March 10, 1536: Thomas Howard Manages to Be Born Without Committing Treason

Is decapitation hereditary?

If Thomas Howard, fourth Duke of Norfolk, were here to celebrate his 474th birthday, I would ask that question. Surely he would have noticed that much of his family–Dad, Aunt Catherine, Cousin Anne, etc.– was dying in the Tower of London rather than Norfolk. Grandfather nearly went to the block but instead spent years watching the mold on his cell walls. At the very least, being a Duke of Norfolk seemed to have some risk. So, why was the fourth Duke writing fan letters–perhaps including vague marriage proposals– to Mary, Queen of Scots? Perhaps he couldn’t help himself if decapitation is a hereditary trait. He certainly discovered that Queen Elizabeth I had a hereditary trait too: Tudor vindictiveness.  She proved that in 1572, retiring the Fourth Duke to the family vault and demoting his heirs to mere earls.  (Charles II would restore the dukedom in 1660.)

Yet, the Howards were fairly adapt at surviving.   They had been on the wrong side at the Battle of Bosworth, but switched their loyalty from York to Tudor. They could be just as flexible in theology, oscillating their piety from Rome to Canterbury to Rome. The Howards were devoutly Anglican when it came to seizing monastery lands from the Catholic Church. Once they sated themselves upon the Church’s wealth, they could be Anglicans for Henry VIII and Edward VI; they could be Catholics for Mary. (Caught between Elizabeth and Mary Stuart, they tried being everything. That proved tricky.) Had the Ottoman fleet sailed up the Thames, the ingratiating Howards probably would have become the Emirs of Norfolk.

In the 17th century, when the reigning Stuarts were subconscious or covert Catholics, the Dukes of Norfolk felt safe to resume their Catholicism. For the last three centuries, they have avoided any unpleasant stays in the Tower. And yes, the Howards are still the Dukes of Norfolk.

Turkey pulls envoy after U.S. vote on “genocide” label

Reuters
WASHINGTON — A congressional panel voted on Thursday to label as “genocide” the World War One-era massacre of Armenians by Ottoman Turkish forces, prompting Turkey to recall its ambassador from Washington.

The House of Representatives Foreign Affairs Committee voted 23-22 to approve the nonbinding resolution, which calls on President Barack Obama to ensure U.S. policy formally refers to the killings as genocide.

The vote triggered an immediate condemnation from Turkish Prime Minister Tayyip Erdogan, who recalled Turkey’s ambassador to Washington for consultations. Erdogan said he worried the measure would harm Turkish-U.S. ties and efforts by Muslim Turkey and Christian Armenia to end a century of hostility.

Did you think that the words barbarian and barber were just phonetic coincidences?  On the contrary, etymology has more than its share of irony.

Barbarian originally comes from the Greek word for strangers: barbaroi. The Greeks applied it to anyone who had the misfortune not to be Greek. Of course, the Romans never thought that it applied to them, so they stole the word along everything else in Hellenic culture. The Romans then used the term to describe those wild thugs across the Rhine and the Danube: hence, the term: barbarian. The Romans noticed that the ancient Germans didn’t bother to shave, and the legionnaires coined the term “barba” to describe the unkempt Teutonic facial hair. That slang became the basis for the French and Italian words for beards and our term for one who trims beards–barber. 

Of course, you erudite readers–particularly you Jeopardy fans–will raise the question, “Doesn’t Xenophobia mean a fear of foreigners?”  (So you thought you caught me!)  That is how we interpret the word, but an ancient Greek would contradict us.  To him, it would mean “a fear of strangers“, specifically Greeks from other city states.  If 500 years of civil wars are any indication, the ancient Greeks had no trouble hating each other.

And if you know anyone named Barbara, don’t tell her what her name really means.

p.s.  Let’s not forget the historic significance of this day:  http://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2008/03/04/remembering-john-garfield/

February 26, 1564:  The Least Mysterious Thing About Christopher Marlowe

At least there is no debate as to when and where Christopher Marlowe was baptized.  It was in Conventry, England on this day in 1564, and the Anglican priest failed to observe the infant’s genius.  The date, nature, and cause of his death, however, are questions inciting civil wars in college English departments. 

