ROYALTY IN DISGUISE

To avoid the dangers inseparable from war, or to seek a temporary concealment in political troubles, has caused many a monarch in times past to assume the most varied disguises, the circumstances connected with which forming some of the most romantic episodes in history. In “Candide, or the Optimist,” Voltaire tells in an admirable manner how eight travellers meet in an obscure inn, and some of them with not even sufficient money to pay for a scurvy dinner; but in the course of conversation they are discovered to be eight monarchs in Europe, who had been deprived of their crowns. And what gave point to this satire was that these eight monarchs were not the fictitious majesties of the poetic brain—“imperial shadows like those that appeared to Macbeth,” but living monarchs who were wandering at that moment about the world. If tradition be true, there is Alfred the disguised minstrel in the Danish camp; and, later on, romance tells how the last of the Saxon kings lived and died disguised as a hermit in a cell at Chester. Another traditionary story informs us that the Emperor Henry V., husband of Matilda of England, did not die at the time he was said to have done so; but fled, disguised “in a woollen garment,” to England, where, at Westchester, he lived for ten years as the hermit “God’s Call.” And it is further told how the Empress Matilda, when hotly pursued by Stephen’s troops at Devizes, made her escape by personating a corpse when wrapped in grave clothes, and placed in a coffin. She was borne on the shoulders of some of her trusty partisans to Gloucester, where, it is said, she arrived “faint and weary with long fasting and mortal terror.” It is not, however, with disguise as associated with the vicissitudes of royalty that we are concerned, but rather as adopted by sovereigns for some freak, or fancy.

Thus Charles VI. of France spent large sums of money in the pursuit of pleasure, and, amidst other excesses, he was fond of disguising himself. In the first week of the year 1393 there were festive doings at Court, in consequence of the nuptials of the Queen’s favourite, a German lady. It was her third marriage, and the event was considered to give occasion for more than usual licence. As a novel diversion, it was proposed to the King and his companions by one named Guisay to attire themselves as satyrs, and, under cover of their masks, to taunt and tease the wedding party. Accordingly, the disguise was effected by means of linen dresses, to which tow was fixed with pitch. Dressed in this manner, five of the party joined the wedding company at the HÔtel St. Pol, and indulged in the most extravagant cries, dances, and gestures, when the mad idea seized the Duke of Orleans of setting fire to the dresses of the masqueraders. Instantly they were in flames, with the exception of the King, whom the Duchess of Berri covered with her robe. But the others perished, except one, who managed to save himself by leaping into a butt of water. The accident, it is said,[77] might have become more serious, by reason of the anger of the people, who, “when they learned it, attributed all to the dissolute folly of the Court, and were for taking vengeance on those present for the danger which had befallen the King.”

It is also recorded of the same monarch that his treasurer, Noujant, was most desirous to lay by a certain sum for any urgent necessity that might arise; and in order to secure the King’s approval, he proposed to frame with it a golden stag which should be marvellous as a work of wealth and art. But more than the neck and head of this stag was never completed, for the King found another which pleased him better—a gilded stag which could hold a sword and shake it. And, in order to exhibit this, “he imagined the public entrance of the Queen into Paris. He himself went to see the procession in disguise, mounted behind one of his servitors, his eagerness to enjoy his own spectacle bringing upon his back many a blow from the serjeants who cleared the way for the pageant. The King boasted of having received these blows in a good joke.”[78]

Some of the habits and predilections of Louis XI. were not only distasteful to his nobles, but even incomprehensible to his people. Occasionally he would set forth with half-a-dozen companions, clad like himself in coarse grey cloth, with wooden paternosters about their necks, under the pretext of forming some pilgrimage—his real aim being to visit the marches and confines of his kingdom, and to become acquainted with all things, and all men, through the evidence of his own eyes. In similar guise Louis journeyed along the sea-coast to Bordeaux, being nearly captured by an English boat which fired upon him. The King’s staff lay concealed in some high reeds till there was an opportunity of escaping.

We hear, too, of Charles IX. figuring at a tournament, with a party of gay and festive followers, all of whom, King and courtiers, fought in the lists attired as women.

Christina of Sweden, after she had resigned the throne, travelled in the guise of a foreign knight, habited as a cavalier, with a red scarf, according to the Spanish fashion. In this attire she rode into Hamburg, where the inhabitants had prepared a residence for her, but she preferred lodging with a Jewish physician named Texeira. “That action,” says a contemporary writer, “much amazed both the Senate, whose honourable entertainment and reception she refused, and the priests of the town, who, inflamed with the zeal of God’s house, could not forbear to speak in public against her for her ridiculous and scandalous choice of the house of a man who is professedly a sworn enemy of Jesus Christ.” In answer to such objections, Christina urged that Jesus Christ had all His life conversed with the Jews, that He was one of their seed, and that He had preferred their company to that of all other nations.

