squire, that the Duke did not so much care for him as the
Elector of Cologne did for _his_ fool. “I know that very well,” said
Peter; “the reason is, that my master looks after his country and
subjects, and therefore has not the leisure to play with fools, as
_your_ master has.”
Of his dignity, Peter had a very exalted idea, and when a young Count
once wished to bandy jokes with him, the Squire haughtily observed,
“I am his Serene Highness’s jester, and not the tool of every sorry
Count that comes to visit him!” He spared the clergy as little as
the nobility; and to a priest who once asked him if he had prepared
for the coming fast, Peter replied, “Better than you, Father, for
you have bought fish and eggs enough to last a family fond of good
living, for a month. Now _I_ have bought nothing at all; and _so_
am better prepared for fasting.” At the close of the fast, the same
priest inquired how he had kept it. “I did away with a couple of hams,”
said Peter;--at which the reverend gentleman looked shocked. “Don’t
look so disgusted,” rejoined the Squire. “I did away with them in
this sense,--I gave them, instead of money, to a neighbour who was a
creditor of mine.” “You are a merry fellow,” said the priest; “let me
now hear you say the Lord’s Prayer.” “I don’t know it,” answered the
Squire. “It is wicked, it is shameful--” the priest began to remark,
when Peter interrupted him by observing, “Exactly; that’s just the
reason why I did not learn it.”
Numerous are the stories of this nature told of Squire Peter, who
appears to have been something of a profane wit. Towards the end of
the century in which he lived, we find a celebrated fool in Pomerania,
Claus Hintze, in the service of Duke John Frederick of Stettin. Claus
was originally only a cowherd, but after his appointment as official
jester to the Duke, he so grew in his patron’s favour, that his master
made him lord of the village of Butterdorf; and in consequence of a
rhymed petition to that effect, declared that the district should never
again serve as a wolf-chase. For this privilege the grateful people
thanked a fool who had a fair share of fun in him, who served his ducal
master well on very critical occasions, and who was as jolly a toper as
any in Pomerania.
In the last character he was surpassed by a successor at the ducal
court, Hans Miesko, A.D. 1600. Hans was imbecile, and it is surprising
to find that, even in the age in which he lived, princes could derive
pleasure from the mistakes and unclean acts of such persons, or
could give them official standing in their household. Miesko died
in extreme old-age, from reaching which his gluttony and excessive
drinking had presented no obstruction; and he is perhaps the only
fool who had the honour of a funeral sermon being preached over him.
This was done by the command, and in the presence of, his master, Duke
Francis, and the Reverend Philip Cradelius, who took his text from
1 Samuel xxi. 13–15: “And he changed his behaviour before them, and
feigned himself mad in their hands, and scrabbled on the doors of the
gate, and let his spittle fall down upon his beard. Then said Achish
unto his servants, Lo, ye see the man is mad: wherefore then have ye
brought him to me? Have I need of mad men, that ye have brought this
fellow to play the mad man in my presence? shall this fellow come into
my house?” The preacher too much exalted the merits of Miesko, as
Christian, servant, and fool; over-praised the condescension of princes
towards such individuals, and founded on his text, scriptural warrant
for the existence of such officials. But I think there is something
satirical in the application of the text, which teaches us, says the
preacher, that where great princes are, there too may you look to find
great fools. The double meaning should have raised the Rector to a
Deanery.--But perhaps Duke Francis did not relish the joke.
While Miesko was making Pomeranian princes glad by his imbecility and
the fun drawn out of it, Frederick Taubman was keeping the Saxon court
in merry humour by his conceits. But Taubman, though as lowly born as
Miesko, was a scholar, and was not officially a fool. He was something
of a poet, something of a philosopher, was well-read, was a collegiate
professor; but therewith he was poor, yet was fond of luxurious living,
and therefore he was glad to take his eccentricities to court, where
their exhibition was paid for in ducats, rich viands, costly wines,
and endless jollification. He was the court fool in all but being
officially appointed; and, with better qualifications than many, used
the license common to all. On one occasion, a courtier who was shaking
hands with him, remarked, “Taubman, your coarse hands are only fit for
digging.” Taubman squeezed the courtier’s fingers, and answered, “I am
already handling a clod.” He once asked Cardinal Clesel, if he knew
where God was _not_. “In hell,” answered the Cardinal readily.--“Nor in
Rome,” rejoined the wit; “or wherefore is his Vicegerent there?”
