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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.

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.

February 15, 1898:  Hot Time in Havana

On this day in 1898, God did William Randolph Hearst a big favor and blew up the boiler of the battleship Maine. The battleship blew up with it. (They just don’t make boilers like that, anymore.) Of course, the Spanish looked guilty; that is the disadvantage of being brunet.

Now Hearst had an excuse to incite a war against Spain. Of course, he would have found some pretext, perhaps depicting Miguel Cervantes and Francisco Goya torturing “The Katzenjammer Kids” on the comic pages. But the mysterious sinking of the USS Maine was very convenient. When Hearst blew up, so did the Congress. (They still do make Congresses like that!) So off to war we went.

Spain was no match for the United States. We quickly “liberated” Puerto Rico, Cuba, Guam and the Philippines. We could have taken Spain itself. This was–in words of our Secretary of State John Hay–“a splendid little war.”

Furthermore, we created a fashion. Everyone else wanted ‘a splendid little war’ too. In 1899, the British decided to annex the Boers’ Republics in Southern Africa–and any adjacent gold and diamond mines. However, “Marching to Pretoria” proved easier to sing than accomplish. The Boers resisted–and used their gold and diamonds to buy machine guns. That splendid little war took three years and 22,000 British lives.

In 1904, Russia was posturing in the Far East, threatening the “Monkey Men”, the Tsar’s somewhat insensitive term for the Japanese. It promised to be a splendid, little war–except that the Japanese won. The Monkey Men evidently were more highly evolved than the Russians.

And in 1914 Austria-Hungary decided to teach Serbia a lesson. That didn’t end up splendid or little, either.

Apparently, “splendid little wars” only occur with Spain or perhaps Grenada. Definitely not with Iraq or Afghanistan.

If only Saint Valentine practiced what he preached…Roman Emperors have feelings, too. The Emperor Claudius II (268-270) was feeling unappreciated. Coping with barbarian invasions and rebellious governors, the poor fellow didn’t even have time to pick an original name for himself. (Everyone was confusing him with the stammering, limping hero of PBS.) And when Claudius II did manage to defeat the Goths and the Alamanni–delaying for 150 years the Dark Ages and Richard Wagner–did anyone bother to thank him?

No. The pagans were preoccupied with bread, circuses and orgies, and that new monotheist cult refused to make just a few sacrifices in his honor. Even the old monotheist cult was more amenable than that; of course, it took three lost wars, the destruction of Jerusalem and expulsion from Judea to remind the Jews to include a few perfunctory prayers for the Emperor. However, the new cult was dogmatic in its refusal, preferring persecution to courtesy.

That really seemed unfair to Claudius and the Empire. Christianity was an ingrate. Roman roads made it easier for missionaries, and the fresh water from aqueducts ensured that baptisms didn’t cause cholera.

Would it have been too much for Saint Valentine to send the Emperor a thank you note?

Yes, I am referring to Abraham Lincoln. In case you were wondering, my other favorite Republicans are Teddy Roosevelt, Jimmy Stewart, Barbara Stanwyck and Adolphe Menjou. True, it is not a long list. I could include two personal friends, but these days–out of embarrassment–they claim to be Libertarians. And yes, I do like John Wayne, but I never can forgive him for being a draft dodger. Neither could a naval veteran named John Ford, who used to ridicule Wayne about “being a sissy”; in fact, he once even made John Wayne cry.

Of course, modern Republicans would not want to be associated with a pair of liberals like Lincoln and Teddy R. It is surprising that their heads are still on Mount Rushmore. (You can imagine Halliburton getting a no-bid contract for that project.) But, oh the irony, the Republicans were once the liberals of American politics. Granted that liberalism was confined to one issue, but it was the biggest issue of the day. The Republicans were opposed to slavery. Some advocated its outright abolition; however, most Republicans had the temperate approach that we expect from liberals. They just opposed the expansion of slavery into new states. You’d think that would be an inoffensive, sensible compromise. Iowa, Nebraska and the Dakotas really are not ideal for cotton. But the South would not recognize even economic practicality as a limit to their cherished “institution”. If the South was not free to have slaves (freedom is a relative concept), then the South would leave the Union. Of course, it was constricting itself to the same geographic confinement proposed by its Republican enemies, but the South’s gray matter evidently was limited to uniforms.

