FinermanWorks

May 7th

On May 7, 1915, U-boat Kommandant Walther Schwieger had to make a difficult choice.  Would he want 4,200,000 rifle bullets  to reach his English enemies or would he prefer 100,000,000  Americans to join the war against Germany.  Deciding that the bullets were a more immediate danger, Schwieger sank the ocean liner transporting the bullets–along with 1900 passengers and crew.  The ship was the Lusitania.

One torpedo was sufficient to sink the British ship.  Even Schwieger admitted that it was a lucky shot.   The Lusitania sank in only 18 minutes.  It took even less time for 1198 people to drown.  The victims included 128 Americans.  Schwieger also succeeded in sinking any neutrality in American public opinion.

Up until that time the Americans dismissed the Great War as just as another elaborate, convoluted European opera except that the main characters really were trying to kill each other.  The public consensus had no preferences.  Yes, Kaiser Wilhelm did seem repellent but so did the British Empire.  Just ask the large number of Irish-Americans.  Among the growing Jewish population in America, Tsar Nicholas II was not fondly remembered; pogroms rarely are.   Furthermore, many Americans were of German descent and felt a certain nostalgia for the Vaterland; they had no wish to see their new country fight their old one.

The sinking of the Lusitania ended America’s indifference.  Popular sympathy was now with the Allies, and many were ready to act on that sentiment: fight the Hun!  Responding to America’s outrage, the Germans attempted to justify the sinking of Lusitania by offering desiccated legalese.  The German government had publicly announced its policy of unrestricted submarine warfare against any enemy shipping; it had placed ads in American newspapers!  Obviously, the passengers of the Lusitania should have known better.  The Teutonic jurisprudence did not satisfy the public outrage.  Indeed, within a few months the German government decided to refrain from sinking passenger ships.  (In the meantime, Lieutenant Schwieger sank the R.M.S. Hesperian–a hospital ship; the Second Reich did have some standards and apologized for that.)

America was ready for war, but President Wilson was not.  He had two reservations.  The first was political:  he wanted to be reelected in 1916 and he couldn’t be sure how all those Irish-American Democrats would feel about a military alliance with Britain.  (The American Jews would be placated and gratified by the appointment of Louis Brandeis to the Supreme Court, and the German-Americans tended to vote Republican anyway.)  His second reservation was philosophical, and our only Ph.D. President took his philosophy very seriously.  If America was to go to war, there had to be a nobler reason than revenge for the Lusitania or a visceral dislike of the Kaiser and German brutality.  America needed an aspiration to justify war.  If this were a war between democracy and autocracy, then Wilson would have committed our nation to the fight.  But the Allies included Tsarist Russia–a tyranny far more repressive than Germany.  While the Tsar reigned, President Wilson would maintain America’s neutrality.

But the Tsar fell in March, 1917 and Woodrow Wilson declared war on Germany the next month.  The American victims on the Lusitania at last would be avenged.

As for Lieutenant Schwieger, in 1917 he finally had the misfortune to confront an armed ship.  Attempting to flee, he piloted his U-boat into a minefield.  In his last moments, he knew what it was like to be on the Lusitania.

Napoleon Bonaparte was history’s most aggressive liberal.  (Bill Maher is a distant second.)  The French Revolution and its chief champion swept away the laws that exalted one religion or persecuted another.  From France to Poland this spirit of Emancipation–supported by French bayonets–tore down the ghetto walls of a 1000 years.

Of course, when Napoleon fell, the old prejudices and laws returned. The emancipation of the French Revolution and then the restoration of the Old Order had a profound effect on one family in Trier, Germany. When the French army conquered the Rhineland, it abolished the laws that had restricted where Jews could live and how they could earn a living. A rabbi’s son named Herschel Marx now had the freedom to become a lawyer. Unfortunately, after Napoleon’s defeat, Prussia took control of Trier. Prussian law in the early 19th century did not permit Jews to be lawyers. Herschel Marx had a choice: he could abandon his career and return to the ghetto or he could convert. Since he was a lawyer, there is no reason to think that he had principles. He became a Lutheran named Heinrich. The newly christened Heinrich Marx was starting a family and, although his wife Rachel refrained from converting, their children were duly baptized.  But for that, Trier Germany might have had a very dyspeptic rabbi named Kalman Marx.  Instead, history ended up with a self-proclaimed prophet called Karl.