Taubman died in 1613. The professional fools increased after his death.
The Elector John George I. maintained, in the year 1639, no less than
three at the same time. Two of them were named Michael, and one Caspar;
and from a tailor’s bill quoted by Flögel, it is very clear that, gay
as the official dress may have been, it was often patched and turned,
before a new one was given in its place.
But, as in the case of Taubman, so in this later period were poor and
witty scholars welcome at the German courts. Bolla was one of these; he
was an Italian, who had his home in the palace at Heidelberg, where he
proved himself to be, what was commonly said of him, _virum ad risum
natum_, a man born for laughter. He excelled in macaronic poetry, and
not only accepted the name of fool, but begged for fool’s largess in
very indifferent Latin verse,--of which here is a sample:--
“Amate semper vestrum zanum,
Sed aperite, vestro more, manum.
Hoc precatur vester zanus,
Corpore, non crumena sanus.”
It was not only the poor scholar that now was even more welcome for his
wit than the official jester. As in Saxony, so in Poland, the liveliest
sayings were uttered by non-professional individuals. At the courts in
both places just named, the acknowledged court wit, for a long period,
was Frederick, Baron of Kyau, who excelled, we are told, both as a
general and as a joker. In the same list must be enrolled the Baron
von Gundling, who commenced his career of eccentricity at the court
of Frederick William I. of Prussia, at the commencement of the last
century.
Von Gundling was a scholar and of good family, and he was chosen by the
King as a companion for his few leisure hours, which he desired to turn
to instruction and amusement combined. But the Baron was a pedantic
fool, inflated with the most absurd pride, and addicted to hard
drinking and filthiness, like any Silenus. The King loaded him with
ridiculous titles, and he walked about in a dress that must have made
him look like our burlesque King Arthur, in ‘Tom Thumb,’ or Justice
Midas, in O’Hara’s operetta. It must have been pitiable to see a man of
learning submit to any indignity at the hands of King and nobles. He
would embrace a dressed-up monkey presented by a prince, as his son;
and he took as a mark of favour, his being sent-for to the palace in
a sedan-chair, the bottom of which, as previously contrived, fell out
by the way, and the bearers of which had orders to push on and keep
their passenger walking. He was seldom absent from the private evening
parties of the King, where six or eight persons only were present;
where beer and pipes were the refreshments which stood before each
guest,--no servant being admitted; and where sometimes very serious
business was transacted. Gundling died in 1731; his body may be said to
have been pelted by epigrammatic epitaphs, but as it was carried to the
grave in a wine-cask, long before prepared for the occasion, the clergy
refused to bury it with any but maimed rites.
As pedantic and degraded a fool as Von Gundling, and at the same
court, was a certain diminutive Doctor Bartholdi, whose buffoonery
the King once rewarded by presenting him with a peruke which reached
to his feet. But Bartholdi was for ever quarrelling with his patron
or with the government, and he ended his days in prison. Nor were
these the only persons who played the fool, without professing it,
at the Prussian court. Among the latter, and they were all more
or less scholars, was Kornemann, who had not wit enough to escape
marrying a sham countess. A second was Von Hackmann, who was rogue as
well as scholar and buffoon, and robbed the King who sheltered him
at court. He fled to Vienna, changed and re-changed his religion,
returned to Prussia, was whipped by the hangman, and died in misery.