Once the Civil War was won and slavery was abolished (replaced by mere serfdom), the Republicans had lost their reason for being. However, they so enjoyed power that decided to improvise a new platform. The now defunct Whig party had an incestuous affection for business, although its war hero candidates usually could camouflage the financial self-interests. That philosophy and strategy suited the intellectually-bereft Republicans. And they happened to have a new generation of war heroes, starting with Ulysses Grant himself, to front for the robber barons and their pet politicians.

Aside from Teddy Roosevelt, an aristocrat who took his noblesse oblige quite seriously, the Republican Party is essentially the same kleptocratic, stagnant-quo of the Grant adminstration. It is occasionally stirred by a social awareness but always confuses self-righteousness with morality. That is how we got Prohibition, McCarthyism and the Patriot Act.

I imagine that Abraham Lincoln would have been on Richard Nixon’s and Dick Cheney’s enemies list. And he would have been flattered.

p.s.  Of course, Southerners claim that history misunderstands “the Glorious Cause.”  Their War had nothing to do with slavery.   Yet, they can’t seem to offer any other reason why the South attempted to secede from the Union.  A faulty memory might be caused by a tight hood. 

If only to atone for the inconvenience of the truth, I can proffer this excuse to the South:

The South simply wanted to avoid Mary Lincoln.  (That is very plausible except that all of the other states would have seceded too.)

February 3, 1867:  Mutsuhito Begins His Nameless Reign

Happy 143rd anniversary to Japan’s Emperor Mutsuhito. He actually was the Mikado when Gilbert and Sullivan wrote the operetta. Aside from not ordering ninjas to assassinate the D’Oyly Carte Company, Mutsuhito should be remembered for two remarkable achievements.

First, during his reign (1867-1912), Japan transformed itself from a feudal backwater into a world power. It mastered four centuries of industrial developments and military advances in just four decades. In 1853, during his father’s reign, Japan had capitulated to a squadron of gunboats from a third-rate power known as the United States. By 1905, after humiliating China and Russia in a series of wars, Japan was the master of East Asia. And in 1941…well, that may have been overreaching.

Second, even more remarkably, Mutsuhito never married into Queen Victoria’s family. How many royal lines can say that!

So, why haven’t you heard of Mutsuhito? Because no one calls him that. It was his name but the Japanese have a strange custom. When an Emperor dies, his reign is given an official title and the Emperor is then known only by that name. Upon his death, he and his reign were named Meiji. It means “Enlightened Rule.” And historians refer to him as that.

Remember his grandson Hirohito? Well, you shouldn’t. He now is officially known as Showa, “Enlightened Peace.”

Imagine if we applied that custom to our presidents, renaming them for their era. So our last eight presidents would be officially designated as Watergate, Pardon, Hostages, Glasnost, Kuwait, Monica, Catastrophe and Hope Cleanup.

January 23, 1719:  The Fun of Being a Hapsburg

Anticipating the need for a Jeopardy category, Emperor Charles VI created the principality of Liechtenstein on this day in 1719. Even if the Holy Roman Empire was–in the words of Voltaire–neither Holy, nor Roman nor an Empire, its Emperor still had an important and unique prerogative. He alone could create titles.

In case you were wondering or were nurturing megalomaniacal ambitions, you can’t just declare yourself a King or a Grand Duke. The title has to be officially established. So, who can you charm or bribe? Well, no one now. Even the Pope does not have that authority, although he certainly could add some prestige to your coronation. While the Holy Roman Empire existed, the Emperor alone had the power to create a title.

For example, the de Medicis had more money than God and proved it by buying a Papal election. Yet, they couldn’t get themselves declared Dog Catchers of Tuscany without the consent of the reigning Hapsburg. In fact, when Medici were opposing Emperor Charles V, their social standing was stuck at “upper-middle class.” Once, however, they learned to grovel, the Emperor rewarded their kneeling by elevating them to Grand Dukes of Tuscany.

