Chapter XII: Part 12

L’Angeli was of a good family, but the branch of it to which he belonged was so decayed, that the bearer of the name was glad to follow the Prince of Condé to Flanders in the humble capacity of a stable-boy. The lad excited notice by his satire and wit, and Condé, on his return from Flanders, could think of no more acceptable gift to present to the King, Louis XIII., than his vivacious stable-boy. The latter rose to fortune, especially in the succeeding reign, when he became the salaried and official jester, and amassed a fortune. If the courtiers wanted a joke from him, he first made them pay for it. If they wanted to escape his sarcasm, Angeli would not pronounce them exempt, without a fee. What he thus pocketed he carefully put by. Altogether, he was a well-regulated fellow, save in the matter of attendance at church; for absenting himself from which, he assigned two fool’s reasons, namely, that he could not endure brawling, and did not understand argument. When he had acquired some five-and-twenty thousand crowns by the exercise of his office at court, his proud relatives began to acknowledge their long-neglected kinsman: Angeli only laughed, and went on increasing his fortune. “Of all us fools,” once exclaimed Marigny, as he saw Louis XIV. laughing at the jester’s light words,--“of all us fools who were attached to the Prince of Condé, Angeli is the only one who has made his fortune.”

This “fou” had a quiet as well as a lively wit. On one occasion, finding himself standing by the side of a nobleman, one of whose ancestors was supposed to have been a buffoon: “Cousin,” said Angeli, “let us both sit down, nobody will pay any particular attention to _us_; and you and I are not likely to take offence from each other.” L’Angeli died in 1640, just three years after Archie Armstrong had been ejected from the English court.

With L’Angeli ordinarily closes the list of officially titled fools in France; but I learn from the learned author of the work on the medals and tokens of societies connected with fools and follies, that the Count of Toulouse, the illegitimate son of Louis, had a fool officially appointed to exercise his calling in the Count’s household. The author in question most provokingly adds, that “there was one anecdote he could tell of this fool, which would suffice to avenge the whole class of fools of the contempt with which we cover them. The history is unpublished and piquant, but,” again adds this writer, “it does not belong to me; and that is all I can say about it, _for the moment_;”--and he never alludes to it again throughout his book!

Although Louis XIV. appointed no successor to L’Angeli, it is clear that he continued to be pleased with tricks after the court jester’s fashion. We have this exemplified in the case of that elegant but inconstant lover, Vardis, who, after throwing the whole court and household of the King into confusion by his audacious gallantries, was exiled to Provence, where, for nearly thirty years, he continued to be the delight of the women and the detestation of the men, who envied and could not rival him.

At the end of the time above mentioned, the Count, then almost a sexagenarian, received permission from the Government, to return to Paris. Vardis was still uncertain how he might be received by the King, and his very happiness depended on the nature of such reception. He went boldly down to Versailles, and on entering the presence, he had the gratification of seeing King and courtiers burst into uncontrollable peals of laughter. He had prepared himself to produce so desired a result, by appearing at court in a dress which was the very height of the fashion when he began his exile, but which looked so ridiculous now, that I do not know how I can better illustrate it than by asking any matron who has preserved her bridal bonnet and dress of thirty years ago, what she thinks she would look like, if she were to wear the same at her youngest daughter’s wedding-breakfast. Let any gentleman open a book of fashions of 1828, and say if he would be daring enough to enter Hyde Park in such a costume. The appearance of Vardis was still more ridiculous. He had been to his contemporaries what D’Orsay was within our own remembrance; and he returned to court, the King of Fashion, but a King who had been touched by a fairy’s wand, and had been lain asleep as soundly and as long as Rip van Winkle. His head was a perfect caricature, and he wore one of those blue coats, or tunics, embroidered with gold and silver lace, which had the name of a “justaucorps à brevet,” because no person could wear this article of dress, which the King himself wore, without his Majesty’s _brevet_, or warrant. Louis rolled in ecstasy at the sight of the old portrait; and the happy Vardis exclaimed, “Ah, Sire, absent from your Majesty, one becomes not only unhappy, but ridiculous.” The King, still laughing, presented him to the Dauphin, to whom Vardis offered the homage of a low bow. Louis laughed again, remarking, “Vardis, you have done the act of a fool; you know that no person can salute another in my presence.” “Oh!” cried Vardis, with an air that would have done credit to the official fool, “I know nothing at all. I have forgotten everything. _One_ act of folly? your Majesty must pardon thirty.” “Be it so,” answered the King; “but stop at nine-and-twenty.” And with this _coup de fou_ did Vardis leap into a little brief favour.