When travelling in male attire, and under the name of “the son of the Count of Dohna,” Madame du Noyer, in her Lettres Galantes, tells how Christina, when staying at an inn, was visited by the Queen of Denmark, who disguised herself as a servant, and in that character waited on the ex-queen. So cleverly did she act her part that Christina had not the slightest suspicion, and, putting no restraint upon her tongue, she occasionally spoke with entire unreserve of the King of Denmark in terms of a not very complimentary kind. But, on her leaving the inn, the Queen of Denmark commanded a page to inform his errant mistress that she had done great injustice to the King. The page hastened to deliver the message, at hearing which Christina laughed aloud, and exclaimed, “What! that servant-girl who was standing there all dinner-time was the Queen of Denmark! Well, there has happened to her what often happens to curious people—they make discovery of more things than are agreeable to them. It is her own fault, for as I have not the gift of divination, I did not look for her under such a dress as that.”

The vacillating fortunes of the Polish monarchy seem to have convinced more than one king that a crown is not always the most enviable of possessions. Thus it is recorded that one sovereign—probably Boleslaus II.—having quitted his companions in the hunting-field, was discovered some days afterwards in the market-place of the capital disguised as a porter, and lending out the use of his shoulders for a few pence. At first there was some doubt as to whether the porter could be his Majesty; but when this was removed, there was some indignation that so great and exalted a personage should debase himself by so vile an employment. He was then entreated to return to his vacant throne, but his Majesty replied, “Upon my honour, gentlemen, the load which I quitted is by far heavier than the one you see me carry here: the weightiest is but a straw when compared to that world under which I laboured. I have slept more in four nights than I have during all my reign. I begin to live, and to be a king of myself. Elect whom you choose. For me, who am so well, it were madness to return to Court.” The story goes that when search was made for this philosophic ex-monarch he was found only with extreme difficulty. He was elected against his will, and when the sceptre was placed in his hand as he was seated on the throne, he exclaimed, with some emotion, “I had rather tug at the oar than occupy such a place.” But, as it has been justly remarked, “few are the kings of the Poles who might not have given utterance to the same sentiment, whether they were of the country, or as was often the case after Casimir, obtained from foreign countries,” it having been the boast of the Polish nobility that they held their kings, and were not holden by them.[79]

The marriage of Ulrica, sister of Frederick the Great, with Adolphus Frederick of Sweden was the fruit of a stratagem rather unfairly played off on her sister. The Court and Senate of Sweden sent an ambassador incognito to Berlin to watch and report upon the characters and dispositions of Frederick’s two unmarried sisters, Ulrica and Amelia, the former of whom had the reputation of being very haughty, crafty, satirical, and capricious; and the Swedish Court had already determined in favour of Amelia, who was remarkable for her personal beauty, and sweetness of character. It so happened that Amelia was much disquieted in her mind on account of her insuperable objection to renounce the tenets of Calvin for those of Luther. In her perplexity she sought the assistance of her sister’s counsels to prevent a union so repugnant to her happiness. The wary Ulrica—only too anxious to hold her place—advised her to assume by way of disguise the most insolent and repulsive deportment to every one in the presence of the Swedish ambassador—whose arrival had soon been buzzed abroad—which advice she followed; whilst her sister adopted all those attractive and amiable qualities which Amelia had for the time being laid aside. Every one, ignorant of the cause, was astonished at the unaccountable change in the conduct of the two sisters; and the ambassador on his return to Berlin informed his Court that fame had completely reversed their reciprocal good and bad qualities. The result of this stratagem was that Ulrica was preferred, and mounted the throne of Sweden.

And with this ruse we may compare one practised by Catherine II. of Russia on Joseph II., Emperor of Germany. At the village of Zarsko-Zelo, at which is situated the magnificent imperial country palace, there were no inns, an inconvenience which the hospitality of Mr. Bush, the English gardener, prevented being felt by visitors properly introduced to him. Accordingly, when Joseph II., to whom every appearance of show was highly distasteful, expressed his intention of visiting Catherine, she offered him apartments in her palace, which he declined. Her Majesty, fully aware of his dislike to parade, had Mr. Bush’s house fitted up as an inn, with the sign of a Catherine wheel, below which appeared in German characters, “The Falkenstein Arms”—Falkenstein being the name which the Emperor assumed. His Majesty knew nothing of the ingenious and attentive deception till after he had quitted Russia.

On one occasion, when the Emperor visited Moscow, he is said to have preceded the royal carriage as an avant-coureur, in order to avoid what he felt to be the obnoxious pomp and ceremony which an acknowledgment of his rank would have awakened. And when at Paris he amused himself by frequenting the cafÉs incognito, one day being asked to play a game of chess. He lost the game and wished to play another, but his opponent excused himself, as he was anxious to visit the opera to see the Emperor. “What do you expect to see in the Emperor?” he inquired, “for he is just like any other man.” “No matter,” said the stranger, “he is a very great man, and I will not be disappointed.” Whereupon the Emperor rejoined, “If that is your only motive for going to the opera, we may as well play another game, for you see him before you.”