At the onset of the War of the Spanish Succession, Emperor Leopold I wanted the assistance of the Prussian army. He secured that aid in 1701 by elevating the rank of the Prussian ruler from elector to King. The newly crowned Frederick I proved that one could social-climb and goosestep at the same time.  (The crown did come with a catch;  Frederick was “King in Prussia” and he could only be royal sovereign of those territories not formally part of the Holy Roman Empire.  Within the Empire, Frederick was still a glorified Drill Sergeant.)

The Holy Roman Emperor did not have the power to abolish a title once conferred, but he could always change his mind about creating a title. Charles the Rash (1433-1477) was NOT content to be a mere duke. Ruling an area encompassing modern Belgium and Holland, Charles thought that he had the land, wealth and power worthy of a king. So, in a campaign combining pleas, bribes and military threats, the Duke sought to be elevated to a king. In 1473, Emperor Frederick III finally agreed and arranged to invest Charles at the town of Trier. Meeting the Duke on the eve of the ceremony, the Emperor found him unbearable. Rather than spending another moment with Charles–and making him a King, the Emperor slipped out of town that night. So Charles never got to be a King.

(Ironically, the only child of the Duke ended up marrying the oldest son of the Emperor. However, it was not an awkward wedding. Charles was already dead, having proved his rashness in one battle too many.)

Only one man did not respect the prerogative of the Holy Roman Emperor. Napoleon made himself an Emperor in 1804.

So, perhaps there is still hope for you megalomaniacs.

January 21st, around 304: Agnes Lives Up To Her Name

This is the feast day of St. Agnes, virgin and martyr.  (Yes, the two are often synonymous).  Agnes was a young Roman patrician…and so were Saints Agatha, Lucia, Cecilia, Catherine, etc.  Why must they always be young Roman virgin aristocrats?  Was the Early Church so snobbish that it would not let a shepherdess or fishmonger throw herself to the lions?  And the stories are always the same: rather than marry a pagan, the young lady chooses death.  Well, a Church that needs four Gospels to tell the same story is not blessed with originality; and the redundancy of these martyred debutantes might suggest why plagiarism is not a cardinal sin.

Ironically, the very triteness of these stories proves that they are reasonably true.  (We still might doubt that, when threaten with rape, Saint Agnes immediately grew billows of body hair that deterred even Latin men.)  All this incredulous repetition is the fault of the Romans.  The Empire was specifically persecuting Christian patricians.  Pagans are usually quite tolerant; what difference is one more God in the pantheon?  In fact, the imperial authorities were quite prepared to accept Christianity within certain constraints.

The evangelists were welcome to preach sufferance to peasants and slaves.  Sedating the lower classes did the Empire a favor.  (What a pity Jesus missed Spartacus by some 90 years.)  Furthermore, Christianity seemed a very nice religion for women.  Virtue, mercy and charity are delightful household precepts; but they are no way to run an empire.  The Christian principles might undermine the martial ardor that built and maintained Rome.  The religion could not be allowed among patrician males.

By the third century, many patrician families kept a theological balance.  The women were permitted to be Christian while the men were required to be pagans.  The women’s Christianity was not even a secret.  Consider the names Agnes, Agatha, Lucia and Catherine.  They were not traditional Roman monikers but reflected the Christian policy of naming a child for a virtue. Their names respectively mean chaste, good, light and pure.  (Cecilia must have had a domineering conservative father; her name adheres to Roman custom and identifies her as a member of the Caecilii family.) 

So long as Christianity remained a woman’s fad, there were no problems.  Unfortunately, some dogmatic maidens did not know their place.  Agnes, Agatha, Lucia and Catherine revolted against all propriety by refusing to marry eminently eligible pagans.  That was a scandal.  And Cecilia was worse; she actually tried converting patrician males.  That was a crime!  Since these young ladies demanded attention, they got the most fatal form of it.

Agnes died during the last major persecution of Christians. It was in the reign of the Emperor Diocletian, who incidentally had a Christian but discreet wife.  In 304 there was an up-and-coming Roman general named Constantine.  He, too, grew up in a theologically mixed household, with a pagan father and a Christian mother; in his case, however, Constantine turned out to be a a mama’s boy.  If only Agnes had shown a little patience and tact, she could have been persecuting pagans.