I must not dismiss the reign of Louis XIV. without a word in reference to the Duke de Roquelaure, who figures in so many jest-books as a buffoon at the court of Louis XIV. The Duke is indebted for much of his reputation, as to this matter, to Saint-Simon, who hated him heartily, and misrepresented him accordingly. Roquelaure was a plain, brave, facetious man; but the jokes attributed to him in the ‘Momus Français’ are entirely apocryphal. These represent him as disgustingly insulting to ladies, audacious to the highest clergy, regardless of his own honour or of that of his wife, and so forgetful of reverence due to holy places, as, on one occasion, to have jumped out of bed, run into a church, and there beat the Spanish Ambassador about the head with his slippers. According to the ‘Momus,’ no courtier escaped the rough licking of his tongue; though the Duke, who had little or no nose, sometimes had to undergo more painful allusions than he himself made, from courtiers or prelates whose huge noses were points on which he is said to have sharpened his wit. The last court-foolery told of him is, of his having asserted that he would not only kick a certain courtier, Bechamel, but that the latter would thank him for it. He committed the assault, saluting the victim at the same time, as if he had been the handsome De Grammont. Bechamel was so delighted at being mistaken, as he thought, for so brilliant a cavalier, that he turned round with radiant smiles, and thanked Roquelaure for the error into which he had fallen.

As I have said, I could not entirely pass over Roquelaure; and it is on the authority of his biographer in the ‘Biographie Universelle,’ I have stated that his court jests are apocryphal. Worse jokes, however, than these were perpetrated at the court of Louis XIV.; witness that occasion when the French court was at Fère, very dull, and sadly in want of sport. Cardinal Mazarin then undertook to play the fool for it; and he did so after a fashion that was highly enjoyed by the “people of quality.” There was then residing with the Cardinal the youngest of his nieces, a little girl seven or eight years of age, Marianne Mancini, afterwards Duchess de Bouillon. As an illustration of court-foolery, the incident requires to be told, and I prefer giving the opening portion of it in the words of M. Amédée Renée, from whose book on ‘Les Nièces de Mazarin,’ I make the extract:--

“Le Cardinal, une après-dînée, se mit à plaisanter la nièce sur ses galants. Il alla jusqu’à lui dire qu’elle etoit grosse. Marianne se fâcha tout rouge, et l’oncle de s’en amuser si bien qu’il continua la plaisanterie. On retrécit les robes de l’enfant, pour lui faire croire que sa taille s’arrondissait. Ses colères divertissaient toute la cour. Il n’était question que de son prochain accouchement, et Marianne, un beau matin, trouva dans ses draps un enfant qui venait de naître. Il fallut bien convenir alors de sa maternité. Elle jeta des cris de désespoir, et fit chorus longtemps avec son nouveau-né; elle assurait fort qu’elle ne s’était aperçu de rien.” To the child thus fooled, the Queen-mother, Anne of Austria, paid a visit of ceremony, and begged to be allowed to be godmother to the baby! The entire court turned fools on this occasion, waited on the imaginary mother in great pomp, and passed in ceremonious rotation before the bed, according to prescribed etiquette; and these fine people were in ecstasies! The elder sister of Marianne, Hortense, Duchess of Mazarin, says in her autobiography, of which not she, but St. Réal, was the author, “Ce fut un divertissement public. On pressa Marianne de déclarer le père de l’enfant, et elle répondit que ce ne pouvait être que le Roi ou le Comte de Guiche, car elle ne voyoit que ces deux hommes-là qui l’eussent embrassé.” Hortense, who was, as M. Renée remarks, “au courant de la chose,” testified her enjoyment of the joke by loud bursts of laughter. The court thought there had never been so choice a jester as the Cardinal; for of such complexion were the jokes of that time, and in this manner did fools of quality prepare the minds of little girls for this world and the next.

As true wit however was found among the nobles and gentlemen at the court of the Grand Monarque as ever had been uttered by the liveliest of professional jesters. Sydney Smith, in his Lectures on Moral Philosophy, cites a sample which is of such excellence as to have received his high approbation. “Louis XIV.,” he says, “was exceedingly molested by the solicitations of a general officer at the levée, and cried out, loud enough to be heard, ‘That gentleman is the most troublesome officer in the whole army.’ ‘Your Majesty’s enemies have said the same thing more than once,’ was the answer; the wit of which,” adds the narrator, “consists in the sudden relation discovered in the officer’s assent to the King’s invective, and his own defence. By admitting the King’s observation, he seems, at first sight, to be subscribing to the King’s imputation against him; whereas, in reality, he effaces it by this very means.”

Louis XIV. was yet in his youth when Mazarin introduced a new source whence idle, wealthy people might derive amusement. The Cardinal filled _his_ palace with monkeys, that is, there was scarcely a room which had not in it one of these tricksy animals, to afford laughter to the occupant or visitor. They were carefully tended and highly scented by the nieces of Mazarin, those celebrated ladies whom satirists distinguished by the name of Mazarinettes. They are thus alluded to in ‘Le Passeport et l’Adieu de Mazarin.’

“Ainsi donc par vos limonades,
Par vos excellentes pommades,
Par la bonne odeur de vos gants,

* * * * *

Par les singes que tant aimez,
Qui, comme vous, sont parfumés
Par les belles Mazarinettes,” etc.