Did he really die in a brawl in 1593?  Was he a Catholic spy?  Was he murdered by the Crown?  Did he fake his death and live on to become the ghostwriter for William Shakespeare, Jane Austen and Winston Churchill? 

According to the mere facts, the 29 year-old Marlowe got in a fight over a bar bill and rather imprudently tried deflecting a knife with his eye.  But that is too petty a death to be accepted!  (Occam’s razor was never meant to be a murder weapon.)  No, the Robert Mapplethorpe of Elizabethan Theater deserves some drama.  He had to be the victim of a conspiracy.  Here is a theory that combines creative jealousy with international intrigue:  Marlowe was murdered by Miguel Cervantes.  At the time, Cervantes was a middle-aged semi-invalid, but Marlowe wouldn’t have been that tough. 

Here is another theory:  the English Secret Service killed him.  Since Marlowe was gay and went to Cambridge, he must have been a spy.  The question is for whom?  The sentimental among us would like to think that the Cambridge kids were spying for Russia even back then.  Marlowe actually could have known Boris Gudunov.   But what secrets did 16th century England possess that Russia coveted?  Maybe long division.  It is unlikely that Her Majesty’s Secret Service was particularly worried about Russian spies.  Khristov Marlovsky would not have been worth killing. 

No, to be significant, Marlowe would need to be a spy for Spain or the Catholic Church.   So let’s start searching “Tamburlaine” or “Doctor Faustus” for any coded Papist messages.  “The face that launched a thousand ships” might really refer to Philip II and the Armada.  So, now he is incriminated.  But why would the Crown need to arrange his assassination. If the English government could publicly execute a Queen, Dukes, and Jesuits, what is the difficulty in hanging and drawing a flamboyant playwright?

But who is to say that Christopher Marlowe ever died?  Perhaps “Dr. Faustus” is actually the story of a writer and his literary agent.  (And I wish that I could get that deal.)

February 25, 1570:  It Now Is Permissible (what is Latin for Kosher?)  To Assassinate Elizabeth I

Pope Pius V was not exactly your Barry Fitzgerald type of priest. Instead, just imagine if Josef Stalin had decided to stay in the seminary. Born in Italy, but with a Spanish personality, the young Antonio Ghislieri joined the Dominician Order where he found kindred psychopaths. He volunteered for the Inquisition and displayed a zealous piety. The Inquisitor was especially suspicious of the well-educated, believing that literacy and heresy were synonymous. To his frustration, however, the Italian Inquisition was more inclined to burn books rather than people. (In Spain, you could do both!)

Yet, his personal austerity earned him the support of the “reformist” faction within the Church; these were the cardinals who felt that Popes should have religious wars instead of mistresses. In 1566, on the death of Pius IV (your typical nepotic rascal), the reformers elected their favorite inquisitor as the next pope. Although 62 at the time, bigotry kept him young. As Pius V, of course, he persecuted Jews but that was a mere formality. His real interest was in exterminating Protestants and he had an eventful six year reign. He officially gave Spain permission to wipe out the Dutch. (Without the Pope’s permission, the Dutch did defend themselves.) The Pope encouraged France’s Catholics to kill the Huguenots; he died a few months too soon to enjoy the St. Bartholomew’s Massacre but he must have been there in spirit. On this day in 1570, he declared Queen Elizabeth a heretic and ordered her overthrow and death; however, the Catholics were a minority and those who tried to comply with the Papal directive generally found themselves disemboweled by the Queen’s Secret Service.

Ironically, the Pope did not like the idea of hurting animals and forbade bullfighting. This was one Papal directive that Spain ignored.

In 1712, Pius V was declared a saint. PETA might agree even if Protestants and Jews don’t.

February 24, 1500:  An Infant Inherits the Hapsburg Jaw and Europe

Monarchies do tend toward nepotism. Today, on the birthday of Charles V, I would hate to suggest that he did not deserve to be King of Spain and Southern Italy, Grand Duke of Burgundy, Duke of Austria and Holy Roman Emperor. However, his resume consisted of a birth certificate.  At least, he had the right parents at the right time.

