CURIOUS FADS OF ROYALTY

It is recorded how a certain Spaniard, who once attempted to assassinate a king, Ferdinand of Spain, on being put on the rack could give no other reason for his strange conduct but an inveterate antipathy which he had taken to the King as soon as he saw him:—

Although, happily, such an exceptional case as this is almost unique, yet in a minor degree it illustrates a phase of character which is of almost universal application. Thus, for instance, going back to an early period, the Emperor Heraclius at the age of fifty-nine was seized with an unconquerable terror at the sight of the sea. On his return from his Syrian expedition he sojourned in the palace of Herea, on the shore of the Hellespont, and the story goes that the princes of Constantinople were compelled to span the strait with a bridge of boats, and protect it on both sides with planks and branches of trees, so that one could pass over it without seeing the water. Likewise, the Emperor Augustus was terribly afraid of lightning, and as a safeguard not only carried about his person a seal’s skin, but on the approach of a storm took shelter in an underground chamber.

But coming to later times, Henry III. of France could not remain in the same room with a cat, a fact which reminds us of the Duke d’Epernay, who swooned on seeing a leveret, although, curious to say, the sight of a hare did not produce a similar result. And it was the sight of an apple that always put Vladislaus, King of Poland, into fits. Queen Elizabeth detested as ominous all dwarfs and monsters, and seldom could be prevailed upon to bestow an appointment—either civil or ecclesiastical—on an ugly man. She liked to be surrounded by the young and handsome, and she studiously shunned all crippled or deformed persons. She carried this fad to such an extreme that she refused the post of a gentleman usher to an unexceptional person, for no other reason than the lack of one tooth; and “whenever she went abroad, all ugly, deformed, and diseased persons were thrust out of her way by certain officers, whose duty it was to preserve her Majesty from the displeasure of looking on objects offensive to her taste.” Aubrey relates the following story as an illustration of Elizabeth’s peculiarity on this point: “There came a country gentleman up to town who had several sons, but one an extraordinary handsome fellow, whom he did hope to have preferred to be a yeoman of the Guard. ‘Had you spoken for yourself,’ quoth Sir Walter Raleigh, ‘I should have readily granted your desire, but I put in no boys.’ Then said the father, ‘Boy, come in,’ and the son enters—about eighteen or nineteen years of age—but such a goodly proper youth as Sir Walter had not seen the like, for he was the tallest of all the Guard. Sir Walter not only swore him in, but ordered him to carry up the first dish at dinner, when the Queen beheld him with admiration, as if a beautiful quaint young giant had stalked in with the service.” And Lord Bacon, speaking of this whim of Elizabeth, writes: “She always made sedulous inquiries regarding the moral qualifications of any candidate for preferment, and then considered his mien and appearance. Upon one such occasion she observed to me, ‘How can the magistrate maintain his authority, if the man be despised.’”

Elizabeth’s strong aversion to unpleasant smells was well known at Court. One day the stout Sir Roger Williams, kneeling to her to beg a suit, which she was unwilling to grant, and yet ashamed to deny, she exclaimed, “Sir Roger, your boots stink”—hoping to divert the conversation. “No, no, your Majesty,” replied the brave Welshman, “it’s not my boots, it’s my suit.” We are reminded of Louis XI., who had a conceit, says Burton, “that everything did stink about him; all the odoriferous perfumes they could get would not ease him, but still he smelt a filthy stink.”

According to common report, James I. shuddered at the sight of a drawn sword, and Sir Kenelm Digby, in his “Powder of Sympathy,” says that when James knighted him he very narrowly escaped having the sword thrust into his eyes, his Majesty turning away his face to avoid the sight of the naked weapon—a peculiarity which he attributes to the fright occasioned to his unhappy mother by the assassination of Rizzio in her presence. In a caricature of the time King James was exhibited with an empty scabbard, and in another as having his sword so firmly fixed in the scabbard that it was impossible to draw it out.