David Fassmann, a writer of considerable merit, was another of those
buffoon-philosophers whom Frederick William distinguished as his
“Learned Fools.” Fassmann held various offices at court, where his
sufferings were as great as his absurd dignities, in both of which the
monarch found opportunity for laughter. For losing a key entrusted to
him by Frederick, Fassmann was condemned to carry a heavy wooden one,
an ell long, round his neck for several days. On various occasions,
these learned fools were excited against each other by noble persons,
who found mirth in so doing. Then would they fly at each other; and
Flögel describes one with a pair of tongs thrusting a burning coal in
the face of his pedantic adversary, who, flying at his assailant, turns
him on his face, strips down his dress, and beats him with the tongs,
till he is tired, or, varying his attack, sets fire to the antagonistic
pedant’s peruke by firing a pistol among the curls.
The Baron von Poelnitz, at the court of the last-named King and at that
of Frederick II., fulfilled a similar office, without being expressly
named to it. In the intercourse which subsisted between the King and
the Baron, it is difficult to say which was the greater fool, and it is
inconceivable that reasonable creatures should be guilty of the absurd
follies attributed to them. The most of the jokes were childish enough,
and King and Baron quarrelled and became reconciled like children. As
a specimen of the familiarity which existed between them, here is one
in connection with a royal commission to the Baron to procure a pair of
turkeys. Poelnitz sent the birds with a very laconic letter: “Here are
the turkeys, Sire.” Frederick, rather nettled at the style, ordered
the leanest ox that could be found to be decked ridiculously with
flowers, and the horns to be gilded. This done, the animal was taken
and tied up in front of the Baron’s house, carrying this inscription on
the forehead:--“Here is the ox, Poelnitz.”
The Baron’s readiness at repartee is exemplified by a remark he made to
a Baron Schwertz, who was of Jewish descent. Poelnitz, one wintry day,
standing with his back to one of the royal stoves, set his long-tailed
coat on fire. “Ah,” said Schwertz,
“Ainsi brûla jadis et Sodome et Gomorre.”
To which Poelnitz readily replied,
“Quoi, du Vieux Testament tu te souviens encore!”
Solomon Morgenstern is the last of the learned fools whom I shall
mention. He, too, submitted to every indignity, that he might keep in
favour by exciting the good-humour of the King. His dress was more
caricatured than that of any of his fellows; and instead of a sword,
he wore a fox’s brush at his side, and in his cocked hat, hare’s feet
for feathers. The wisest thing that Morgenstern did, was his lecture on
‘Reasonable thoughts on Folly and Fools,’ in which there was much sly
satire, which was probably lost on the monarch, who presided over the
assembly of listeners.
Finally, the last of the privileged fools existed within the lifetime
of some aged persons still surviving. He was seen by Dr. Edward Moore,
in 1774, at the Electoral court at Mannheim. He was a Tyrolese who
spoke German with so droll an accent that universal laughter was
excited by it. He appeared when the Elector and his guests sat down
to dinner; and he went round the table directing his sallies of wit
against every one present, not even sparing the princesses. This was
the _ultimus ex officio stultorum_; but the time then was at hand
that was to bring with it that revolution which came in contact with
nothing in Europe that it did not destroy,--the French Revolution.
It touched the German Empire; and down went Empire, Electors, and
Fools. The three indeed have reappeared, but under different names and
modified forms.
Before closing the roll of German fools, I will notice one who was in
the service of Prince Maurice of Orange. He was with the Prince with
his forces before Nimeguen. Maurice having some trouble to set his
own troops in order, turned to his fool, who accompanied him on the
expedition, and asked him whether it would not have been better that
he, the jester, should command the army, and the prince turn fool.
“Things would not be much improved by that,” said the Dutch motley;
“for you are as little able to make a jest, as I am to command an army.
If we change places, the States General will dismiss both of us.” Here,
however, the fool did Maurice injustice, for the Prince could say
some excellent things; and his description of the martial qualities
of the chief military nations of the period, is exactly in the spirit
of a professional wit, more true than refined: “The German,” said
Maurice, “is, in war, just like a louse, which lets itself be killed
without flinching. The Frenchman is like a flea, which skips here and
there, and does not willingly allow himself to be taken. The Spaniard
resembles the insect which can only with difficulty be dislodged from
where it burrows itself; and as for the Italian, he is like the bug,
which, being killed, leaves an ill smell behind him.”--And now for the
official fools of Italy.