Among its most shameless literary traditions, England has the grate Briton, that unsparing malicious wit, the mean for all seasons, whose jaundice is not merely infectious but irresistible.  Waugh, Wilde and Thackeray used venom to etch the telling portraits of their times.

This pedigree of cantankerous brilliance might be tenuously traced as far back as Henry Howard, the Earl of Surrey (1517-1547).  A gifted poet and an acerbic wit, the cousin of Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard probably did not find an appreciative audience with Henry VIII.  Surrey’s decapitation might be regarded as a hint.  In fact, it was a setback from which Catholic humor has never recovered.

Another putative ancestor of this morbid mirth would be John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester (1647-1680).  The court wit, playwright and human spirochete proved to be too disreputable even for Charles II.  The Earl was exiled from Court, although that was as much a matter of aesthetics as morals. Rochester’s nose was rotting away from syphilis.       

Neither Surrey nor Rochester lived long enough to be a curmudgeon, so perhaps the real father of Grand Old British Grouches was Edward Gibbon.  Being a historian–the author of the intimidating “The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire“–one might presume that Gibbon was a stupefying bore.  In fact, he was biliously funny.  “The Decline and Fall…” proves him to be an equal-opportunity misanthrope.  With a droll contempt, he denounced the Romans, Christians, Jews, barbarians, and Byzantines.  He only seemed to approve of a few pagan Greek intellectuals.

Here is a sampling of his acidic wit and scathing perspective: 

“We are always prone to impute our own sentiments and passions to the Deity.”

“The acquisition of knowledge seldom engages the curiosity of the nobles, who abhor the fatigue and disdain the advantages of study.”  

“The vices of the Byzantine armies were inherent, their victories accidental.”

Modern research has disproved many of Gibbon’s contentions, and he is much too interesting by current scholastic standards.  If he has been forsaken by today’s historians, however, he still is cherished by curmudgeons.

And today is his 272th birthday: Happy, no make that Dyspeptic Birthday Mr. Gibbon!

Happy Birthday William Shakespeare!  Instead of blowing out candles, however, the fashion is to try snuffing out his reputation.

Among the cultural arbiters of Western Civilization, Shakespeare’s birthday is now celebrated by denouncing him as merely the front for an aristocratic, university-educated but evidently shy author.  The graduates of Real Cambridge and Nouveau Cambridge insist that a mere yeoman would be incapable of such creativity.

Yet, I cannot imagine that the Earl of Oxford, Christopher Marlowe or Francis Bacon would want to claim credit for “Titus Andronicus.”  Who would?  And all three parts of “Henry VI” do not add up to one good play.   The trilogy is a mess, a slapdash concoction of convoluted history and overripe melodrama. Its plot is virtually impenetrable. There are moments of great theater and traces of brilliant language but they merely glint in the din and confusion of these chaotic plays.

These plays clearly are not the works of a polished aristocrat. On the contrary, they are the early works of a very undisciplined writer who is eager to ingratiate himself to the public. True, these plays were popular, perhaps for the same reasons that movies about mad slashers are popular today.

By the time that Shakespeare wrote “Richard III”, he had developed some discipline. The play may still be an overripe melodrama but it is well-done.  If you believe in creative evolution, it is possible that the perpetrator of “Titus Andronicus” would eventually write “Hamlet” and “The Tempest.” 

But who am I to disagree with “The New York Times”?

On this day in 1795, France adopted the meter as the standard unit of length. Revolutionary France obviously needed a new system of measurement; it had just cut off the tops of its old rulers.

Napoleon, however, was not that crazy about the Metric system. Perhaps under the old system, he seemed taller. While his conquering armies acted like liberals on steroids, and abolished serfdom, the Inquisition and the other medieval relics that still enslaved Europe, they did not attempt to impose the metric system. There were limits to Napoleon’s audacity.

Yet, where liberty, equality and fraternity have yet to take hold, the Metric system has. Of the allegedly advanced countries of the world, only the United States adheres to a medieval system of weights and measures. The length of the yard was said to be determined by Henry I of England; it was the distance from his nose to his outstretched end of his arm. Since Henry sired 21 children (only two with his wife) you can just imagine what other appendage he might have set as a standard of measurement.

Perhaps we should be grateful that 12 inches is called a foot.

April 5th

First, invade Russia during the winter.  (Keep in mind that Russian winters last from October to May.)