William III. had an intense hatred of mourning. When the King of Denmark died, September 4, 1698, Prince George expressed a wish that on this account his Majesty would allow the Princess and himself to congratulate him on his birthday, November 4, without doffing their sable weeds, under the impression that the favour would be granted, as “the late kings, Charles II. and James II., never wished any persons in recent mourning for their relatives to change it for coloured clothes on such occasions.” King William’s ideas, however, respecting mourning were more consonant with those of Henry VIII.; and his Majesty, although Christian V. of Denmark was a near relative of his own, “signified his pleasure that their Royal Highnesses were to visit him in gay Court dresses, or to keep away.”[38]

To such an extent did George II. carry his love of exactness, even in the minutest affairs of life, that it is said he never even allowed his pleasures to interfere with it. For some years after he had ascended the throne, writes Mr. Jesse,[39] his custom was to visit his mistress, Lady Suffolk, every evening at nine o’clock. Sometimes he was dressed and in readiness before the prescribed time, and “on these occasions he used to pace his apartment for ten minutes together with his watch in his hand, waiting till the moment of departure had arrived.”

George II., too, in moments of fretfulness and impatience would vent his feelings by kicking his hat about the room. “When incensed either with his Ministers or his attendants,” writes Wraxall, “he was sometimes not master of his actions, nor attentive to preserve his dignity. On these occasions his hat, and it is asserted his wig, became frequently the objects on which he expended his anger.”

But the fads and eccentricities of royalty have been illustrated in a variety of ways. A notable instance having been Ferdinand II., Grand Duke of Tuscany, who died in 1670, and who was known as the “Fool of his Health,” from the anxiety with which he attended to his health. “I have frequently seen him,” writes the AbbÉ Arnauld, “pacing up and down his chamber between two large thermometers, upon which he would keep his eyes constantly fixed, unceasingly employed in taking off and putting on a variety of skull-caps of different degrees of warmth, of which he had always five or six in his hand, according to the degree of heat or cold registered by the instruments.” This, he adds, “was a mighty pleasant sight to behold, for there was not a conjurer in all his dominions more dexterous in handling his cups and balls than was this prince in shifting his caps.”

Strange, again, was the behaviour of Charles II. of Spain, who was sometimes sunk in listless melancholy, and was occasionally a prey to the wildest and most extravagant fancies. At one time he was weak-minded enough to be induced to believe that his malady was the same as that of the wretched individuals in the New Testament who dwelt among the tombs. At another time a sorceress who lived in the mountains of the Asturias was consulted about his malady. Several persons were accused of having bewitched him, and at last the rite of exorcism was recommended, which was actually performed. Nor was this all, for his Majesty had terrible visions of demons, and kept monks and priests by his side to exorcise them. He believed himself to be the cruel victim of sorcery, and to have been charmed with a portion of the brains of a corpse administered in a cup of chocolate, to counteract the malignant influences of which it was proposed to diet him on hens fed with vipers’ flesh. Even the people, too, believed that he was enchanted, and called him the “bewitched king”—a name which is traditionally preserved to the present day.[40] Instances of a kindred nature are noted elsewhere in the chapter which deals with the superstitions of royalty, where it will be seen how at one time or another the credulity of crowned heads has been responsible for many foolish acts, and in some cases it has been productive of immense harm.

The early period of female domination through the regency of the Queen-mother, Marie Anne of Austria, had made such an impression on Charles II. when young that he felt a horror at the sight of a petticoat, and turned aside when he met a lady. His former governess, the Marquesa de los Velez, had to wait six months to get a word from him. With such antipathy to women, it seemed improbable that he would regard with any favour the mention of marriage, but during the negotiations for an alliance with Marie Louise, this aversion suddenly changed, and, when the miniature of the Princess was sent to him, “he wore the picture on his heart, addressed fine speeches to it,” and as soon as he was informed that she was en route for Spain, he set out to meet her.

When Isabella, mother of Philip II., was, writes D’Israeli,[41] “ready to be delivered of him, she commanded that all the lights should be extinguished: that, if the violence of her pain should occasion her face to change colour, no one might perceive it. And when the midwife said, ‘Madam, cry out, that will give you ease,’ she answered, ‘How dare you give me such advice? I would rather die than cry out.’”