His story begins in late 15th century Spain with the marriage of young Phil Hapsburg to Joan, the oldest daughter and heiress of Ferdinand and Isabella. The New York Times and People would have loved covering the events, but their reporters would have been burned as part of the festivities. (All the best Spanish weddings included an auto da fe.)

Phil was quite a catch. Besides being good looking, his family’s business included Austria and the Holy Roman Empire. Furthermore, his late mother had left him all Belgium and the Netherlands. His mother-in-law died in 1504; expelling most of the doctors from Spain proved unhealthy. Joan was supposed to inherit Mom’s kingdom of Castile, but Ferdinand hated to part with it.

The young Hapsburg may have cheated on his wife but he was loyal to Joan’s fortune; he protested against his father-in-law’s usurpation of Castile and even made vague threats. Then Philip suddenly died. (You can only imagine how surprised Ferdinand was.) Joan went mad and refused to have her husband buried; she transported his casket wherever she went.

Of course, Ferdinand was willing to rule Castile in his demented daughter’s name as well as regent for his young grandson Charles, who was being raised–safely–in the Low Countries. Ferdinand died in 1516 of undeservedly natural causes, so the 16-year-old Charles inherited Aragon and Sicily and finally got to rule Castille.

In 1519, his paternal grandfather died–leaving Charles the family estate of Austria and the job opening of Holy Roman Emperor. So a teenager now ruled all of Spain and its burgeoning colonial empire, Southern Italy and Sicily, the Low Countries and Austria. He was the most powerful man in Christendom since Charlemagne; so naturally the Pope had to pick a fight with him.

Leo X could ignore Luther and a Turkish army advancing into central Europe, but he was determined to annoy the young Hapsburg. He tried to prevent Charles’ election as Holy Roman Empire, a position that had long been regarded as a Hapsburg prerogative. Then, Leo refused to coronate Charles. (He was the fifth emperor Charles.) The Pope evidently thought that a 19 year-old was unworthy of such power and responsibility. Of course, Leo had been appointed a cardinal when he was 13, and the deMedici family had been bought their kid the papacy; but the young deMedici begrudged the even younger Hapsburg.

Not feeling terribly loyal to the Papacy, Charles proved initially quite tolerant of the fulminations of Professor Luther. After all, the Church definitely needed reform; and wasn’t that Luther’s sole aim? Yes, Charles was wrong; but by 1521, the heresy had proved so popular in Northern Germany that only a civil war could crush it. Charles needed the support of the German princes of the North; he intended to conquer Italy if only to make his point to the Pope.

Leo died without having the pleasure of meeting Charles. However, Pope Clement VII (and Leo’s cousin) was persuaded by the German sack of Rome in 1527 to coronate Charles. Being a Hapsburg hostage made Clement very considerate of Charles’ feelings. When Henry VIII wanted an annulment from Catherine of Aragon, the Pope naturally asked Charles if he wished his aunt Catalina declared a whore! Charles proved reluctant, so the Pope refused Henry’s request.

Henceforth, the Popes would proved deferential to Charles V. If brute force was not sufficiently persuasive, Charles was also contributing a tithe of the Aztec and Inca generosity to the Church. Although personally pious–especially as he got older, Charles was not a religious bigot. Yes, Spain burned anyone who showed a suspicious reluctance to pork but through the rest of his realm he proved ecumenical. He reached a political detente with the Lutherans of Germany; after the Turks had conquered Hungary and had cavalry patrols around Vienna, the Emperor really couldn’t afford to quibble over transubstantiation versus consubstantiation. And since the Dutch wanted to make money rather than trouble, Charles could turn a blind eye to Calvinism.

Charles abdicated all his thrones in 1557 and retired to a monastery where he died the following year. His younger brother Ferdinand inherited Austria and the imperial title. Charles’ son Philip received Spain and the Low Countries but none of his father’s prudence.

So, aside from bad taste in children, Charles V really did a pretty good job. Happy birthday.