Second, arrange for your army to be surrounded by a Russian horde that outnumbers you at least 2 to 1.  Since you and your comrades are German knights renowned for your policies of extermination and enslavement, expect the Russians to be somewhat vindictive.

Third, allow your beleaguered force to be pushed onto a frozen lake.  The date being April 5, 1242 (Happy Anniversary in medieval German to you.) the lake is just starting to thaw.  The ton of horse, armor and you could prove a strain on the ice.  Oops.  You are about to learn that your armor is not waterproof or particularly buoyant.  Neither are you.

Fourth, the site of your dramatic if humiliating demise is Lake Peipus.  Worse, in your own German, it is Peipussee.  You now will be sniggered at by generations of British public school boys (at least the heterosexual ones). You only avoid similar derision from American teenagers because they have never heard of the 13th century.

Finally, your defeat will be immortalized in the 1938 film named for the Russian victor.  Had your side won,  the film would have been called “Herman von Dorpat” instead of “Alexander Nevsky.”  If it is any consolation, your side definitely is more fashionably dressed and has better coiffures.  Of course, from the Soviet perspective, that only proves how decadent you are.  (Stalin had edited Pravda, not Vogue.)

And, for a belated introduction, the Germans belong to a crusading order known as the Teutonic Knights.  These knights felt that they had a sacred duty to conquer, convert and enslave the Baltic and Russian peoples.  If you are going to work your serfs to death, at least offer them the spiritual solace of Catholicism instead of paganism or that heretical Russian Orthodoxy.  In 1242, most of Russia had been overrun and devastated by the Mongols.  However, northwestern Russia was inconveniently located, so the Horde had spared it–in return for tribute.  The Teutonic Knights had already conquered the lands we’d recognize as Latvia and Estonia. (Lithuania proved too tough and remained pagan for another century!)  The German crusaders thought that the surviving Russian principalities would be a pushover.  They were wrong.

 Did man evolve from the lemming?  History often seems to be a road map to a cliff. On April Fools’ Day, we should remember the colossal buffoons who have shaped and sabotaged our world. Their profound stupidity remains our legacy. If only for therapeutic revenge, we hereby recount their calamitous lives. The culprits are in chronological order.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Andronicus ducas, 1071 A.D.

Andronicus Ducas became the inadvertent father of Turkey and the Crusades. The Byzantine general simply wanted to kill his emperor but was too finicky for an assassination. Ducas waited until the imperial army was fighting Turkish nomads and then ordered a retreat, abandoning the emperor to the enemy. The general overestimated the army’s ability to retreat, however. It disintegrated, leaving Anatolia — half the empire — defenseless. The Turks weren’t nomads after that. Anatolia is now called Turkey. The Moslem triumph ignited the Crusades, and its hordes of pious killers destroyed what was left of Byzantium.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Emperor Yung-lo, circa 1415 A.D.

China declared an end to progress. Emperor Yung-Lo had the best of everything. He ruled the most powerful, most prosperous, most technically advanced, most populous country in the world. At a time when English ships never sailed farther than Portugal, the Chinese fleet was exploring East Africa. Considering China’s extravagant superiority, Yung Lo decided that there was no point to improving on perfection. The rest of the world had nothing to offer China. Yung Lo abolished the fleet, discouraged trade and promoted a tradition-bound regimen of education. Yung Lo’s policy lasted for six centuries and so did China’s stagnation.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Ferdinand of Aragon, 1483 A.D.

He actually was bright and completely free of scruples; Machiavelli considered him a role model.  However, Ferdinand turned out to be a little too clever.   

He had a get-rich-quick scheme. The wily and avaricious king commissioned a Spanish Inquisition in 1483 with the idea of gouging wealthy suspects who showed any reluctance toward pork. Of course, the bulk of the loot would go to the crown. The Inquisition, however, was not content to be Ferdinand’s pickpocket. It was going to save Spain from tolerance, innovation and whatever else reeked of heresy. To his dismay, Ferdinand could not control the Holy Office’s pyromania. He became its most comfortable prisoner, complying with the rabid dictates of the Grand Inquisitor.  While the rest of Europe had the Renaissance, Spain had the Inquisition.

Pope Leo X, 1517 A.D.

