Henry III. of France was never happy unless a whole kennel of puppies yelped at his heels; and Dumas has given an amusing sketch of his Majesty as he travelled with his fool Chicot in the same litter drawn by half-a-dozen mules. “The litter,” he writes, “contained Henry, his physician, his chaplain, the jester, four of the King’s minions, a couple of huge hounds, and a basketful of puppies, which rested on the King’s knees, but which was upheld from his neck by a gold chain. From the roof hung a gilded cage, in which there were white turtle-doves, the plumage of their necks marked by a sable circlet of feathers. Occasionally two or three apes were to be seen in this ‘Noah’s Ark,’ as it was called.”
Henry IV. was fond of dogs, and when King of Navarre, was found one day in his cabinet by his great minister, Sully, with his sword by his side, his cloak on his shoulders, carrying in a basket suspended from his neck two or three little pugs.
Even in his sports, one of the early exploits of Louis XV. gives a painful impression of his wanton character. He had a pet white doe at Versailles, at which one day he fired in mere mischievousness. The poor creature came wounded towards him and licked his Majesty’s hand, but the young King drove it away from him, and shot it again and again till it died.
Alfred de Musset’s dislike of dogs was intensified by unfortunate experience, for more than once a dog had nearly wrecked his prospects, one occasion being when at a royal hunting-party he blunderingly shot Louis Philippe’s favourite pointer. To Goethe, too, dogs were an abhorrence, and a story is told of the poet’s troubles as theatrical manager at Weimar, when the cabal against him had craftily persuaded the Duke Carl August—whose fondness for dogs was as remarkable as Goethe’s aversion to them—to invite to his capital Karsten and his poodle, which had been performing at Paris the leading part in the melodrama of “The Dog of Montargis.” But Goethe indignantly replied, “One of our theatre regulations stands, ‘No dogs admitted on the stage,’” and dismissed the subject. But the invitation had already gone, and the dog arrived. After the first rehearsal Goethe gave his Highness the choice between the dog and his Highness’s then stage manager; whereupon the Duke, angry at his opposition, sent a most offensive letter of dismissal. He quickly regretted the act, and wrote to Goethe, whom no entreaty could ever induce to resume his post.
CHAPTER XVI
ROYAL JOKES AND HUMOUR
From the earliest times history records many an amusing anecdote illustrative of royal wit and humour, and it is related how when Leonidas, King of Sparta, was informed that the Persian arrows were so numerous that they obscured the light of the sun, he replied, “Never mind that, we shall have the advantage of fighting in the shade.” But, coming down to later times, if monarchs have occasionally indulged in wit at the expense of their subjects, they have themselves not infrequently resented a joke when levelled at them, as in the case of Henry I. of England, who, once being ridiculed in a clever lampoon, rejoined by having the author’s eyes put out. But to the credit of royalty, be it said, instances of this kind have been the exception, despite the sharp retorts it has at times experienced from persons of low degree. Thus a smart rejoinder was that of Frederick the Great’s coachman when he had upset the carriage containing his master. Frederick began to swear like a trooper, but the coachman coolly asked, “And you, did you never lose a battle?”—to which the King was forced to reply with a good-natured laugh.
Henry VIII. appointed Sir Thomas More to carry an angry message to Francis I. of France. Sir Thomas told his Majesty that, if he carried a message to so violent a king as Francis, it might cost him his head. “Never fear,” said the King, “if Francis should cut off your head, I would make every Frenchman now in London a head shorter.” “I am obliged to your Majesty,” said Sir Thomas, “but I much fear if any of their heads will fit my shoulders.”
Even Queen Elizabeth could now and then brook a smart rejoinder. It is reported that she once saw in her garden a certain gentleman to whom she had held out hopes of advancement, which he discovered were slow of realisation. Looking out of her window, her Majesty said to him in Italian, “What does a man think of, Sir Edward, when he thinks of nothing?” The answer was, “He thinks, madam, of a woman’s promise.” Whereupon the Queen drew back her head, but she was heard to say, “Well, Sir Edward, I must not argue with you; anger makes dull men witty, but it keeps them poor.”
It would seem, too, that Elizabeth had more than once experienced the folly of sovereigns in allowing persons of more wit than manners the opportunity of exercising their sharp weapons against royalty. A certain jester, Pace, having transgressed in this way, she had forbidden him her presence. One of his patrons, however, undertook to make his peace with her Majesty, and in his name promised that for the future he would behave with more discretion if he were allowed to resume his office. The Queen consented, and, on seeing him, she exclaimed, “Come on, Pace; now we shall hear of our faults!” To which the incorrigible cynic replied, “What is the use of speaking of what all the town is talking about?”