Part 27

That these officials were not always addicted to joking, may be seen in the case of the anonymous fool, who is said to have stabbed Theudis, or Theodored, the royal Groth, at the Council of Toledo. It is believed, however, that the assassin only feigned folly in order to obtain freer access to the person of the prince. Generally speaking, the Spanish fools seem to have been as merry fellows as Figaro, whose office of barber was indeed frequently exercised, like that of the jester, with infinite mirth and much impunity. So merry were some of these _Joculatores_, that one king, at least, is said to have died of laughter at a fool’s jest. This king must have been very easy to kill, if we may judge by the joke which, as we are told, proved mortal to him.

The monarch in question was Martin of Arragon, who reigned from 1394 to 1410. His favourite jester was the renowned Borra, who drove such a thriving trade by his jokes, that he is said to have been worth a ton of gold. He looked down upon many a poor philosopher, remarking the while, “I have made more by my folly than that fellow by all his wisdom!” His influence with the King was unbounded, and the bribes he received in consequence tended very much to increase his fortune. What he obtained in this way can only be guessed at. That his jokes were rewarded in magnificent style, we may judge from the circumstance which occurred when Borra exerted himself professionally at a banquet at which Sigismund, afterwards Emperor, was present. The latter, pleased with Borra, so loaded him with silver ere he left the room, that the fool could not carry it away without bending. Folly was never more richly paid, except, perhaps, by Queen Sibylla da Forcia, who paid her joculators in gold, and much pleasanter coin besides.

Borra, as before intimated, killed his royal patron by a joke. King Martin was suffering from indigestion through too greedily devouring an entire goose. As he lay groaning on his bed, Borra skipped into the room with a merry air, and the Monarch inquired of him, whence he came.

“Out of the next vineyard,” answered the fool, “where I saw a young deer hanging by his tail from a tree, as if some one had so punished him for stealing figs.” When it is added that the King died of laughter at this joke, the historians forget the goose and the indigestion.

Alphonso, King of Arragon, had for _his_ fool, one Luis Lopez, who, according to Cervantes, lies buried in no less a place than the cathedral of Cordova. Lopez kept, like other fools, a “Fools’ Chronicle,” in which he entered the follies of the court, and the names of the offenders. The King had given 10,000 ducats to a Moor to purchase horses with, in Barbary. Some days subsequently, on looking over the Chronicle, he was astonished to find a page containing simply his name.

“Cousin Luis,” said his Majesty, “why do you enrol me among fools?”

“For trusting 10,000 ducats to an infidel Moor, without security,” answered Luis.

“Tush, man! The Moor is honest, and will bring back either horses or money.”

“Then if he does,” said Lopez, “I will scratch out your name and put his in its place.”

The above joke was used in various forms, till it grew old, and fools of quality would no longer plagiarize it. It is told of at least one jester at every court. Many fools would have been above such a jest at all; for there were some who, though jesters, joked with instruction in view.

Michael Aitzinger was one of these. I do not know that he can be strictly called a Spanish fool, being a Belgian, but he held the office at the court of Philip II. of Spain, though he became better known for various heavy historical essays than for light jests quickly spoken.

In one case we have an instance of a Spanish court fool also belonging to Philip II., exercising the high profession of prophecy. Flögel thus tells the story, which he borrows from Richter’s _Spectaculum Mundi_.

“A court fool of Philip’s once saw the following persons sitting at the Royal table:--Hugo Boncampius of Bologna, Papal Nuncio in Spain; Perettus, a Franciscan monk of Ancona, who in his youth had been a swineherd; and the Protonotary Sfondrati, of Milan. ‘Dost thou know,’ said the jester to the King, ‘that you have three Popes at table?’ Thereupon, he touched each upon the shoulder according to the future order of their succession; first, Hugo, afterwards Gregory XIII.; then Perretus, subsequently Sixtus V.; and lastly Sfondrati, who became Gregory XIV.”

Flögel considers this as a rather fabulous story, although he admits that the Eastern idea of the sayings of fools being sometimes inspired by divinity, prevailed occasionally in Europe. He cites Claudius Agrippa as ascribing the gift of prophecy to Klaus Narr, of whom I have already spoken; and he maintains the alleged fact that Klaus, at the royal table, aroused the guests by exclaiming that one of the Elector’s castles, twelve leagues off, was in flames. According to tradition, this proved to be the case, and if so, Klaus may claim the possession of that not very desirable gift in this world,--the gift of second-sight.