The fashion of finding amusement in keeping monkeys was, however, of very old date. Plutarch tells us, that when Cæsar happened once to see some strangers at Rome carrying young dogs and monkeys in their arms, caressing them, he asked, ‘Whether the women in their country never bore any children?’ thus reproving those who lavish on brutes the natural tenderness which is due to mankind. The only case in which I can remember that monkeys were made useful, is that of the Abbé Galiani, whose monkey used to unseal all his letters for him. Galiani used to call him “a member of the diplomatic body.”

Although the jester by right of office, had disappeared from the French court, we occasionally meet with amateur fools who presumed to hint censure at the monarch, but who found the King with more censorious wit than themselves. This was the case when Latour was taking the portrait of Louis XV. It was just after a national calamity. Latour, with the impudent familiarity of Triboulet, exclaimed, “Well, Sire, so we have no longer any navy!” “And Vernet?” coldly replied the King,--alluding to the marine painter whom he patronized, and who could furnish him any amount of fleets on and under canvas.

If Louis XV. had not altogether the ever-ready wit necessary to a jester, he possessed all the imperturbability of the fool. An instance presents itself in the little court incident, when M. de Chauvelin was seized at the royal card-table with the fit of apoplexy of which he died. On seeing him fall, some one exclaimed, “M. de Chauvelin is ill!” “Ill?” said the King, coldly turning round and looking at him; “he is dead. Take him away; spades are trumps, gentlemen!”

Neither did this sovereign maintain an official jester; as before intimated, the vocation of the fool had ceased, but the favour and freedom he had enjoyed were acquired by men who, as Chesterfield remarks of the Marshal Duke of Richelieu, raised themselves above their betters, without knowledge, talent, or merit. The Duke, however, whom Louis XV. used to call his “amiable Good-for-nothing,” had certainly some claim to be ranked as a court wit. He proved as much when Louis, on one occasion, remarked that there was not such another “good-for-nothing” in all France. “Ah, Sire,” said the Duke with a tone of kindly reproach, “Your Majesty forgets yourself!” Triboulet never said anything half so good.

Here I will close the record of French _plaisants_. The “_plaisantes_” of Louis XV. have no claim to admission upon my list; and at the court of his successors, the time had come when princes had begun to be their own fools. The Republic lowered “Liberty” to the level of fool, and the people paid dearly for their _marotte_. With the Empire, the nation had again its fool, under the name of “Glory;” a costly toy which brought a splendid misery. How Louis Philippe could be his own jester, I shall have to show in a subsequent page. At the present Imperial Court, there is no official fool; but some persons may perhaps discover the Emperor’s “joculator” in that wonderful man, the Count de Morny, whose last joke consisted in his telling the Imperial Legislature that the utmost purity of election had brought them there, and that the utmost freedom of speech was their undoubted privilege. That the Count could say as much to the Members without, as the French say, “laughing at their noses,” demonstrates how admirably he is qualified to be “joculator” to the Empire at large.

The Count’s name, too, is so associated with that of Russia, that, _apropos_ to court fools, I will now ask my readers to turn with me towards Muscovy, and see how fools have flourished at the court of the Czars, and, indeed, in the Northern courts of Europe generally.

JESTERS IN THE NORTHERN COURTS OF EUROPE.

Of all the courts, civilized or uncivilized, at which fools have been numbered on the household, the jester was never in so uncomfortable a purgatory as in the household of the Czars. The most savage, the most able, but it would be hard to say the most mendacious, of these potentates, was Ivan Vasilievitch IV., who reigned from 1533 to 1581. He might, for various reasons, be reckoned amongst the princes who were their own fools,--for some of his acts savoured greatly of the profession; at least, there was more folly than wit in some of this gloomy monster’s merry conceits; as, for instance, when he invited a number of guests to dinner, and set before them a repast of dog, cat, and even human flesh. His fools must have had a terrible time of it; and how they could ever be gamesome in presence of such a capricious savage is inconceivable. Occasionally, the unclean Czar was minded to be delicate, and then he would take offence at what he generally seemed most to delight in. Once, his favourite fool, not knowing the bent of his master’s humour, was indulging at table in very unsavory jests; and the gentle Ivan ordered him to leave the room. A few minutes later, the Czar commanded him to return, and to kneel before him. The jester obeyed, and his gracious master, taking up a kettle of scalding hot broth, poured the whole down the back of the fool, between his clothes and his skin. The wretched victim screamed in his agony, and writhed under the torture. Ivan had the grace to bid his doctor look to him, but Esculapius himself could not have saved him. The fool died; and all the requiem chanted over him by his imperious master was,--“Since the fool did not choose to live; why, let him be buried.”