When in London Peter the Great attended a masked ball at the Temple in the costume of a butcher; and Dr. Doran quotes an amusing incident in connection with a Christmas custom in his own country. Formerly, it appears, there was a masquerading ceremony in Russia consisting of a sledge procession, which took place between Christmas and the New Year, in which the clergy, gorgeously attired, stopped at certain houses, sang a carol, and “received in return donations from those who wished to be considered peculiarly orthodox Christians. Peter once witnessed this procession, and was so edified by the amount of the contributions, that 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 faithful” with the most marked satisfaction.

An amusing and familiar story is told of Charles V., who, being curious to know the sentiments of his meanest subjects concerning himself, would often go incognito and mix in such companies as he felt inclined. One night, at Brussels, his boot requiring immediate attention, he was directed to a cobbler. It happened to be St. Crispin’s day, and the cobbler was in the height of his jollity among his acquaintances. The Emperor acquainted him with what he wanted, and offered him a handsome gratuity.

“What, friend?” said the cobbler, “do you know no better than to ask one of our craft to work on St. Crispin? Was it Charles himself, I’d not do a stitch for him now, but if you’ll come in and drink St. Crispin, do, and welcome; we are as merry as the Emperor can be.”

The Emperor accepted the offer, and ere he had sat down the jovial host thus accosted him: “What, I suppose you are some courtier politician or other by that contemplative phiz; but be you who, or what you will, you are heartily welcome; drink about, here’s Charles V.’s health.”

“Then you love Charles V.,” replied the Emperor.

“Love him!” exclaimed the cobbler; “aye, aye, I love his long-noseship well enough, but I should love him much better would he but tax us a little less. But what have we to do with politics? Round with the glasses, and merry be our hearts.”

Shortly afterwards the Emperor took his leave, and Charles, pleased with the good nature and humour of the man, sent for him next morning to Court. But great was his surprise and alarm when he found that his late guest was no other than the Emperor—fearing the joke upon his long nose might be punished with death. The Emperor, however, thanked him for his hospitality, and as a reward bade him ask for what he most desired. Next day he appeared, and requested that for the future the cobblers of Flanders might bear for their arms “a boot with the Emperor’s crown upon it.” That request was granted, and as his ambition was so moderate, the Emperor bade him make another. “If,” said he, “I am to have my utmost wishes, command that henceforth the Company of Cobblers shall take place of the Company of Shoemakers.” It was permitted, and there may be seen a chapel in Flanders adorned with a boot and imperial crown upon it; and in all processions it was customary for the Company of Cobblers to take precedence of the Company of Shoemakers.

James IV. of Scotland occasionally amused himself in wandering about the country in different disguises. One night he was overtaken by a violent storm, and was obliged to take shelter in a cavern near Wemyss in Scotland. Having advanced some way in it, the King discovered a number of men and women preparing to roast a sheep. From their appearance he at once saw that he had not fallen into the best company, for they were a band of robbers and cut-throats; but, as it was too late to retreat, he asked their hospitality. This was granted, and James sat down to supper, at the conclusion of which one of them placed before him a plate, upon which two daggers were laid in the form of a St. Andrew’s cross, at the same time informing the King that this was the dessert they always served to strangers; that he must choose one of the daggers, and fight him whom the company might select to attack him. Thereupon the King instantly seized the two daggers, one in each hand, and plunged them into the two robbers who were next him, and running to the mouth of the cave he escaped through the darkness of the night. On the following morning, however, the King ordered the whole of the band of outlaws to be seized and hanged.

The father of the last Duke of Mantua, Charles III., loved to go abroad in the dirtiest of disguises, and “accompanied by an escort of equally ill-clad bullies for his defence.” It was his sport, when so engaged, “to assail all he met in the coarsest terms, and when some person assaulted, more impatient than others, fell upon him in return with tongue or cudgel, he would laugh till he was sore, and then his escort came to the rescue. On other occasions he would enter the shops of vendors of very breakable materials, and taking up mirror or drinking glass, or any other fragile matter that came to hand, he would let it fall to the ground, and find double provocation to laughter in the ruin he had committed, and in the expressions of unrestrained abuse which were showered on him in consequence.”[80]

