And so he had finally persuaded her, as he had persuaded everyone else. He had made clear to her that Bohemia’s throne rightfully belonged to whomever the estates of Bohemia wanted as king, and therefore they had left Heidelberg and moved to Prague, and he would never forget the day of the coronation, the vast cathedral, the huge choir, and to this day it echoed within him: You are now a king, Fritz. You are one of the great.
“Don’t close your eyes,” said the fool.
“I’m not,” said the King.
“Be quiet,” said the fool, and the King wondered whether he could let that pass, never mind fool’s license, that went too far.
“What’s going on with the donkey anyway?” he asked, to annoy the fool. “Can he do anything yet?”
“He will soon speak like a preacher,” said the fool.
“And what does he say?” asked the King. “What can he do now?”
Two months ago he had spoken in the fool’s presence about the wondrous birds of the Orient that could form complete sentences so that you’d think people were talking to you. He had read about them in Athanasius Kircher’s book on God’s animal world and he had not been able to get the thought of talking birds out of his head ever since.
But the fool had said that it was nothing to teach a bird to talk; all it took was a little skill to make any animal chatty. Animals were smarter than people, which was why they kept quiet: they were determined not to land themselves in trouble over trivialities. But as soon as you offered an animal good reasons for speaking, it broke its silence. He could prove this at any time in exchange for good food.
“Good food?”
Not for himself, the fool had protested, but for the animal. That’s how you do it: you stick food in a book and put it in front of the animal again and again and again, with patience and strength. In its voraciousness it turns the pages and in the process picks up more and more of human language. After two months you get results.
“What kind of animal?”
“It can be done with any kind. As long as it’s not too small, otherwise you won’t hear its voice. With worms you won’t get far. Insects aren’t good either; they’re always flying away before they’ve finished a sentence. Cats are always argumentative, and colorful Oriental birds like the ones the wise Jesuit describes aren’t found here. So that leaves dogs, horses, and donkeys.”
“We have no more horses, and the dog has run away.”
“He’s no great loss. But the donkey in the stable. Give me a year, then I can—”
“Two months!”
“That’s not much time.”
Not without gloating, the King had reminded the fool that he himself had just spoken of two months. That was how much time he’d have, no more, and if there was no result to be seen in two months, he could brace himself for a thrashing of biblical proportions.
“But I need food to put in the book,” the fool had replied almost sheepishly. “And not a small amount.”
The King was indeed aware that they never had enough food. But he had gazed at the wretched white canvas on the wall and with sly anticipation promised his fool, who had for a while now loomed larger in his mind than was reasonable, that he could have as much food as he needed for the undertaking, provided that the donkey would speak in two months.
The fool had actually kept up the pretense. Every day he had disappeared into the stable with oats, butter, and a bowl of honey-sweetened groats along with a book. Once, the King’s curiosity had become overwhelming and against all seemliness he had gone to take a look and had found the fool sitting on the floor, the book open on his knees, while beside him the donkey stared good-naturedly into space.
Things were progressing quite well, the fool had immediately asserted, they had already done I and A, and by the day after tomorrow the next sound was to be expected. Then he had let out a bleating laugh, and the King, now feeling ashamed of his interest in all this nonsense, had withdrawn without a word to devote himself to affairs of state, which in dismal reality meant that he had drafted a further request for military support from his brother-in-law in England and a further request for money from the Dutch States General, as always without hope.
“Well, what does he say,” the King repeated while looking into the fool’s eyes, “what can he say now?”
“The donkey speaks well, but what he says doesn’t make much sense. He has little knowledge, he’s seen nothing of the world—give him time.”
“Not a day more than agreed!”
The fool giggled. “In the eyes, King, look me in the eyes, and now tell everyone what you see!”
The King cleared his throat to reply, but then he found it hard to speak. It was dark. Colors and shapes assembled themselves. He saw himself standing before the English family again: the pale James, his feared father-in-law; his Danish mother-in-law, Anne, rigid with arrogance; and his bride, whom he hardly dared to look at. Then a whirling and swaying grew stronger and abated again, and he no longer knew where he was.
He had to cough, and when he recovered his breath, he realized that he was lying on the ground. There were men standing around him. He saw them only blurrily. There was something white above them—it was the tent, held up by poles, rippling slightly in the wind. Now he recognized Count Hudenitz, pressing his plumed hat against his chest, his face furrowed with worry, next to him the fool, then the cook, then one of the soldiers, then a grinning fellow in a Swedish uniform. Had he fainted?
The King reached his hand out. Count Hudenitz grasped it and helped him to his feet. He staggered, his legs gave way again, the cook held him from the other side until he was standing. Yes, he had fainted. At the most inappropriate time, in the tent of Gustav Adolf, whom he had to persuade with strength and shrewdness that their fortunes were linked, he had fallen over like a woman in a tight bodice.
“Gentlemen!” he heard himself saying. “Applaud the fool!”
He noticed that his shirtfront was soiled, his collar, his jacket, the decorations on his chest. Had he been sick too?
“Clap for Tyll Ulenspiegel!” he cried. “What a feat! What an amazing thing!” He grabbed the fool by the ear. It felt soft and sharp and unpleasant. He let go of it again. “But watch out that we don’t give you to the Jesuits. That borders on witchcraft—what a trick!”
The fool was silent. He had a crooked smile on his face. As always the King couldn’t interpret the expression.
“He is a magician, my fool. Fetch water, clean my garments, don’t stand around.” The King forced a laugh.
Count Hudenitz set to work on his shirtfront with a cloth; as he wiped and rubbed, his wrinkled face hovered much too close to the King’s.
“One must be careful of the fellow!” the King exclaimed. “Clean faster, Hudenitz. One must be careful! No sooner has he looked me in the eyes than I’ve fallen over—what a magician, what a trick!”
“You fell over on your own,” said the fool.
“You must teach me the trick!” the King cried. “As soon as the donkey has learned to speak, I want to learn the trick too.”
“You’re teaching a donkey to speak?” one of the Dutchmen asked.
“If someone like you can speak and if even the stupid King is constantly speaking, then why shouldn’t a donkey speak?”
The King would have liked to slap the fool’s face, but he felt too weak, so he joined in the soldiers’ laughter, and then he was overcome with dizziness again. The cook supported him.