THE JESTERS OF ITALY.
There are very few of the writers who have devoted their attention to
the subject treated in this imperfect volume, who have ever alluded
to the fool who suddenly appeared at the court of Alboin, King of the
Lombards, (A.D. 572,) and who created a large measure of astonishment
there, by his rude exterior and his ready wit. All Verona was, in
popular phrase, “full of him.” The chronicle of his “Astuzie” was long
the delight of the whole of Italy.
His name was Bertoldo. He was hideously ugly, and not very clean in his
person; dwarfed, and deformed. His eyebrows resembled pigs’ bristles;
but his eyes beneath them, gleamed like two torches; his hair was as
red as carrots, and if you can fancy humanity caricatured to the very
utmost extent, you will not, even then, be able to see with your mind’s
eye the never-matched hideousness of this rustic, who set all the
court in a roar by entering the great hall where Alboin was presiding,
and, without even uncovering, seating himself by the side of the grim
husband of Rosamunda.
The Lombard King smiled sourly at his impudence, and inquired what he
was, when he was born, and in what country.
“I am a man,” said the monster; “was born the night my mother bore me;
and” (this is something of Ancient Pistol’s phrase, which, indeed,
often smacked of the fool’s humour or philosophy,) “the world is my
native country.” King and court understood, now, with whom they had
to do, and they tried his wit by plying him with questions, “What is
the swiftest thing on earth?” asked one. “Thought,” was the reply of
Bertoldo. To other questions he replied, that the best wine was the
wine drunk in another man’s house; and that the worst fire at home was
to be found in an angry wife and an impudent servant.
“Bertoldo,” said the King, “could you contrive to bring me water in a
sieve without spilling any?”
“Certainly,” answered the fool; “in a hard frost, I could bring you any
quantity.”
“Tor so clever a rejoinder, you shall have from me any boon you desire.”
“La, you there!” cried Bertoldo, “I shall have nothing of the sort.
You cannot give me what you do not possess. I am in eager search of
happiness, of which you have not a grain; and how could you give me
any?”
Alboin alluded to his kingly power and glory, which the fool mocked
mightily. He pointed to the glittering crowds of nobles who stood
around his throne. “Oh yes,” was the comment of Bertoldo, “they stand
round your throne; so do hungry ants round a crab-apple, and with
the same purpose,--to devour it.” And therewith he so satirized the
condition of a King, that Alboin threatened to have him whipped out
of court. Some rather sorry jests followed; but as they were rewarded
with unaccountable peals of laughter, the Lombard lords and ladies may
be supposed to have been more merry, or much wiser, than we are. The
riotous fun was checked for awhile, by the entrance of two women in
search of the King and his royal justice. The subject in dispute was a
crystal mirror, which was claimed by both, but which had been stolen by
one from the other. Alboin, being a most religious as well as gracious
King, was, of course, reminded of the Judgment of Solomon, and thought
he could not do better than imitate it. He first ordered the mirror to
be broken into powder, and divided equally between the rival claimants;
and then he commanded it to be delivered whole to the woman who had
expressed regret that so splendid a mirror should be destroyed. The
entire court was in ecstasy at this rather second-hand wisdom of the
King, who, with more conceit than might have been expected in such a
stern personage, looked at Bertoldo and asked something tantamount to
whether he was not a second Daniel come to judgment?
“Your excellent mightiness,” observed the fool, “can only be said to
be an ass.” Nevertheless, the King seems to have had the best of it,
for Bertoldo simply confined himself to abusing ladies generally, and
the two who were lately plaintiff and defendant, in particular,--as
impostors, whose wickedness was past imagining. Thereupon the gallant
monarch burst forth into a passionate panegyric on the entire female
sex, dealing in warm terms and honeyed phrases, like those in a grand
_scena_, by some enamoured _tenore robusto_, and which, set to music
by a fashionable _maestro_, and trilled by the darling of the season,
would make the fortune of Mr. Chappell, were he only lucky enough to
secure the copyright.