In truth, the fads of sovereigns, with their royal etiquette, were frequently carried to such lengths as to make martyrs of them. According to another absurd story from the same source, Philip III., when seated by the fireside, was once nearly suffocated with heat from the large quantity of wood that the fire-maker had kindled; but “his grandeur would not suffer him to rise from the chair, and the domestics could not presume to enter the apartment, because it was against the etiquette. At length the Marquis de Potat appeared, and the King ordered him to damp the fire; but he excused himself, alleging that he was forbidden by the etiquette to perform such a function, for which the Duke d’Ussada ought to be called upon, as it was his business. The Duke was gone out, the fire burnt fiercer, and the King actually endured it rather than derogate from his dignity.” But, it is said, his blood was heated to such a degree that an erysipelas of the head appeared the next day, which, succeeded by a violent fever, carried him off in the twenty-fourth year of his reign. And what can be more ludicrous than the following: The palace was once on fire; a soldier who knew the King’s sister was in her apartment, and must inevitably have been consumed in a few minutes by the flames, rushed in at the risk of his life, and brought her out. But Spanish etiquette was wofully broken, and the loyal soldier was brought to trial and condemned to death. The Spanish princess, however, in consideration of the circumstance, condescended to pardon the soldier, and saved his life.[42] Churchill might indeed well exclaim—

Leopold the “Angel,” second son of the Emperor Ferdinand, would rear the most odoriferous plants, but inflicted on himself the mortification of never going near enough to smell them, imagining that by this act of self-denial he was thereby adding a step to a ladder of good works, “by which he hoped to scale heaven!”

Peter the Great had a strong aversion to being looked at in public, a peculiarity which when visiting this country kept him almost entirely aloof from the gaieties of the Court. On the birthday of the Princess Anne, when a grand ball was given by William III. at Kensington, curiosity so far prevailed over his diffidence as to induce him to express a wish to be present. But he contented himself with occupying a small apartment where, without being seen himself, he could be a spectator of the festive scene. On another occasion, writes Lord Dartmouth, Peter had a mind to see the King in Parliament, “in order to which he was placed in a gutter upon the house-top, to peep in at the window, where he made so ridiculous a figure that neither King nor people could forbear laughing, which obliged him to retire sooner than he intended.” It was probably from what was styled “the lantern” in the roof of the old House of Commons that the Czar witnessed the proceedings below. And many other anecdotes illustrative of this peculiar fad are to be found in the biographies of his Majesty.

Immediately on ascending the throne of Prussia, Frederick William’s mania for crimping and recruiting giants broke out with such force as to be the talk of Europe, “and the terror of every mother of a stalwart youth, not only in his own dominions, but in the neighbouring principalities.” So violently had his agents gone to work, that before the year 1713 was ended he issued a proclamation “not to stop the passengers on the post, as had been done several times.” Indeed, a regular man-hunt was instituted throughout all the villages, even during divine service. Once a rural pastor died of the shock occasioned by seeing his taller sacramental communicants carried off en masse by a recruiting party, “who thought that the Sunday congregation would spare them all further trouble in hunting through the cottages.” In 1720 this was repeated, but so violent was the indignation that an insurrection ensued.[43] From 1713 to 1735 it is said that Frederick William sent 12,000,000 of dollars for recruiting purposes into foreign countries, in connection with which may be quoted the following humorous but tragic occurrence: “In the duchy of Juliers, a Baron Hompesch, who was crimp-in-chief, once bespoke by way of strategy of a very tall master-joiner, who did not know him, a cupboard as long and as broad as the artisan himself. After some days the Baron called to take away the cupboard, but complained that it was of insufficient length. In a fit of alacrity the long-legged joiner laid himself full length within the cupboard as a proof that Hompesch was mistaken; but suddenly the door was fastened by the people whom Hompesch had in waiting, and the unfortunate joiner was carried off as a recruit. On opening the cupboard afterwards he was found dead. Hompesch, however, was condemned to death, but the King commuted his sentence to imprisonment for life.”[44]

Numerous anecdotes have been told illustrative of Frederick William’s other fads and eccentricities. Sometimes he would signify his rejection of what he considered an absurd petition by drawing on the margin an ass’s head and ears. One day a baron of ancient patent having complained of another baron taking precedence of him, the King wrote on the petition: “Mere folly; whether a man sits above me or below me, my birth remains the same.” Oftentimes he would ask people in the streets who they were, a peculiarity which made nervous people evade the royal presence. One day when a Jew saw the King approaching he took to his heels and ran; but Frederick William pursued him in hot haste, and when he overtook him, asked, “Why did you run away from me?” “From fear,” answered the Jew, whereupon his Majesty gave him a heavy thwack with his cane, and said that he “wished himself to be loved, and not to be feared.”