For many a long year, the Russian joculators that were the most highly prized were hideous, overfed, sleepy idiots, with nothing remarkable about them but their want of wit. Beyond the record of this fact, there is little worth noticing till we arrive at the reign of Peter the Great, who, according to Weber, quoted by Flögel, maintained about him not less than a hundred persons who might be classed under the head of court fools. They were of various qualities; some had been born imbecile, and these he entirely supported, making use of them occasionally as examples to his courtiers, comparing the natural condition of each, and drawing therefrom a moral teaching content. Others of the class were officials who, having committed some gross act of folly, he punished by compelling them to wear the dress of a fool, to take the name, and fulfil to the best of their small wit, the business of such profession. A third class, if two or three individuals may be so called, comprised persons who, having been guilty of some serious offence, thought to avoid the penalty by feigning madness, and were consequently seriously treated as such.

Among the second class noticed above, was a Captain Uschakow, who was promoted or degraded to the rank of court fool for the following exhibition of his quality. The Captain had been despatched by the commandant of Smolensko with an important letter addressed to the governor of Kiov, and requiring an immediate reply. He was ordered to traverse the sixty leagues which lie between those cities, as fast as his horse could carry him; and he obeyed the order faithfully, arriving at the gates of Kiov before break of day. On application for admission, some delay ensued, the officer on duty informing him that he must wait till the keys could be procured from the commandant, who was then asleep. Uschakow, in great rage, said his letter was of the utmost importance, and that if he were not immediately admitted, he would gallop back to Smolensko and lay a complaint before the commandant who had sent him. The officer thought he was joking; but his surprise was great to see the impatient captain turn his horse’s head and disappear, at full speed, through the morning mist. When Uschakow came in presence of his superior officer at Smolensko, carrying the letter instead of the expected reply, and stated what had occurred, the commandant, after showering upon him every invective he could think of, sent him to the Czar, with orders to tell his own story. Peter no sooner heard it, than he immediately ordered Uschakow to be cashiered, and enrolled among the court fools. So far from this being a punishment, it was the luckiest thing that could happen to a man of the mental calibre of the captain. He took to his new office with hearty good will; by his frolicsome humour he was welcomed to several European courts; and he very speedily saved not less than 20,000 thalers out of the presents made to him. He accompanied Peter in most of his visits to brother potentates; and on one of these occasions he was present, with the Czar and the King of Poland, at the theatre at Dresden. Some interruption occurred on the stage, previous to the appearance of a Scaramouch, who was announced to dance a buffoon _pas seul_, called “Les Follies d’Espagne.” Impatient at the delay, Uschakow jumped lightly from the royal box on to the stage, and to the astonishment and delight of the entire house, went through the whole dance himself, with additional quips, and cranks, and absurd follies, which kept the illustrious spectators in a roar of laughter.

There were two brothers of a princely family who did not enjoy the promotion to the rank of Witless so unreservedly as Uschakow had done. Flögel does not give their names, nor state whence he derives the story, which is to this effect. The brothers had joined a conspiracy, the object of which was to slay the Czar; but which, being discovered, and the principal plotters summarily hanged, the brothers found that their turn for responsibility had arrived. This they endeavoured to avoid by feigning a comic sort of madness; and when this was reported to Peter, he granted them their lives, but decreed that in every subsequent act of theirs they should be held to be as mad as they had pretended to be, and treated accordingly. This novel species of torture does not seem very intolerable, but as they were retained at court, the brothers found it past endurance. One of them sank into a deep melancholy, and the other drank himself into raging madness, in order to forget that men accounted him mad.

Peter, who judged so terribly of others, once submitted to judgment himself. In a fit of frolicsome humour, he one evening placed one of his jolly companions on the throne, before which the Czar stood to give an account of his actions. At the side of the throne stood Peter’s favourite fool, who made running comments on every phrase uttered by the real or the pseudo-Czar, in the style of the ancient Chorus, or rather in the merry fashion of Mr. Charles Mathews when representing the ancient Chorus in a burlesque at the Haymarket. Peter came indifferently off in presence of a judge and fool both of whom, having full license of speech, used their liberty to the utmost, amid the risibility of an ecstatic audience.

It is well known how Peter loved to play other parts besides that of Czar. When, in London, he went to a masked ball at the Temple, he appeared in the costume of a butcher. So he is described in Luttrell’s Diary. We find a trait still more illustrative of his character, in connection with a Christmas incident in his own country. Formerly, we are told, there was a ceremony in Russia called “Slaevens.” It consisted of a sledge procession which took place between Christmas and the New Year, in which the clergy, splendidly attended, stopped at certain houses, sang a _Te Deum laudamus_ or an occasional carol, and received in return rich donations from those who wished to be considered peculiarly orthodox Christians. Peter the Great once witnessed this procession, and was so edified by the amount of the contributions, that he relieved the clergy of all further trouble, by a simple process. He placed himself, suitably attired, at the head of the sledges and the Church, sang his own carols, and pocketed the contributions of the loyal and the faithful, with the ecstasy of a man who has discovered a new sensation combining profit with pleasure.