“If I don’t make you change your tune before tomorrow night’s sleep,”
said Bertoldo, “gibbet me as high as Haman.”
“Be it so!” cried Alboin; “by the bones of the Wise Kings, I will keep
thee to thy bargain, Sir Wisdom. Look to it.”
Bertoldo flung himself on some straw in the royal stable: he was
resolved not to go to sleep till he had provided for his triumph; and
in five minutes a chuckle of satisfaction was suddenly succeeded by the
loudest snore that had ever startled the affrighted ears of the steeds
of Alboin the King.
His plan was simple enough; he merely went, in the morning, to the
lady who had been so self-denying in the affair of the mirror, and
announced to her that the King had issued a decree by which every man
was permitted to have seven wives. The announcement had the effect of
infuriating the lady, and she lost no time in stirring up, not only
the women of her own district, but half the city. These repaired,
swift of foot and loud of tongue, to the palace, swept through its
halls, and rushed into the sacred presence of Alboin himself, who stood
before his throne with his hand on his sword, as if in presence of an
insurrection. Bertoldo stood in one corner of the vast apartment, with
a demure and satisfied look, feeling sure of the result.
If the words with which Alboin was pelted by the ladies on this
occasion be correctly given by the old chronicle, it is clear
that freedom of speech was very fearlessly exercised by the
remonstrants,--or rather, by the revilers. It was in vain that the King
held his hand aloft, and essayed to speak. He was overwhelmed by a
hurricane of screams, squalls, screeches, and reproaches, for issuing
the decree in question. One loose-tongued termagant exclaimed above
her sisters, that there would have been some sense in him, if he had
conferred on every woman the right of taking seven husbands; but to
allow every man to have seven wives!!--” and the very idea of such an
outrage so worked upon the amiable furies, that they interrupted the
loud speaker by a howl so shrill, so intense, so exasperating, that
Alboin, after stopping his ears with his gauntleted hands, gave a
signal which his guards obeyed by charging the body of remonstrants,
and driving them into the streets,--with much attendant ruffling of
collars and disturbing of stomachers. When the hall was cleared,
there remained Bertoldo, looking still demurely at the King, and with
an inquiring aspect about his expression. Alboin seemed annoyed for
a moment; but at length, smiling, he acknowledged that the fool was
right, and that women were tigresses.
The revolt of the women, and the share that Bertoldo had had therein,
coming to the knowledge of Alboin’s not very gentle Queen, she sent for
the jester, who, throughout the interview, kept up with her Majesty,
as was indeed his custom in most of the conversations in which he
took part, a constant fire of proverbs. As he contrived to surpass the
royal lady in this species of “capping,” she rather unfairly ordered
him, under escort, to carry a letter to certain officials, which
letter enjoined them to whip the bearer. At Bertoldo’s urgent request,
the Queen condescended to add a postscript, whereby the scourgers
were directed to spare the head, but by no means to be merciful in
an opposite direction. When prisoner and escort reached the gaol,
Bertoldo stepped forward, letter in hand, announced himself as head
of the company, and bade the hangman’s lackeys to lay lustily on his
tail, or followers. The poor wretches were lashed till they were raw;
and at this practical joke the court laughed, and all that was asked
of Bertoldo was, that he should maintain a tournament of words with
Alboin’s own official court fool.
This fool’s name, or nickname, was Fagotto. He was short, fat, and
bald; and he was the challenger of Bertoldo. When the King acceded
to his request, and ordered the duel of the two fools to take place,
he remarked to Fagotto, “Now, proceed; but take heed not to resemble
Benevento, who went out to shear, and came home shorn.”
Fagotto replied with a pompous boast, and then turning on his rival,
assailed him with a species of amenities like those that used to pass
between carnival fools on the Paris Boulevards, and before which every
decent person fled. From this contest Bertoldo issued triumphant;
but the King again taxed his wit by ordering him to demonstrate in
what way, as he had asserted, the daylight was whiter than milk, and
stimulated him to success by promising him the bastinado if he failed.