(This is my article in the current issue of Toastmaster Magazine.  I may have saved you a fortune in membership fees.)

 As March 7 approaches, you once more will torment yourself with the question “Will I really watch the Academy Awards again?”  There are good reasons to do so.  First, if you are a masochist, the gratification would be obvious: hours of stupefying boredom mixed with irritating attempts at entertainment.  Then, there is the cultural obligation.  If these people are “stars”, shouldn’t you know who they are?  (Mastering the distinction between Shia LaBoeuf and Emile Hirsch could earn you the respect of teenagers!)  And, those of us of a graying age have a morbid fascination seeing how our past favorites now look:  who still are glamorous and who should sue their plastic surgeons? 

Of course, as Toastmasters, you will want to hear the speeches.  If nothing else, you will feel so superior.  The usual speech at the Oscars is terrible:  incoherent, rambling and too often neurotic.   Surprisingly, most of the speeches are only 45 seconds in length; they do seem so much longer.  Indeed, the Academy tries to impose a time limit on the speakers.  Notice how the orchestra begins playing the 46th second of a speech, just as the year’s winning set designer is thanking his acupuncturist.  If the speaker ignores that hint, one of those smiling models–who likely have a black belt in karate– will subtly pinion his arms and nudge him off stage.  But despite this terror-imposed punctuality, a two-hour ceremony somehow lasts four hours or so.

Consider the irony:  if our movies were as bloated and misdirected as the Oscars ceremony, Hollywood might still be orange groves near a small city named Los Angeles.  Yet, Hollywood is one of the great and enduring success stories of America.  In 1906, the perennial sunshine of Southern California was conducive for shooting film and tempted a New York-based studio to open a west coast office.  Even then, filmmakers had a tendency to copy each other.  By 1915, most American movies were made in California, and an agricultural community outside of Los Angeles had become the center and synonym for movies. 

The world loved Hollywood’s films.  Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks by themselves ensured a trade surplus for America.  As for the producers and studio heads–Louis B. Mayer, Cecil B. DeMille, Samuel Goldwyn and others–they were rich and powerful but still dissatisfied.  Men of modest origins but not modest natures, they wanted honors and deference.  In another time or country, they could have acquired titles of nobility; but 20th century America had none to offer.  However, in 20th century America these producers were free to anoint themselves.  So they did.  In 1927 they formed a society whose chief purpose was self-adoration.  Grasping for prestige, the organization’s name was the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences.  Its first president–Douglas Fairbanks, himself–proposed some awards for merit. 

The first awards ceremony was at a banquet the following year.  Ten awards were given out in15 minutes.  We would recognize most of the awards’ categories:  best film, best actor, best actress, best director, etc.  But there also was a prize for “Best Title Writing”.  Movies then were silent, and any narration or dialogue would appear on title cards flashing on the screen.  So, when the villain wants to have his way with Lillian Gish, a title card would express Miss Gish’s indignation:  “You cad!”  The first award for best Title Writing was also the last.  In 1927’s”The Jazz Singer” Al Jolson had turned to the audience and said aloud, “You ain’t heard nothing yet.”  The Hollywood film now talked.

The tradition of the terrible acceptance speech also dates to that first Awards ceremony.  The winner for best actor was Emil Jannings.  He was German but in silent films no one could detect his miserable knowledge of English.  The advent of the “talkie”, however, ended his prospects in Hollywood.  He actually was on a train out of town when the first Awards ceremony was held.  Jannings wired his acceptance speech, saying thank you and adding  “I therefore ask you to kindly hand me now already the statuette award for me.”

Of course, Hollywood could not resist filming itself.  The highlights of each ceremony were compiled and distributed as news reels to be shown in movie houses around the world.  Until 1952, that was the only way the public saw the Oscars; and through the wonders of editing, every winner was concise, eloquent and sober. 

