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 never heard in Bohemia,—the which I can very well believe. I will repeat one other tale recounted of him, as it gave rise to a proverb which I have myself heard applied in Bohemia. Zytho, procuring some wisps of straw, transformed them into swine, which he sold at a good price to a baker named Michael. Zytho simply recommended the purchaser not to take the swine down to the water, which of course Michael did on the first opportunity, out of curiosity, to see the consequence. And he saw it: the swine no sooner touched the water than they were all again transformed into wisps of straw, and went floating away down the stream. Away too went Michael in search of Zytho, whom he found fast asleep on a bench, but at whose leg he pulled so lustily, in order to arouse him, that the leg, thigh and all, came away, and the enraged Zytho summoned him before a magistrate, who awarded him very competent damages. Hence the proverb, applied by a Bohemian to any one who has played him false or put a trick upon him, “You’ll get as much profit from that, as Michael did from the swine.”
Such were the stories rather than the deeds which gave delight to the Ducal court of Bohemia a few centuries ago. According to tradition, Zytho was ultimately carried off by his arch-patron, the devil; not however so much because of his sorcery and satanic deeds, as because he fell into the heresy of John Huss, who, according to the Roman Catholics of that day, and the Univers of this, was himself an agent of Lucifer.
My readers may remember that a pagan Roman Emperor left to a decision of the Senate the question whether Christianity should or should not be tolerated in the Roman dominions.338 In Iceland, too, the same question was submitted to a similar process, and in both cases it was carried in the affirmative, by narrow majorities. In Bohemia, one similar, but less important in degree, was left to be decided by the issue of a contest between two court fools. In 1461, the Hungarian King, Mathias Corvinus, and the Bohemian King, George Podiebrad, met in conference at Prague. The latter, a Reformer, was the father-in-law of Corvinus, a Roman Catholic, and each had a capacious hut erected, in which, by turns, the august parties, illustriously attended, carried on a course of debates, disputes, hard words, and jollification. From the Pope’s Nuncio down to the two court fools of their majesties, all took active part in every circumstance of the conference. One of the knotty points under discussion was that of religion,—the Reformed or the Roman Catholic.
“Let the two fools fight, and decide it by single combat,” said the Bohemian counsellor, Isdengo, who was secretly in the pay of Corvinus. “Let the two fools settle it!” cried the counsellor. The Papal Nuncio had the decency to protest against the proposition. But the two sovereigns, lacking excitement, and weary with last night’s banquet, thought the idea excellent. The fools were accordingly commanded to fall-to and do their best in behalf of their respective forms of faith. After exasperating each other by sallies of irritating wit, they grappled and commenced wrestling. The spectators stood anxiously looking on while, by such singular argument, the question of the Sacrament in one or both kinds was being discussed. The Bohemian Utraquists were in high spirits, for their champion was a gigantic fellow, while his opponent, the little Hungarian, was not stouter built than ordinary strong men. He maintained the contest, however, manfully, and when the course of combat passed from wrestling to hard blows, he dealt one so well placed, that it would have upset the Utraquist339 champion, had he not been promptly upheld by a Bohemian in the rear.
Thereupon the whole Hungarian faction roared out, “Shame! Unfair!” etc. The Bohemians shouted loudly in an opposite sense. From exclamations, both parties fell to their swords, and the whole company were speedily hacking at each other, while the fools sat down and laughed at both sides. Their respective royal masters had great difficulty in appeasing the tumult and postponing the debate. Meanwhile, many a good fellow had got a hole in his side or his throat, from which his life-blood went trickling; and, finally, Isdengo was banished for making the proposition, by which he had left a Sacramental question to the arbitrement of a couple of jesters.
The fool still meddled with religious matters, and Killian, the jester of King Ladislaus of Hungary, once lectured the Bohemian sovereign George von Podiebrad, as the Hussite monarch stood by the side of the Roman Catholic Ladislaus, at a mass in the cathedral at Breslau. “I see,” whispered Killian to George, “with what sort of a face you look at our service; but I cannot see your heart. So tell me, do you not think our religion better than your own? See the nobles, princes, kings, who follow it. Had you not better join with them than with your Bohemian Reformers? Can a few men like these be of more sound understanding than the whole Christian Church? Let noble knight as you are join with noble knight, and not with the dirty mob of Reformers.”
“Friend Killian,” said George, “if you say this unprompted by others, you are not such a fool as you pretend to be; but if you have been moved to it by others, tell them from me, that I act according to my conscience, am responsible to God only for my belief, and that my trust is in Him alone. What I profess, I firmly believe; and were I to change, I should be not only fool, but knave; and I see no340 cause, cousin Killian, why I should either make myself like unto you or unto those who moved you to this bold step of yours. Keep to your folly, Fool, and I will keep to my belief.”
It is certain that, as late as the sixteenth century, the court or house fool was still a serf or thrall, and could be bought and sold. We have a well-known instance of this, which may be mentioned here. When Louis II. of Hungary (Louis I. of Bohemia) visited Erlau, in 1520, he found that the governor there possessed one of the best trained hawks and one of the merriest fools that Louis had ever seen; and so well pleased was he with them, that he offered to purchase both. We can only approximately judge of the value of the fool, as the price given for him and the bird is set down in the sum total. There was a good deal of haggling, but the money paid down by the King was 40,000 gulden—between three and four thousand pounds.
