Frederick William I. was fond of the broadest practical jokes, and the “Tobacco College” was his favourite leisure resort, where he was highly delighted when foreign princes got drunk, or when the unaccustomed weed made them sick. This Tobacco Club met every day at five or six o’clock, and a strangers’ book was kept in which the names of visitors were entered, and among them that of the Czar Peter is still shown. The ex-King of Poland, Stanislaus, father-in-law of Louis XV., was often present; and Francis I., when still Duke of Lorraine, smoked his pipe when canvassing his Prussian Majesty as Elector of the Empire, before his election to the imperial crown. A singular personage, Jacob Paul von Gundling, who was elected President of the Academy of Sciences, was the butt of the most amusing, coarse, and even cruel practical jokes. He was made to read to the company at the Tobacco Club some of the most insulting articles against his own person, which his Majesty had sent to the daily papers for insertion. A monkey in a dress—the exact counterpart of that worn by Gundling—was placed by his side, and declared by the King to be a natural son of Gundling, who was then forced to embrace his alleged offspring before the whole company. Frederick William caused, too, Gundling to be ridiculed in his death, for a large wine cask was selected as his resting-place, and in this, attired in his dress of state, he was buried, notwithstanding the remonstrances of the clergy.
It seems that when a child his Majesty was noted for his wit, for at a fancy ball held at Charlottenburg, July 12, 1790, he appeared as a conjurer, performing his tricks so cleverly as even to be praised for his wit by the celebrated Leibnitz. A year before, the Duchess of Orleans had written: “I am always concerned when I see children prematurely witty, as I take it for a sign that they will not live long; I therefore tremble for the little Electoral Prince of Brandenburg.”
On one occasion a general, proverbial for his stinginess, excused himself from entertaining at dinner his Majesty on the plea of not keeping an establishment. But Frederick William directed him to Nicolai, the landlord of the King of Portugal Hotel, where he made his appearance with a large company. The dinner and wines were excellent, and on rising from the table the general, calling in the landlord, asked him the charge for each guest. “One florin a head without the wine,” answered Nicolai.
“Well then,” the general said, “here is one florin for myself and another for his Majesty; as to the other gentlemen whom I have not invited, they will pay for themselves.”
“Here’s a fine joke,” the King exclaimed good-humouredly; “I thought I should take in the general, and now I’m taken in myself.” He then discharged the whole score from his own purse.
His son, Frederick the Great, rarely indulged in any familiarity with ordinary people, although, as already stated, he did not resent a repartee from one of his servants. He once asked a physician, “How many men have you sent into the other world?” when the unexpected reply came, “Not nearly so many as your Majesty, and with infinitely less glory.”
Inspecting his finance affairs, and questioning the parties interested, Frederick, writes Thomas Carlyle, notices a certain convent in Cleves which “appears to have, payable from the forest dues, considerable revenues bequeathed by the old dukes ‘for masses to be said on their behalf.’” He goes to look at the place, questions the monks on this point, who are all drawn out in two rows, and have broken into Te Deum at sight of him. “Husht! you still say those masses, then?”
“Certainly, your Majesty.”
“And what good does any one get of them?”
“Your Majesty, those old sovereigns are to obtain heavenly mercy by them, to be delivered out of Purgatory by them?”