The men whom Peter sent into foreign countries to study art or science, were all subjected by him, on their return, to strict examination. If he found that they had profited by their studies, their reward was certain; if they had come back almost as ignorant as when they had set out, the penalty was also inevitable. They were degraded, made menial servants, and placed on the list of fools. At the court of the Czarina Anne, there were several of these individuals, over whom the chief fool, Pedrillo, had absolute authority. They were employed in keeping the imperial stoves supplied with wood, or in looking after the hounds, and served as objects of ridicule to the Czarina and her whole court.

Often by Peter’s side at table, and in his cups, was to be seen an individual addressed as the “Patriarch of Russia,” and sometimes as the “King of Siberia.” He was attired in sacerdotal robes, and covered with loosely-hung gold and silver medals, which sounded musically as he moved. It was a favourite trick with Peter, when he and the Patriarch were equally drunk, to suddenly overturn him, chair and all, and exhibit the reverend gentleman with his heels in the air. There is record of a similar fool in the person of the “King of the Samoieds.” He was a Pole who was boarded, and who received a rouble monthly, for entertaining the Czar and court by the exercise of such small wit as was reckoned at such low worth. This title of “King of the Samoieds” was usually conferred by Peter on what may be styled his occasional fools. Thus, meeting among the patients at the “Water Cure,” at Alonaitz, in 1719, a Portuguese Jew, whose singularities and comic bearing delighted the Czar, the latter first promoted him to the equivocal distinction of “titular count,” and then conferred on him the fool’s royalty in the Kingship of the Samoieds. The most burlesque of coronations was subsequently performed in Peter’s presence. It was to some such rank that the Czar elevated his own old writing-master, Sotoff; and it may be observed that when the Russian priests remonstrated against his distinguishing his fools by the title of “patriarchs,” he changed the rank and addressed them as “priests.”

To the rank of court fool Peter also elevated the head cook of the Czarina. The cook’s wife had, by her conduct, brought dishonour on her husband, but Peter turned this to comic account. He would have the poor official up at his state dinners, and overwhelm him with coarse jests and gestures in presence of the guests. The cook, however, is said to have occasionally answered so smartly, touching the Czar’s own domestic matters, as to make his Majesty wince again. In exchange of gross jokes, it was “like master, like man.” Neither time nor place was ever thought of by Peter when his will or comfort was in question; and even at church, in winter, when he felt cold, he would take off the wig of the man nearest him, and clap it on his own head, returning it after the service.

Thus the Czar made fools of various members of his household, and different officers of his court, but he had one official court fool whom he favoured above all others, and whom he carried abroad with him to foreign courts,--among others to those of England and France. At the latter court the buffoon produced almost as much effect as his master. The period of Peter’s sudden arrival in Paris, was that of the boyhood of Louis XV. He had travelled so swiftly from Holland, that his appearance in the French capital was the first intimation received by the authorities there of his having left the “pays de canaux, canards, et canaille,” as Voltaire flippantly designated the Dutch territory.

Peter was accompanied by the Princes Kourakin and Dolgorouki, by Baron Schaffirofy, and by his ambassador, Tolstoi. But, distinguished above these was Sotoff, the buffoon. He had originally been employed by Peter to instruct him in the art of writing. In one respect, all the followers of the Czar were on an equality, for there was not one of them who had not, in his turn, suffered exile, imprisonment, or the knout. There was no opportunity, therefore, for any one to reproach his fellows.

How Peter looked, and walked, and talked, and danced, and tossed the little King in his arms, and sneered at the Regent Duke of Orleans, and uttered much nonsense, and drank bottles of beer in his box at the opera; all these matters are chronicled by Saint-Simon and Cardinal Dubois, according to the point of view of the individual chronicler. The Cardinal seems to have been more particularly struck with the buffoon. The court of France no longer possessed official jesters, and Sotoff was a marvel and a novelty to the Cardinal. The latter, or the writer who drew up the autobiographical memoirs, from the notes and papers of Dubois, speaks with evident surprise of the presence and duties of Sotoff, who was not only privileged but commanded to give expression to every form of folly, without being in fear of any application of the knout. What jests he uttered were incomprehensible to Dubois and the French court, for Sotoff could only speak his native Russian; and in that language he uttered comments on all around him which raised the hilarity of the Muscovites, and excited the surprise, curiosity, and perhaps the vexation of the French courtiers. Sotoff, too, was singular in his appearance. He was at this time an aged dwarf, with long snowy hair flowing over his shoulders. He was so ugly and so deformed, that, according to the Cardinal, the very sight of him was almost insupportable to the refined and handsome nobles and ladies of the French court. Dubois compares the sound of his voice to the harsh croaking of frogs. In spite of all this, his wit and humour were very much to the taste of Peter, who could listen to a comedy of Molière’s without once smiling, but who could never hear a remark from Sotoff, the court fool, without growing weak from mere excess of laughter.