So the public never heard Greer Garson’s acceptance speech after she won Best Actress of 1942 for her performance in “Mrs. Miniver.”  Not even a transcript has survived, so only as legend and rumor is it remembered as the longest and worst speech in the history of the Academy Awards.  According to the Guinness Book of Records, Miss Garson spoke for nearly six minutes.  She began, “I’m practically unprepared” and then commenced a broad philosophical meandering about the nature of film.  No one could remember the details; amnesia can be a mercy.  Until Miss Garson, the Academy never thought of imposing a time limit on speakers.  After her, the limit was set at 45 seconds.

Yet, as you can see on YouTube, some strange speeches did elude editing.  Winning best actress for 1935, Bette Davis seems more vengeful than grateful.  “I am very pleased: everyone who voted for me at the Academy and all the people who have wished this year that I get it.”  In fact, Miss Davis was nursing a grudge.  In 1934, she had received critical praise and popular acclaim for her performance in “Of Human Bondage.”  Yet, the Academy had failed even to nominate her.  The omission caused such an outcry that the Academy was cowed into an unprecedented concession:  it would permit write-in votes for Best Actress.  She still failed to win; however, the next year the Academy was wise enough to give the formidable Miss Davis the award for a film with a very accurate title:  “Dangerous.”

At least Bette Davis was being Bette Davis.  In 1940, Vivien Leigh sounded like the prototype of the Stepford Wife.  Awarded Best Actress for her performance as Scarlett O’Hara, Miss Leigh said, ” Ladies and Gentlemen.  Please forgive me if my words are inadequate in thanking you for your very great kindness.  If I were to mention all those who have shown me wonderful generosity through “Gone With the Wind” I should have to entertain you with an oration that is as long as “Gone With the Wind” itself.  So if I may, I should like to devote my thanks on this occasion to that complefied figure of energy, courage and very great kindness in whom all points of “Gone With the Wind” meet, Mr. David Selznick.”

Such fulsome praise of a producer is not usual, and it might even be mandatory in an Oscar speech.  In fairness, if any producer actually deserved that idolatry, Selznick did.  Through his constant and tireless work, he really did produce “Gone With the Wind.”; and it was his gut instincts to cast a minor English starlet as Scarlett O’Hara.  But Vivien Leigh’s speech is so artificial and stiff; it is practically embalmed.  Consider the use of the word “complefied”; it is a form of the Latin past participle for complete.  Who in the audience would have understood it except some priests and professors–very few of whom were at the Academy Awards that night.  Like the speech itself, the word is contrived and pretentious.  Furthermore, Miss Leigh seems uncomfortable in her recitation, as if she were the hostage of the speechwriter.  Perhaps she was, and the culprit was her fiancé at the time: Laurence Olivier. 

Olivier certainly knew what sounded Shakespearean but had not quite mastered the coherence.  Thirty-nine years later, he had not improved.  Upon receiving a Lifetime Achievement Academy Award, Lord Olivier expressed his thanks: “In the great wealth, the great firmament of your nation’s generosities this particular choice may perhaps be found by future generations as a trifle eccentric, but the mere fact of it–the prodigal, pure human kindness of it–must be seen as a beautiful star in that firmament which shines upon me at this moment, dazzling me a little, but filling me with warmth of the extraordinary elation, the euphoria that happens to so many of us at the first breath of the majestic glow of a new tomorrow.”  The words are lofty and poetic; with Olivier’s magnificent voice, the speech sounds wonderful.  It just does not make the least sense.  And since Olivier was being broadcast live on television, he could not be edited into a passable semblance of reason. 

Television has given the Oscars a worldwide audience and the winners the temptation to say whatever they want.  We will hear their political opinions and learn the names of their agents, children and high school English teachers.  Some will charm us with their wit, but more will amaze us with their lack of it.  Others will mistake us for psychoanalysts and divulge neuroses we didn’t want to know.  (Yes, Sally Field, we like you; and please Gwyneth stop crying!)  Of course, we will wonder why we are watching and make a determined resolution not to look next year.  We made the same vow last year.

Enjoy the show.

It is February 19, 1915 and you are invited on an all expense paid cruise of the Mediterranean. Tour the charming shores of the Dardanelles on our way to Constantinople! (Itinerary subject to change.)