Of the Spanish jesters in noblemen’s households there is not much to be said. Perico de Ayala, the paid buffoon of the Marquis of Villena, was among the most celebrated. The Marquis, says Floresta (_Española_), “once ordered his wardrobe-keeper to give the fool _un sayo de brocado_; the man only gave him the _mangas_ and _faldamentos_. Away went Perico to the court brotherhood, and requested them to bury one who had died at the Marquis’s, and then away went the funeral procession, with the little death-bell tinkling before them. The Marquis, seeing them at his door, asked them why they came. ‘For the body,’ said the fool, ‘as the Chamberlain only gave me the trimmings.’”

Perico distinguished himself more wittily in his reply to a knight who once asked him the properties of turquoise. “Why,” said the fool, “if you have a turquoise about you, and should fall from the top of a tower and be dashed to pieces, the stone would not break!”

I have already spoken of the Spanish jester who was in the household of the Marquis del Guasto. The latter, a vaunting General, was opposed to the Count François de Bourbon, at the battle of Cerizoles. He had previously made himself so sure of defeating the Count that he took his fool with him, attired in a splendid suit of armour, that the jester might witness his triumph. He had, moreover, promised the jester several hundred ducats if he succeeded in being first to carry to the wife of the Marquis, the news of her husband’s victory. Things, however, fell out just contrary to the Marquis’s expectations. Instead of defeating the Count, the Count defeated him, slaying thousands, capturing cannon, and taking 4,000 prisoners,--not half the number of the slain. Among the prisoners was a noble-looking gentleman in a gorgeous suit of armour, of which he appeared to have taken very peculiar care, for there was no sign of battle about it. It seemed, however, to promise heavy ransom, and the dignified-looking warrior who wore it was conducted with much courteous ceremony to the tent of François de Bourbon. When the Count inquired of his captive as to the rank he bore, the merry fellow at once burst into a laugh, and confessed that he was only house fool to the Marquis del Guasto. “And where is the Marquis?” asked the Count. “Oh!” replied Sir Fool, with a merrier laugh than before, “he has ridden home to his wife, to cheat me of my reward by carrying her the earliest news of the battle.”

If we may judge from the little that is to be collected in books, concerning the Spanish jesters, they were mentally superior to their Italian colleagues. Some of the former achieved a literary reputation. At the head of these was Estevanillo Gonzales, who held office successively in the households of Count Piccolomini and the Duke of Amalfi; both these noblemen were commanders in the King of Spain’s army, in the Netherlands. In 1646, when Gonzales was with the Duke, he wrote his autobiography, describing himself as “hombre de buen humor.” This book was partly translated, partly rewritten by Lesage, and is doubtless known to most of my readers.

The wonder perhaps is, that dignified Spaniards should keep jesters at all. But one of the gravest of Englishmen did so rather than be out of the fashion. I allude to Sir Thomas Wentworth (Strafford), who on his establishment at Wentworth Woodhouse, about the year 1620, maintained a retinue of sixty persons, and among them there is enumerated, by Hunter, in his History of Doncaster, our ancient friend, “Tom Foole.” The mode was then more prevalent in Germany than in any other part of Europe; and thither, if the “gentle reader” object not, we will now betake ourselves.

THE FOOLS OF THE IMPERIAL AND MINOR COURTS OF GERMANY.

Voltaire remarks, in his ‘Age de Louis XIV.,’ that the fashion of keeping court and household fools and dwarfs, was for a time the _grande mode_ of all the courts of Europe. It was a remnant of barbarism, he tells us, which continued longer in Germany than elsewhere. He, naturally enough, traces this mode, in its origin, to a lack of amusement of a better sort. The poor pleasure which degraded the human intellect, was only a pleasure, he says, because, in the times of ignorance and bad taste, really agreeable and praiseworthy pastimes were not easily procurable. The unphilosophical philosopher, however, forgets that the most celebrated fools were at the most refined courts; and that L’Angeli was in full swelling triumph long after Corneille had composed ‘The Cid.’

The “mode” in Germany dates undoubtedly from a very early time, if we may credit a German poetical tradition which tells us that the jester used to appear in the procession of the condemned to execution. But this incident is perhaps only the poetical filling-up of an imaginary picture.

The profession of “Fool” was so profitable in Germany, in the Middle Ages, that not only were men found ambitious to be attached to some nobleman’s house, where there were ordinarily ten or a dozen of them, but they were proud of being as it were the honorary fools of the nobles, and for this reason. Holding the rank in question, they roamed over the country, reaped considerable profits by the exercise of 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 of 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 _Noctuæ 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. “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 an 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 the 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]

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 away 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!” 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.