Sotoff was a man of low birth, but Russia has been especially remarkable for her fools of high degree, among whom Princes have not only been reckoned, but proud to find themselves upon the motley register. The famous Ice Palace, erected by order of the Czarina Anne, is one of those wonders of which most persons have heard. It was erected for the celebration of the marriage of Prince Galitzin. It is not, however, generally known that the Prince, who was between forty and fifty, and already had a son, a lieutenant in the army, was on the register of pages and court fools. This registration was a punishment inflicted on him for having changed his religion, from orthodox Russo-Greek to Roman Catholic. It was at the Czarina’s bidding that the princely fool wedded with a girl of low birth, and it was in obedience to the same high authority that couples from every province in the empire came up to do honour to the nuptial festival. A procession of above three hundred persons started from the imperial palace and traversed the city. The bride and bridegroom were under a canopy, on an elephant; some of the guests followed on camels, and others rode in sledges (for it was midwinter of 1739), and their sledges were in the shape of animals of various species, and were filled with passengers looking as singular as the conveyances themselves. After the ceremony, a banquet was given in honour of the Duke of Courland, where each couple ate their own peculiar provincial dish; and this was followed by a ball. The ball concluded, the married pair were conducted to the Ice Palace, their temporary home. It stood on the banks of the Neva; and was composed of large blocks of ice cemented into one mass by water. In length it was sixty feet, in breadth eighteen feet, and in height twenty-one feet. In front was an ice portico, with ice columns and statues. Behind these were the single floor, divided into two apartments, all of ice, with the doors and windows painted in imitation of green marble. Two ice dolphins spouted forth naphtha flames to light the procession over the threshold; and two ice mortars and three ice cannon fired several volleys of welcome without breaking. The two apartments were divided by a lobby; they were well furnished with elegant ice tables, ice chairs, ice statues, mirrors, candelabra, glass, plate, in short, every possible article that could be thought of, and all of ice. The bedroom had state bed, sheets, curtains, two night-caps, etc., all of ice. About the exterior were ornamental pyramids, a conservatory, with birds on the trees, a bath-house, and other appendages, of the same cold material. The whole was brilliantly illuminated, and into this Temple of Isis the Prince and his bride were solemnly conducted, and a guard-of-honour placed at the gate prevented any intrusion on the married couple, or any attempt of the latter to escape from the cold hospitality provided for them by the Czarina. This joke was so highly approved of, that to build ice palaces, though not to have performed in them the same play, became an imperial weakness. With regard, however, to court fools, it is a singular fact that Russia has not only made such officials out of foreign ambassadors whom she has duped by dint of that mingled piety and mendacity which betray the Tartar blood within her; but she has also commissioned her own envoys to play the rude jester at the courts of Kings whom she would fain bring into contempt,--and could bully with safety.

Such an agent as this, Russia found in the representative Repuin, whom she retained at the court of the last King of Poland, Stanislaus Poniatowsky. The arrogance of the Muscovite ambassador was extremely offensive, but his power of joking was quite as frequently employed, when he had a political end in view. One day he bullied or supported the King; at another time he rendered him contemptible by sarcasms uttered against him, in his hearing. Lord Malmesbury, in the first volume of his Diaries and Correspondence, dated from Warsaw, in 1767, gives several instances of unseemly liberties taken by Repuin with the King, such as Scogan himself would have hesitated to take with the royal Edward, who allowed him privilege of speech and action. One sample from the measure piled up by Lord Malmesbury will suffice:--“At the Primate’s, it was a question of some of the ancient Polish monarchs who, being driven from their own kingdom, were obliged, by way of support, to exercise some trade,--one particularly who, for awhile, was a goldsmith at Florence. The present King, discoursing on this topic, said, he should be extremely embarrassed, if he was to be put to the trial, as he knew no way of getting his livelihood. ‘Pardon me. Sire,’ said the Ambassador, ‘your Majesty still knows how to dance well.’ What should we think,” asks Lord Malmesbury, “if we heard an ambassador tell our King, ‘If all trades fail, your Majesty may turn dancing-master’?” There is no fear, however, of such a polite observation being made at our court by any Russian joculator in an ambassador’s dress. These arrogant agents know how to be submissive; and, in presence of a monarch to be respected, can sink to the ground, like a cowardly boy who avoids a blow from a bold adversary, or a Russian fleet in presence of a resolute enemy.

The Czar Paul had around him a number of that class of jesters who found favour with Peter; and he was further delighted to be made merry by the comic French actors who visited his capital. It was not always safe for these, however, to jest with him too roughly; as may be seen in the case of Fougère, the actor, who taking the jester’s privilege to speak freely to Paul once at supper, and to mock at his vaunted abilities, was punished for it by being dragged from his bed, in the night, tossed into a van which did not admit the light of day, and carried off, as he was politely informed, to his extreme horror, to Siberia. After several weeks had been spent in the journey, Fougère reached his destination, and on his eyes being unbandaged, he found himself in presence of Paul and a joyous number of _convives_, all of whom laughed heartily at the capital jest, whereby Fougère had been made to believe that he was being conveyed to Siberia, when he was only being drawn round and round St. Petersburg, for whole weeks.