And even while distracted with the gout, his eccentricity showed itself; for, as a hymn was being sung to him, at the passage, “Naked shall I go hence,” he interrupted the singers and said, “No—I shall be buried in my uniform.”

Gregory of Tours, speaking of the “Do-nothing kings” of France, says that they sat at home “and gormandized like brute beasts,” showing themselves, as Dr. Doran writes, “once a year perhaps to the people, in state robes.” Such conduct was not to be commended, and so little was Childeric III. ever seen that he was known as the “Phantom King,” his chief amusement having consisted in curling his hair and dressing his beard. Equally apathetic and indifferent to his duties was Ferdinand I. of Austria. And, as an instance of his weak mind, one day he remarked in the imperial palace at Vienna, “I once very readily paid a visit to one of the theatres in the suburbs; but I don’t know—I can’t make out whether they wanted me or not.” It seems he thought he was there to put his signature to some document, “and he was puzzled as to whether he had been asked to do so or not.”

Frederick III. often fell asleep whilst the most important affairs of the State were being discussed, which acquired for him the nickname of “Emperor Night Cap.” When the Turks were destroying the villages and harvests of his people, he amused himself in his garden picking caterpillars out of his roses, and catching slugs with buttered cabbage leaves.[45]

His indolence so exasperated his wife Eleanor, that she said to her son Maximilian in a fit of anger, “On my word, if I thought you would be like your father, I should be ashamed of being the mother of such a king.” Frederick was too lazy, it is said, to turn the handle of a door, but kicked till some one came to open it, or he burst it in. He paid the penalty of his stupidity, for by so doing he one day hurt his foot, and as mortification threatened the surgeons cut it off. “Ah me!” said Frederick, “a healthy boot is better than a sick Emperor.” His exact opposite was Frederick the Great, who was wont to exclaim, “Nothing is nearer akin to death than idleness. It is not necessary that I should live, but it is necessary that whilst I live I be busy.”

Of the many despicable traits of character of Louis XV., not one, perhaps, was more odious than his mania for speculating in corn. He became the chief partner of a company which forestalled corn. From the exceptional advantages this company enjoyed, “it created local and artificial famine in the different provinces for purposes of private gain. The King thus traded on the hunger of his people,” and, as it is added, “the most abject courtier of Versailles could not avoid feeling a twinge of shame when he noted on his bureau day by day the lists of the prices of grain in the different provinces as a guide for speculation.” From such shameful dealings arose the legend of the Pacte de famine, which lingered in the memories of the people, and the spectre of which arose in terrible form during the most horrible scenes of the Revolution.

And Louis XI. in a capricious mood once promoted a poor priest whom he found sleeping in the porch of a church, that the proverb might be verified, that to lucky men good fortune will come even when they are asleep.

Lastly, it has been said that the restlessness of Don Sebastian was the despair of his attendants. From one end to the other of his little kingdom there was a perpetual shifting of the royal quarters, “as the royal vagrant hurried in search of novelty and excitement, from Coimbra to Cape St. Vincent, from Almeirim to AlcobaÇa, to Salvaterra.” Impenetrable to fatigue or hardship, the day afforded too scanty a scope for his activity, and the dead of night often found him exhausting his feverish impatience of repose in long hours of solitary pacing on the sandy shores of the Tagus, or under the dense gloom of the forest arcades of Cintra. And in Sebastian we are reminded of Charles XII. of Sweden, who, determined to brave the seasons as he had done his enemies, ventured to make long marches during the cold of the memorable winter of 1709, in one of which 2000 of his men died from the cold, in allusion to which Campbell, in “The Pleasures of Hope,” writes:—