Looking in at another minor court, we discover that “Frederick with the bitten cheek,” a Thuringian prince, was partly indebted to a court fool for the scar from which he got his name. It happened that his father, Albert, Landgrave of Thuringia, loved a lady, Cunegunda, better than he did his wife, Margaret, daughter of the Emperor Frederick II. The court fool seems to have been a menial, since I find him described as a carrier of wood and water to the Wartburg, where Margaret resided. Cunegunda so wrought upon the fool by terror, that he consented to murder the Landgrave’s wife; but he only entered her room to reveal to her the conspiracy, and to ask forgiveness. Poor Margaret, aware that her life was not safe, since her rival, Cunegunda von Eisenberg, had resolved to take it, resolved on immediate flight; and it was in her eagerly kissing her little son Frederick before she escaped, that she bit his cheek, and left for ever thereon the testimony of her terror and affection.
341
“She, wanting wit, and frantic with affright,
Would fain have kiss’d, but, mad with grief, did bite.”
The name of the faithful fool is not given; but he is said to have lived in her service, during the few months she survived, at Frankfort-on-the-Maine.
The most renowned fool of the following century was Jenni von Stocken, who was attached to the household of Leopold the Pious. He was greatly esteemed by his master, and often gave him counsel which would have profited him had he been more ready to follow it. Jenni strongly advised Leopold against entering the Swiss defiles before securing his return therefrom, in case of accident. The issue of the battle of Sempach, A.D. 1386, showed that a fool’s advice would have been worth taking.
Nearly all von Stocken’s sayings and doings are attributed to various jesters of succeeding centuries. This, too, was the case with Killian, the fool of Albert of Austria. But there is one saying which is undoubtedly Killian’s own. He was a strangely eccentric fellow, and some one asked him why, being so profoundly wise a personage, he should play the fool. “Ah! there it is,” said Killian; “The more thoroughly I play the fool, the wiser do men account me; and there is my son, who thinks himself wise, and whom everybody knows to be a fool.”
It may perhaps be safely asserted, that of all the court jesters at the lesser courts of Germany, Klaus von Ranstadt, or Klaus Narr, “the fool,” was the most famous. He flourished at the electoral court of Saxony at the end of the fifteenth and beginning of the sixteenth centuries. He served as fool to four successive Electors. The first of these, the Elector Ernest, met with Klaus when he was keeping geese. The Prince was passing through Ranstadt with a great number of horses, men, and waggons, when Klaus, wishing to see the sight, and unwilling to leave his geese, tied all the young ones by the neck to his girdle, and with two old geese342 under his arms, he stood to view the procession. The Prince laughed, questioned the goosekeeper, who had strangled his young charge, and was so delighted at the sharp replies he received, that he engaged him at once as his fool, to the great delight of the grave elders of the place, who declared that Klaus kept the whole district in a continual uproar of idle laughter by his tricks and waggery.
His tricks and his waggery, however, have frequently a coarse and sometimes an unintelligible character. They have been published at various times, and one sample will serve to show how Klaus performed his office.
The Elector Frederick, finding his dominions threatened with invasion, was inclined to treat with the enemy, but first asked the fool what he thought of the matter. “Give me your best mantle,” said Klaus, “and I will tell you.” This having been done, Klaus withdrew, tore the mantle in two, and reappeared with one of the halves hanging from his shoulders. The Elector, enraged at the damage done to his best cloak, asked what was meant by such a joke. “It means,” said Klaus, “that if you treat with the foe, you will soon look as ridiculous with half your dominions, as I do with half a cloak.”
This was a more cumbersome sort of wit than was exercised by a contemporary fool, Peter B?renhaut, at the court of Philip, Landgrave of Baden. The latter complained of headache on the morrow of a terrible drinking-bout, and the fool said he knew a cure for it. “What is your remedy?” asked the Landgrave, “Drink again today,” answered Peter. “Then I shall only suffer more tomorrow,” said the Prince. “Then,” rejoined Peter, “you must drink still more.” “But in what would such a remedy end?” asked the Landgrave. “Why,” said Peter, “in your being a bigger fool than I am!”
The jesters to small potentates rivalled the Narrs of the Imperial Court in their boldness. It would seem that at343 grave ecclesiastical discussions, where a common man would not dare to make a remark, nor a courtier to venture on a comment, the fool spoke and acted without restraint. Eck has left an account of the great controversy on Articles of Faith which he held against Luther at Leipsic in 1519. “The citadel,” he says, “was prepared as our battle-field; the place was guarded by seventy-six soldiers, to protect us, in case of need, from the insults of the people of Wittemberg.” Against the wit or anger, however, of the fool of George, Duke of Saxony, who was present with his master, no precaution was thought necessary. To the jester, some of the courtiers whispered that Luther and Eck were disputing about his marriage, the former being for and the latter against it. The ducal fool had but one eye, but that was fired with indignation against the supposed opponent of his marriage. Eck bore his angry looks for a time with some patience. At length, annoyed at and not comprehending them, the grave churchman took to mimicking the infirmity of the fool, by screwing up one eye closely, and rolling the other at him in a sort of comical defiance. This drove the Saxon joker out of all bounds of moderation. He started up, pummelled old Eck with hard words, called him rogue, liar, and thief, and after overwhelming him with a torrent of similar amenities, took an indignant hop, skip, and jump out of the hall, amid the universal laughter of the delighted audience.
At a later period, Augustus II., of Saxony, had his own official fool 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.
344 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 fond345 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 is346 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, your347 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 Fl?gel, 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 career348 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 they349 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 Fl?gel 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 the350 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 br?la 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 revolution351 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.