Nicholas, who may be said to have swam to his throne in the blood of his subjects in the capital, and to have been washed from it by the same sanguinary deluge at Sebastopol, had, like his father Paul, his frolicsome humours and facetious whims. Of course he did not keep court fools; but he would sometimes catch a fool and compel him to exhibit for the amusement of his court. He once captured an individual of this species in the person of Save Saveitch Yakovloff. The young gentleman with this cacophonous appellation had been an officer in the Guards, and had been commissioned to purchase horses for his regiment. As, however, he had not cheated the vendors, and brought back steeds worth double the money which had been entrusted to him wherewith to buy them, his condition in his regiment was rendered intolerable, and he was forced out of it by a series of small but wearying nuisances. He applied for permission to travel, but was refused. In disgrace and involuntary idleness, all state employment denied him, Save was puzzled for a time as to what occupation he could turn to. After consideration, he resolved to set up in the capital as the glass of fashion, and he appeared in public in the most exaggerated costumes, founded on French and English books of fashion. He one day presented himself on the Nevski Prospect in the following guise. On his head was a little peaked hat like a flowerpot reversed; his beard was _à la Henri Quatre_; his cravat was a thick scarf tied in a gigantic bow; his cloak was a little _Almaviva_; in one hand he carried a knotted cudgel, with the other he held a small glass to his eye, and between his legs, or at his side, waddled the most ugly and costly of bulldogs. He was thus airing himself when the Imperial carriage passed; Nicholas sat therein; his eye rested for a moment on the “exquisite,” and then the Czar beckoned to the “fool,” who hurried up, thinking that his fortune was re-established.

A dialogue ensued, which I give on the authority of Michelsen, who may be safely trusted. “Pray,” said Nicholas, eyeing him with humorous curiosity, “in the name of all the saints, who are you, and where do you come from?”

“May it please your Majesty, I have the honour to be your Majesty’s faithful subject, Save Saveitch Yakovloff.”

“Indeed!” replied the Emperor, with much gravity, “we are enchanted to have the opportunity of making your acquaintance, Save Saveitch. Oblige us by just stepping up, and take a seat beside us.”

Yakovloff slyly dropped the cudgel, and, not without some misgiving, took his seat.

“But stop,” said the Emperor, when they had driven on a little way, “where is your stick, Save Saveitch?”

“Never mind the stick, your Majesty.”

“But I do mind it, Save Saveitch Yakovloff.” The carriage was turned back, the cudgel picked up, and orders were given to drive on straight to the Winter Palace. When there, the Emperor alighted and made a signal to his alarmed fellow-traveller to follow. “O Save Saveitch,” said he sarcastically, “pray do not take off your cloak! we must have you--hat, stick, cloak and all.” The Emperor led the way to the apartments of the Empress.

“Pray, my dear,” inquired he, “do you know this animal?”

“No,” replied the Empress, unable to repress a laugh at the strange figure before her.

“Then allow me to inform you this is our faithful subject Save Saveitch Yakovloff. What do you think of him?” said Nicholas, turning him round, “is not he a pretty fellow?”

The unfortunate Save Saveitch, whose feelings may be imagined, after having afforded the royal couple much diversion, was dismissed, half-dead with terror and confusion; but before he departed, he received a salutary hint that the Czar did not always punish the foolery of his subjects so leniently.--In short, Nicholas, after using poor Save as a court fool, was mean enough to dismiss him without a court fool’s wages.

Thus much to illustrate my subject with regard to Russia. There is not much to be added in reference to the other Northern courts. In the autobiography of Christina, Queen of Sweden, which forms part of the ponderous memoirs of that sovereign by Archenholz, she tells the world that when in her youth the Regency of Sweden had determined to provide her with apartments separate from those of the Queen-Mother, the latter opposed it with vehement anger and sorrow, while Christina herself, with all her tender respect for the widow of Gustavus Adolphus, approved of the measure with as vehement delight. “I was afraid,” says the lively Queen, “that she would be a grand obstacle in the way of my studies and exercises, which annoyed me much, for I had an extreme desire to learn.” Besides, adds Christina, “the Queen-Mother took delight in maintaining a number of buffoons and dwarfs in her apartments, which were always full of them, after the German fashion. Such a fashion was insupportable to me, for I have a natural aversion against that wretched class of beings.”