Gustavus III. in his incognito travels assumed the name of Count Haga, and one of his adventures, on his way to Italy in 1783, was amusing. It appears that he had long promised a visit to the little Court of Schwerin. Accordingly, as soon as the Duchess of Mecklenburg heard of his landing in Germany, she prepared two fÊtes in his honour—one in her capital, the other at Ludwigslust; but Gustavus, who “rather disdained these petty German Courts, thought it a good joke, instead of going himself to Schwerin, to send two of his attendants—a page named Peyron, and Desvouges, a valet-de-chambre, who had formerly been an actor. These two personated Count Haga and his minister, Baron Sparre, and sustained the characters throughout; accepted all the homage meant for their master, danced with all the Mecklenburg ladies who were presented to them, and Peyron went even so far as to ask one of them for her portrait. Meantime Gustavus was taking his pleasure at Ludwigslust, and the mistake lasted long enough for him fully to enjoy the mystification.”[81]

The disguise adopted by Anne of Warwick, the sad and unfortunate girl-widow of Edward, Prince of Wales, who fell beneath the Yorkist daggers after the fatal field of Tewkesbury, to elude Richard, Duke of Gloucester, was one of the most romantic incidents in our history. Richard was anxious to make her his wife, but, in order to conceal from him her whereabouts, she put up with every privation, and, with the privity of her brother-in-law, Clarence, she went so far as to descend from the rank of Princess of Wales to the disguise of a servant—a scullery-maid—in a mean house in London, under which servile condition the future Queen-Consort was eventually discovered. The incident, as told by the Latin chronicler, is thus recorded: “Richard, Duke of Gloucester, wished to discover Anne, the youngest daughter of the Earl of Warwick, in order to marry her; this was much disapproved by his brother, the Duke of Clarence, who did not wish to divide his wife’s inheritance; he therefore hid the young lady.”

Many amusing details have been given of the adventurous journey of Prince Charles when he set out with the Duke of Buckingham in disguise for Spain, in order to see the Infanta. In crossing the river at Gravesend, for want of silver, they had given the ferryman a gold piece, who, imagining that his benefactors were crossing the Channel to fight a duel, hinted his suspicions to the authorities. At Canterbury they were summoned before the Mayor, and the Duke, finding concealment impossible, divested himself of his beard, and after satisfying that functionary as to who he was, informed him that in his capacity of Lord High Admiral he was about to acquaint himself secretly with the condition of the fleet. On reaching Boulogne they posted to Paris, and on the way fell in with two Germans who had recently seen the Prince at Newmarket, and fancied they recognised him. The improbability, however, of their being right, added to the cool denial of their conjecture, convinced them they were mistaken. At Paris the Prince and Buckingham, in order to disguise their features still more, provided themselves with periwigs, and the same evening they were present at a Court masked ball, where Buckingham first beheld the princess whom he afterwards married. Nothing of importance occurred till they had almost set foot on Spanish soil, when their progress was on the point of being interrupted, and Howell writes from Madrid: “The Prince’s journey was like to be spoiled in France, for if he had stayed but a little longer at Bayonne he had been discovered, for Monsieur Grammont, the governor, had notice of him not long after he had taken post.” Another escape was from the hospitality of the Duke d’Epernon, who invited them to his chÂteau. But he was informed that they were persons of such low degree as to be “unfit for such splendid society, and thus they eluded the invitation.” The people of Madrid were much struck with the romance and gallantry of their visit, and the city soon became a constant scene of magnificence and rejoicing in honour of the Prince and the Duke of Buckingham, who in their disguise had styled themselves Mr. John Smith and Mr. Thomas Smith.

One of the most notable frolics of Catherine of Braganza occurred towards the close of September 1671, when the Court was at Audley End, the residence of the Earl and Countess of Suffolk, where she and Charles II. were with much magnificence entertained for several days. While there she took it into her head to visit, disguised, Saffron Walden fair with Frances, Duchess of Richmond, and the Duchess of Buckingham. For this purpose they set forth in the costumes of country girls, in short red petticoats and waistcoats, but it seems that they had so overdone their disguise, that they were apparently taken for a strolling company of comedians, until the Queen, going into a booth to “buy a pair of yellow stockings for her sweetheart,” was discovered to be a foreigner. It was not very long, however, before the mystery was solved, as a person in the crowd, who had seen the Queen at a public State dinner, recognised her, and forthwith proclaimed his knowledge. This soon brought a crowd to get a glimpse of her Majesty and those accompanying her, with the result that the Court party, finding themselves discovered, at once took to their horses as quickly as they could; but “as many of the country people as had horses straightway mounted, with their wives or sweethearts behind them, to get as much gape as they could, and so attended the Queen and her company to the gates of Audley End, greatly to her confusion.”

In the same way Queen Mary and her ladies, disguised by their black masks, often made excursions to St. James’s fair—a practice mentioned in a letter of Lady Cavendish to her lord: “I went but once to the fair; Sir James gallanted us thither, and in so generous a humour, that he presented us all with fairings; the Queen’s fairing almost cost him twenty guineas. On our return we met my lord chamberlain, Lord Nottingham, in the cloisters of St. James’s Palace.”