1 April: Boreham on the Fool

The Other Side of Folly
There is nothing incongruous in the circumstance that, this year,[1] All Fools' Day falls on a Sunday. On All Fools' Day, folly is pilloried; on Sunday, wisdom is preached. The clash of ideas is rather apparent than real. It was to expose men's vices and to encourage their virtues that professional fools were introduced into royal palaces and baronial halls in the days of long ago. That is why Jaques, in "As You Like It," thought that to be a fool was to be the finest creature breathing:

A fool, a fool! I met a fool in the forest,
A motley fool! O, that I were a
fool!
I am ambitious for a motley coat!

The Duke, naturally enough, questions the melancholy Jaques as to why he is so eager for the cap and bells. And Jaques replies that he would fain be a fool because a fool can speak the truth, fearing the face of no man.

One cannot help admiring the sagacity of the medieval peoples in according to the fool this official recognition. No court or castle was complete without its jester. The history of the European fools is in every way an impressive and edifying record. In the brave pageant of the middle ages there is no figure more striking and attractive. Amidst troubadours, crusaders, knights in shining armour, and lovely ladies gorgeously apparelled, the fool is never put to shame. There he is, with his variegated costume, his flying coat-tails, his pointed slippers, his asses' ears, his gay cap and jingling bells, and all the rest of it! That splash of motley lends distinction and character to a picturesque and memorable period.

Crevices That Admit The Sunshine
It is impossible to resist the conviction that it was in obedience to some sure human instinct that the fool found its way to such remarkable eminence. The fool was a fool, it is true; but generally speaking, the folly of that fool was a little in advance of ordinary people's wisdom. "He is undoubtedly crackt," says Miss Joanna Baillie, in the course of her criticism of Shakespeare's Touchstone, "but then, the very cracks in his brain are chinks which let in the light." Taking Miss Baillie's criticism at its face value, it suggests a curious question. Is it not worthwhile having a few cracks in your brain, if, through those chinks, the light comes streaming? And if there are a few men in the world whose brains, like those of Touchstone, admit the light, ought they to have been banished from mansions and manor houses? Ought they not rather, to be welcomed everywhere?

In his "Poet At The Breakfast Table," Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes strikes an even deeper note. "One does not have to be a king," he makes the Old Master say, "in order to know what it is to keep a king's jester." What, precisely, does he mean? The Old Master is evidently thinking of that inner voice that sometimes speaks in the depths of a man's soul; and he tells of some of the brutally candid criticisms that this second self occasionally addresses to the primary self. "I never got such abuse from any blackguard in my life," he says, "as I get from that Number Two of me. One does not have to be a king to know what it is to keep a king's jester." The point clearly is that, both amidst the dazzling splendours of the Court, and amidst the awful solitudes of the Soul, the king's jester is the one man who can laugh at the king. It is a fine thing for the king to have one faithful servant who is licensed, when occasion demands it, to look him straight in the face and laugh at him. It is a good thing for us all to be laughed at, at times.

The Value Of The Inner Laughter
In his "Les Miserables," Victor Hugo, with infinite skill, piles up the interest of his monumental story until the overwhelming climax is at last reached. At that terrific climax Jean Valjean has to make his great decision. In reality he is an escaped convict; but he is living under an assumed name, is doing well, is the owner of a vast industry, and is honoured and revered by all the townsfolk. He suddenly discovers that a man suspected of being Jean Valjean has been captured. Here, then, is the problem. Shall the real Jean Valjean dash to the ground his own happiness, and the happiness of thousands, by declaring himself? Or shall he maintain silence and allow the other man, who is known to be a scoundrel, to suffer in his stead? Jean Valjean sees clearly what he ought to do. But he cannot bring himself to do it. He resolves on silence and security. "Just then," says Victor Hugo, "he heard an internal burst of laughter." It was the soul's derision of itself. Jean Valjean was no king; he was a convict; but, as the Old Master declared, he knew what it was to keep a king's jester.

In his "Scarlet Letter," Nathaniel Hawthorne paints a very similar picture. Hester Prynne, bearing the burning brand of her shame, is exposed to the derision and contumely of the entire populace. Arthur Dimmesdale, the unsuspected partner of her guilt, is everywhere respected and revered. He knows that he should confess the hideous truth and take his place by Hester's side. But he lacks the courage, and, when he decides to remain inactive, he hears, Hawthorne says, a thunderous peal of laughter echoing through all the inner recesses of his being. Arthur Dimmesdale was no king; but he knew what it was to keep a king's jester. Every day his court jester looked him full in the face and laughed at him. It was the laughter of the soul at itself—the most terrible laughter of all. And his court jester gave him no rest day or night until he threw aside all seeming and made his great confession. Then, but not till then, the court jester bowed respectfully to his lord and vanished from the scene.

F W Boreham

Image: Court Jester

[1] This editorial appeared in the Hobart Mercury on March 31, 1951.