Flögel traces the Scandinavian jesters back to the period of the Scalds (the Skial, or wise men), who were also called Spekinge (from _speke_, wisdom), from which, he says, is derived our word _speak_, which, however, is not always in connection with wisdom. The Sapphic verses of the Scalds often conveyed a double meaning, and perhaps this species of wit caused the idea of the bards being a species of jesters. That they were magnificently rewarded there is no doubt, seeing that Hiarne, the Scald, wrote an epitaph on Frotho I. of Denmark, which so delighted the people that they elected the poet to the vacant throne. The people must have been poor judges of poetry, for the epitaph is but an indifferent production. And then the story is doubtful, belonging to the period anterior to that of Harald in the ninth century, all the details of which are mythic and contradictory. One fact, nevertheless, connects the Scald with the jester; both were licensed to sing or speak with impunity. The former might make his harp ring to the intoning of the royal faults, just as the fool might raise the laughter of a court by sarcastic allusion to kingly foibles. And, moreover, there were several Scandinavian Kings who were their own Scalds, as we have seen several princes who were their own fools. The parallel may, perhaps, be allowed to pass; the more, that the wit of the Scald was generally as incomprehensible and cumbersome as that of some of the early court jesters. Fancy the verse which literally runs:--“I hang the round hammered yawning serpent at the tongue of the falcon-bridge, by the gallows of the shield of Odin,” to mean nothing more than, “I put the ring on the finger of the hand, near the arm!” Here was euphonistic folly! And the words, too, were mixed up unconnectedly, having no meaning at all as they originally stood; and through what a circumlocution-office of construing and interpreting had the student to go before he reached the thing signified! The _falcon-bridge_ was the hand on which the falconer carried his bird. The _tongue_ of the bridge was the little finger; and the _gallows of the shield of Odin_, was the arm on which the warrior’s shield was wont to be suspended!

They were mighty fellows, those Scalds, in the days of heathenism, but as Christianity dawned and rose, their power decreased. They became court poets, which, according to Ménage, was the same as court fool, and they sank into ordinary minstrels, who sang, as their historians say, with more truth than refinement, simply to “fill their bellies.”

Like the Italian fools, the Scandinavian jesters seem to have been mere practical jokers. Of one, who was not clever enough to transmit his name to posterity, we are told that a King of Denmark once accepted his invitation to repair to an old castle, and there drink ale-soup with him; and that the fool, conducting his Majesty to the sea-+side, remarked, “There is the soup; when you have finished that you shall have the ale.” At a much later period the fool is to be found in another capacity; thus, at the triumphal entry of Admiral Bagge, there figured in the procession “the court fool Hercules,” whose duty it was to play on the fiddle. Nothing however is said of his proficiency.

In Scandinavia, as elsewhere, the fool is sometimes seen in the light of excellent counsellor and acute statesman. This was the case with the jester of Frederick II. of Denmark, about 1580, when that monarch happened to be in much perplexity touching a bargain he had made, or half made, with some English merchants at Copenhagen. He had been induced to accept their offer to purchase the island of Huen, in the Sound, at the cost of as much English scarlet cloth as would reach all round the island, and a piece of gold for every fold of the cloth. The perplexity of Frederick arose from the fact that he had bethought himself, if the English possessed Huen they might fortify it, and with their fleets blockade the Sound itself. He was sorely puzzled, for he wished to break the bargain without seeming to break his word. He looked in utter helplessness at his fool; and the fool, smiling at the supposed difficulty, came to the King’s relief. “You have only to tell the English merchants,” said the descendant of Yorick, “that in standing to your contract, it is understood that as soon as they pay the price of the purchase, they must remove the article purchased; for it is not to be imagined that you sell such an unwieldy article, to let it stick at your door, or to let them stick on it in your very jaws.” The King was delighted; he wriggled out of his bargain, by the fool’s good aid, and the popular voice added the name of the Scarlet Isle to that of Huen, or Venusia.

These brief notices will perhaps suffice to show the quality of the joculator in the Northern Courts. The next chapter will as briefly illustrate the Motley of Spain.

THE SPANISH JESTERS.

In one of the letters addressed by the anxious Chesterfield to his son, the discerning Peer remarks: “There is at all courts a chain which connects the Prince or the Minister with the page of the backstairs or the chambermaid. The King’s wife or mistress has an influence over him; a lover has an influence over her; the chambermaid or _valet de chambre_ has an influence over both; and so _ad infinitum_. You must therefore,” adds the estimable trainer of his child, “not break a link of that chain, by which you hope to climb up to the prince.”

With a little modification, such as “fool” for _valet de chambre_, this counsel would not have been without value to any young Spaniard about to push his fortunes at any one of the royal courts once scattered over the length and breadth of now united Spain. At these courts, the jester was paramount in influence. The introduction of the merry official is said to date from the entry of the Troubadours from the south of France. This joyous company brought with them many methods of entertaining royal and noble listeners, but they gradually degenerated, as the minstrels did in other countries, into buffoons,--and probably found the latter the more profitable profession of the two.

James II., King of Majorca, provided for the merry professors in the royal household, by establishing them there, under the protection of the law. “From ancient times,” as tradition tells us, so runs the decree, “it has been lawful for Mimes or Jesters to reside in princes’ households; for the execution of their office is a provocative to gladness. Wherefore, we will and ordain, that in our court there shall always be five jesters, of which five, two may be trumpeters, and a third our letter-carrier (_tabellarius_).” This arrangement left the other two in close attendance upon their royal patron.

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_.