Quite a change! How should I describe Gallipoli? Imagine if Gettysburg had lasted 11 months and every day was a disaster. Of the 500,000 men in the Allied expedition, half of them were killed or wounded. The casualty rates among the Australians and New Zealanders were nearly one hundred percent; entire ANZAC battalions were wiped out in the campaign. To this day, Gallipoli–the heroism, the horrors and the futility– is seared in the history and consciousness of Australia and New Zealand. They remember Gallipoli, and the British incompetence that caused it.

Ironically, the strategy behind the campaign was brilliant. With its complete mastery of the sea, the British navy would force its way up the Dardanelle Straits, seize Constantinople, knock Turkey out of the war, open the Black Sea and supply the beleaguered Russians on the Eastern Front. Yes, the idea was brilliant, but reality was not accommodating.

When the combined British and French fleets first undertook their expedition–on this day in 1915– they found the channel had been mined and the Turkish batteries were more accurate than expected. Faced with unanticipated losses and unnerved by further uncertainties, the fleets retreated. In fact, they had already encountered the worst and would have had a comparatively mild cruise to Constantinople. The Allies did not know that, however, and the Turks did not bother to correct them.

The Allies had an alternative plan. They would land an expeditionary force on the coast along the Dardanelles, and brushing aside the surprised and sparse Turkish forces, march to Constantinople. Of course, the aborted naval expedition had made the Turks and their German advisers aware of the Allies’ intentions; and so they prepared for a second attack. The Dardanelles were no longer lightly defended.

Furthermore, there was an obvious place for the Allies to begin such an invasion: a peninsula jutting from the straits. It was called Gallipoli. Six weeks after the failed naval attack, the Allied troops began landing on Gallipoli.
But nothing seemed to go right. The troops were not transported to the right locations. Instead of disembarking on wide, gently sloping beaches, the soldiers found themselves trying to scale cliffs. As for the light, sparse Turkish resistance, there were six divisions and they fought ferociously.

The Allies did establish their beachheads but in eleven months, they never got much further than where they had originally landed. Their brilliant strategy had resulted in a irretrievable military disaster. The Allies had no hope of success and no choice but to evacuate.

It was a Turkish victory and one general, who had been distinguished for his leadership, would in a few years become the founder and first president of the Turkish Republic. Mustafa Kemal remains a hero of Turkey.

It was a British catastrophe and the Lord Admiral of the Navy, who had conceived the brilliant strategy, resigned in disgrace. He was given the rank of colonel on the Western Front and he half-hoped to be killed in action. But he survived, a heavy-drinking eccentric, an entertaining but dismissed backbencher in Parliament.

He had skill as a writer and lecturer and was able to make a living with his theatrical talents. As he aged, he became increasingly outspoken and belligerent, an imperial anachronism in a mundane, accommodating world.   But he thought of himself, not as a has-been or a relic, but as a thundering Jeremiah who foretold the gathering storm.

And he made himself heard with an eloquence that defined history. The scapegoat of 1915 would become the Prime Minister of 1940.

“A lack of empathy, little ability to form friendships, one-sided conversation, intense absorption in a special interest, and clumsy movements.”

This is the description of Asperger’s Syndrome. It also is the college application for the University of Chicago.

Today we observe the birth of Dr. Hans Asperger who discovered a clinical reason for being obnoxious. We don’t know if the doctor himself had the syndrome. The birth certificate from 1906 does not indicate that the infant was unusually overbearing, belittling the aesthetics of his mother’s birth canal or the inferior education of the midwife. However, his high school yearbook did declare him “Man Most Likely To Be Wedgied.”

Fortunately, because of Dr. Asperger, we now have a better understanding of the chronically unbearable. When you find yourself confronted by an aggressively obnoxious individual–and you are not at a car dealership–you should respond by knocking out the buffoon. Then search his or her pockets to diagnose the nature of the psychosis. If you find the unconscious has a Nobel Prize in Economics or a large collection of used dental floss, then the diagnosis is Asperger’s Syndrome. Try to be sympathetic. If, however, the unconscious has a copy of an Ayn Rand novel, a regimen of sympathy is not recommended or even possible. In fact, feel free to hit him again.