Pope Leo X had more taste than sense. The Medici esthete regarded St. Peter’s Basilica as a medieval barn and insisted upon its complete renovation. Yet even a Medici couldn’t afford the expense, so the pope authorized the wholesale peddling of indulgences to raise the money. The brazen hucksterism outraged Martin Luther, who urged a reformation of the church. In Rome, Leo was more interested in Raphael’s blueprints than in Luther’s protest. The pope didn’t care about theology and he didn’t foresee any political repercussions. Leo waited until 1520 to address Luther’s criticism of a venal and oblivious papacy. By that time, Northern Europe wasn’t listening.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

General John Burgoyne, 1777 A.D.

General John Burgoyne won the American Revolution but not for his side. The British general began his invasion of upstate New York with 30 carts of luggage, a wine cellar, someone else’s wife and 9,000 soldiers. He chose an itinerary that took him through forests, swamps and 20,000 American troops. Burgoyne’s surrender at Saratoga was an unprecedented triumph for the colonists; heretofore, they had claimed successful retreats as victories. The French were elated by the news of a British disaster. Saratoga proved that the colonists could win, and France embraced any cause — even a rustic republic — if it undermined England.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Louis XVI, 1791-1792 A.D.

Louis XVI overthrew the French monarchy. Except for the unlucky guards at the Bastille, the French Revolution had started as a very polite affair. The original goal was a constitutional monarchy, but Louis XVI opposed even moderate reform.

In 1791, the royal family attempted to flee the country; however, the Bourbons stopped for a picnic and were captured. Louis also was writing to his fellow monarchs, urging them to invade France. When this correspondence was discovered, it did little for Louis’ popularity or longevity. Louis almost did as much harm to the other monarchies. They declared war on France … and lost.

The French Republic promoted officers on the basis of ability rather than pedigree. Lieutenant Bonaparte showed particular promise.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Fanny Kaplan, 1918 A.D.

Fanny Kaplan nearly killed Lenin. A member of a political party more radical than the Bolsheviks, Kaplan gunned down the Soviet leader. He survived but never recovered. (Kaplan’s execution was an immediate success.)

The once robust Lenin died in 1924, at the age of 53; and the conniving, paranoid Stalin began his ascent. This is one of the great “what ifs” of history. If Kaplan had killed Lenin, the Bolshevik Revolution would have collapsed; Russia likely would have been ruled by a surviving cousin of the imperial family or a Slavic version of Francisco Franco. Stalin would have returned to his previous outlet for sadism as a newspaper editor.

If Kaplan had not tried to kill Lenin, he might have lived another 20 years, Stalin would have stayed in middle management and some 20 million people would have died only of Soviet health care.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

So, there are the Seven Blunderers of the World. In all sadistic likelihood, they have been reincarnated and you know every one of them.

Part I

Why Disraeli Was Not Prime Minister of Spain

Isabella of Castille was an idiot; it is not an usual condition in royalty.  Her husband Ferdinand of Aragon actually was bright and completely free of scruples; Machiavelli considered him a role model.  However, Ferdinand turned out to be a little too clever.   

He had a get-rich-quick scheme. The wily and avaricious king commissioned a Spanish Inquisition in 1483 with the idea of gouging wealthy suspects who showed any reluctance toward pork. Of course, the bulk of the loot would go to the crown. The Inquisition, however, was not content to be Ferdinand’s pickpocket. It was going to save Spain from tolerance, innovation and whatever else reeked of heresy. To his dismay, Ferdinand could not control the Holy Office’s pyromania. He became its most comfortable prisoner, complying with the rabid dictates of the Grand Inquisitor.  While the rest of Europe had the Renaissance, Spain had the Inquisition.

On this day in 1492, a pious Isabella and an intimidated Ferdinand ordered the expulsion of Jews from Spain. 

If Mel Torme and I had ghostwritten the proclamation, it would have been the following:

“Heretics roasting on an open fire.
Embers singeing Marranos.
Dies Irae being sung by the fire
While Luth’rans scream in their death throes.

Everybody knows where the Inquisition hangs its hood
They’re record sales on kindling wood.
So always do what those monks ask of you
Or else you will be barbecued.

If the friars find you lack
The proper faith they will put you on the rack
So on their good side be sure to stay
And go to Mass 12 times a day.

Just keep on offering your yearly tithe.
Its’ fire insurance on your life.
And on Ash Wednesday you can gloat in your pew.
The ash won’t be from you.” 

Part II

Ole Vey!