Ernest the “Iron” was, perhaps, the least luxurious of his race. He married Cymburga of Poland, the lady who brought into the Austrian family the thick lips, which to this day form a characteristic feature in the imperial physiognomy. Cymburga cracked her nuts with her fingers; and when she trained her fruit-trees, she hammered the nails into the wall with her clenched knuckles! Their table was at once copious and simple. Their son Frederic had less strength both of body and judgment. At near fourscore years of age he suffered amputation of the leg, in order to get rid of a cancerous affection. He was “doing well” after the operation, when he resolved upon dining on melons. He was told that such a diet would be fatal to him, as it had already been to one Austrian archduke of his house. Frederic reflected that he would probably die at all events, and that he had already reigned longer than any emperor since the days of Augustus, namely, fifty-three years. “I will have melons,” said he, “betide what may!” He ate unsparingly, and death followed close upon the banquet.
Frederic would neither drink wine himself, nor allow his consort to do so, although physicians declared that, without it, she was not likely to achieve the honours of maternity. She did abstain, and despite what the oracular doctors had asserted, she became the mother of Maximilian, a prince who drank wine enough to compensate for the abstinence of both his parents. His second wife, Bianca of Milan, whom Maximilian the “Moneyless” married for her dowry, was, like the lady in Young’s Satires, by no means afraid to call things by their very broadest names; and she died of an indigestion, brought on by eating too voraciously of snails! They were of the large and lively sort, still reared for the market in the field-preserves near Ulm. If my readers should feel sick at the thought, let them remember their juvenile days, and “periwinkles,” and be gentle in their strictures. Leopold the “Angel,” the second son of the Emperor Ferdinand, surpassed even his father in abstinence. He reared the most odoriferous of plants, but inflicted on himself the mortification of never going near enough to scent them; and, poor man! he thought that thereby he was adding a step to a ladder of good works, by which he hoped to scale heaven!
The grandson of Ferdinand, Joseph I., was a somewhat free liver, and his intemperate diet was against him when he caught the small-pox. But the medical men were fiercer foes than his way of life; for when the eruption was at its worst, they hermetically closed his apartment, kept up a blazing fire in it, gave him strong drinks, swathed him in twenty yards of English scarlet broadcloth, and then published, on his dying, that his majesty’s decease was contrary to all the rules of art. His brother and successor, Charles, did for himself what the doctors did for Joseph. In 1740 he had the gout, and would go out hunting in the wet. He was subsequently seized with what would now be called incipient cholera, and he would eat—not melons, like some of his obstinate and imperial predecessors, but that delicate dish for an invalid, mushrooms stewed in oil! He ate voraciously, and the next day symptoms ensued which, he was informed, heralded death. Charles, like Louis Philippe, would not believe his own medical advisers; and there was some reason in this, for they stood at his bed-side, disputing as to whether mushrooms were a digestible diet or the contrary. The emperor dismissed them from his presence, ordered his favourite mushrooms, ate the forbidden “fruit” with intense gastronomic delight, and died in peace.
The table of the great Frederic of Prussia was regulated by himself. There were always from nine to a dozen dishes, and these were brought in one at a time. The king carved the solitary dish, and helped the company. One singular circumstance connected with this table was, that each dish was cooked by a different cook, who had a kitchen to himself! There was much consequent expense, with little magnificence. Frederic ate and drank, too, like a boon companion. His last work, before retiring to bed, was to receive from his chief cook the bill of fare for the next day; the price of each dish, and of its separate ingredients, was marked in the margin. The monarch looked it cautiously through, generally made out an improved edition, cursed all cooks as common thieves, and then flung down the money for the next day’s expenses.
The late King of Prussia was a sensible man with respect to his table arrangements. On gala days, and when it concerned the honour of Prussia that the royal hospitality should assume an appearance of splendour, his table was as glittering and gastronomic as goldsmiths and cooks could make it. But in the routine of private and unofficial life, it was simply that of an opulent merchant, something, perhaps, like that of Sir Balaam after he had grown rich. Even then he partook only of the least savoury dishes, and it was seldom, indeed, that he exceeded a third glass of wine. His example enforced moderation, but it did not mar enjoyment, for he loved every man around him to be merry and wise.
His own wisdom he manifested by a characteristic trait in 1809. The royal family had returned to Berlin for the first time since the war had broken out in 1806. The court marshal, deeming that the piping times of peace were going to endure for ever, waited on Frederic William, and asked what amount of champagne he should order for the royal cellars. “None,” replied the king; “I will drink neither champagne nor any other wine, until all my subjects—even the very poorest—can afford to drink beer again.” The incident was made public, and the king’s poor neighbours were especially delighted. Many of them testified their gratitude by sending from their gardens or little farms various articles for his table. The king ate thereof with pleasure, and did not forget the givers.
I have spoken of his moderation, but here is an additional trait from his table worth mentioning. When he came to the crown, the grand marshal proposed a more extended list of viands for the royal table. “Marshal,” said the king in reply, “I do not feel that my stomach has become more capacious since I became king. We will let well alone, and dine to-day even as we have done heretofore.”
In another page I have spoken of Bishop Eglert supping with the king. Such a guest was not an unfrequent one at the royal dining-table. On one occasion the bishop had preached before the court in the morning from Luke xiv. 8-11: “When thou art bidden of any man to a wedding, sit not down in the highest room, lest a more honourable man than thou be bidden of him; and he that bade thee and him come and say unto thee, Give this man place, and thou begin with shame to take the lower room,” &c. &c.
The bishop profited by the opportunity to expatiate on the virtues of diffidence and humility, insisting on their observance as necessary for the preservation of our happiness. Now, many dignified officials were present at the banquet in question, and the bishop, who had entered the saloon last, (which does not say much for the courtesy of those who preceded him,) meekly took his place at the lower end of the table. There the king’s scrutinizing eye fell upon him; and “Eglert,” said Frederic William, “I see you are self-applying the text from which you preached to us to-day. But, if I remember rightly, it is also written, ‘Friend, go higher.’ Come, then, take this chair that is near to me!” and the simple but highly embarrassed prelate walked blushingly to the station appointed him, and all in his vicinity began to recognise a man whom the king himself delighted to honour.
This anecdote reminds me, albeit it be “rue with a difference,” of one told of the second of the seven Dukes of Guise, Duke Francis. This celebrated individual was, during one part of his bloody career, engaged in the service of the Pope, to fight the battles of the latter against the King of Naples. He was not successful, and his holiness showered down upon him mordant epigrams and invitations to dinner. He had accepted one of the latter, and repaired to the sacro-regal board, after a day in the course of which he had been engaged serving as acolyte in the Papal chapel, and holding up the trains of very obese cardinals. In the banqueting-hall of the descendant of the poor fisherman, he meekly took the lowest seat. He had scarcely done so, than a French lieutenant endeavoured to thrust in below him. “How now, friend!” said the haughty enough Guise; “why pushest thou so rudely to come where there is no room for thee?” “Marry!” said the soldier, “for this reason, that it might not be said that the representative of a king of France had taken the last place at a priest’s table!” It was a bold piece of table-talk to so powerful a man as Guise, who recovered, and added to his reputation when he subsequently regained, Calais from the English. Previously to this last feat, when the occupation of Calais formed the subject of conversation at social boards, there arose the proverbial expression applied to the bravest of untried men, and honourable to the reputation of our own ancestors,—“He is not the sort of man to drive the English out of France!” The proverb died out of French society from the day when Guise drove old Lord Wentworth out of Calais, and cheated his duchess out of the silks which he found therein, and in which he attired the courtesans whom he invited to his ducal but not dignified table.