FinermanWorks

On this day in 987, King Louis V–known as the Do-Nothing–did not live up to his name. In fact, he did not live, and so finally accomplished something. So ended his one year rule, his twenty-year life and his 236-year dynasty. He, the last of the Carolingian kings of France, was beset by foreign invasion (the Holy Roman Emperor, his first cousin) and rebellions by the nobles (second and third cousins). Louis really did not get along with anyone in his family; his mother poisoned him.

So, that leaves you with this question: Which French King did inspire the song “Louie, Louie.” Well. let’s consider all the Royal Lou’s of France and which one would be an oversexed stoner.

Louis XVIII could have used a mistress. He disliked his Italian wife but his chief outlets were self-pity and food.

Louis XVII was merely a child when he died. The French Revolutionary guardians did take meticulous care of the young boy–but definitely not for his benefit.

Louis XVI suffered from sexual dysfunction–and Viagra wouldn’t have helped. It was some sort of physical blockage. The only solution was surgery. Despite the quality of 18th century surgery, Louis survived the procedure and was even cured. He finally was able to consummate his marriage. However, that was also the limit of his libido.

Louis XIV was short, unattractive but apparently irresistible. (Royalty frequently is; who dares refuse.) There is a famous story of the Queen, and three of her ladies-in-waiting riding in a coach; they were all pregnant by Louis (although not from the same coach ride). So Louis was certainly was over-sexed but he still found the time to rule rather well. And he never would have referred to Versailles as a pad or crib.

Louis XIII had a very active sex life, but not with women. What is the male equivalent of a mistress? (Historians can only speculate as to the identity of Louis XIV’s father.) Louis Treize was the Baroque equivalent of a stoner. Fortunately for him and France, Cardinal Richelieu made a brilliant dealer.

Louis XII had three wives, so he wouldn’t have had time for mistresses.

Louis XI was too cheap to have mistresses.

Louis X died young; he was likely poisoned by a sister-in-law who managed her husband’s career. (Yes, he got to be king.)

Louis IX was Saint Louis, so mistresses are out of the question.

Louis VIII was married to a Spanish gorgon; he wouldn’t have dared.

Louis VII had the disposition of a monk. His first wife–Eleanor of Aquitaine–cheated on him.

Louis VI was known as Louis the Fat. Guess his vice.

Louis V, alias the Do-Nothing, you’ve already met.

Louis IV, alias Louis the Alien (he was raised in England), was so powerless that he couldn’t afford a mistress.

Louis III died at 19, so he didn’t even have a nickname.

Louis II, the Stammer, lived to be 33 but his health was as bad as his pronunciation. Even if he had been in better shape, late 9th century France was not a conducive time for hedonism. It was barely conducive for subsistence.

Louis I was called the Pious. That nickname would deter most aspiring mistresses.

So, who does that leave….Louis XV was handsome, charming and conscientiously incompetent. Usually the inept are unaware of their debilities, but Louis knew precisely how hapless he was and he didn’t care! He let his mistresses run and ruin France. (Madame de Pompadour was a complete disaster–or a brilliant secret agent for the British). If Handel or Haydn had composed “Louie, Louie”, the song definitely would have been about le Quinze.

Today is the official feast day of St. Matthias. I would tell you all about him, but the Church itself is rather bewildered on the subject. The Gospels are unaware of him, but he is mentioned in the Acts of the Apostles as being chosen to replace Judas Iscariot–who obviously lost his tenure as a saint. The Church’s Board of Directors felt that it needed a 12th apostle. Unfortunately, the resurrected Jesus had failed to hire anyone; no doubt, He was preoccupied with packing for His Ascension. So, the Board of Directors picked Matthias (which is more than can be said for St. Paul).

And that ends the history. Of course, theological etiquette requires a few legends about him. For instance, the nature of his death is a buffet of choices. He was either killed by Jews in Jerusalem, pagans in Georgia or cannibals in Ethiopia. (The theological affiliation of the cannibals is unspecified; they could have been Christians who took communion too literally.) And he is also reported to have died of old age in Jerusalem–but that is too boring to be plausible.

Matthias at least is kept busy being the patron saint of alcoholics. If your life were a perpetual fog, you would want a saint in a similar condition.

On this day in 1794 Antoine de Lavoisier was guillotined for treason. This may have been one of the greatest senior pranks, and certainly got the students out of taking their chemistry finals. Actually, “The Father of Modern Chemisty” never taught the subject; so he was not the victim of irate students. His vindictive enemies were the taxpayers of France.

Unlike a modern professor who would supplement his income by forcing the students to buy his books or sitting as an unctuous cipher on a corporate board, Lavoisier earned money as an extortionist. Mind you, his racket was sanctioned by the French Crown; he had paid the government up front for his extortionist permit. The specific term for the racket was “tax farming.” A tax farmer would pay the Crown for the right to collect taxes in a specified region. The similarity of the words franc and franchise is no coincidence. The more money the tax farmer collected–no questions asked about the tactics–the more he got to keep. You might be surprised but very few philanthropists applied for the position.

Perhaps the squeezed subjects in Lavoisier’s territory should have been gratified to know that they were subsidizing his scientific research. It was not as if he was spending their money on luxurious carriages and young mistresses. Unfortunately, the French taxpayers might have been more sympathetic about that.

March 22, 1765:  Parliament Passes a Perfectly Reasonable Law

From a British perspective, the Seven Years’ War might have seemed effortless: victory after victory after victory. Britain gained domination over India and conquered Canada. The few setbacks were just enough to keep James Fenimore Cooper interesting. But all those triumphs did come at a cost–quite literally. Waging a world war is expensive. Britain’s national debt nearly doubled in those seven years, from 72 million pounds to 129 million.

Nor could its new Canadian empire immediately recoup the expenses. Maple syrup was not likely to become a staple of the British diet. Compelling some British regiments to wear bearskin hats would not quickly offset the cost of taking Quebec. Furthermore, peace was no bargain either. To garrison Canada and protect the American colonies from the tribes of the original landlords, a standing army of 10,000 men would be required and at a cost of 200,000 pounds a year. The Exchequer thought “Would it be too much to expect those loyal and grateful colonists to defer some of that cost?” So, on this day in 1765, Parliament passed the Stamp Act.

The surchanges on printed material, ranging from a half-penny to a shilling, was expected to raise 70,000 pounds a year. That was one third of what Britain would spend to protect the colonists. However, the Stamp Act raised rebellion rather than revenues. No matter how legitimate the expenses, the Americans did not like having taxes imposed upon them. It was a violation of their rights or at least British etiquette: no taxation without representation. Parliament backed down and repealed the Stamp Act, but the national debt could not be easily cancelled. Since the Americans had actually started the French and Indian War, and had simply dragged Britain into it, the Crown felt justified in asking the colonists, “Would you like to pay for your damn war?” But the colonists felt free to say, “No.” Neither George III nor his Tory ministers had the tact or charm to coax the Americans into compromise. (A Whig government would have.) The pompous, badgering presumptions of the Tory government drove America to Revolution.

Ironically, while Britain was losing money and colonies in North America, it was making a fortune in India. The management of the subcontinent was completely different: greedy, amoral, ruthless and so obviously successful. Britain basically subcontracted the control of India to a corporation: the East India Company. The British company was the Halliburton of its day, a private business with a lucrative–really quite incestuous–arrangement with the Crown. When its dealings required “muscle”, the Company was free to borrow the British army or navy; but the sly, insidious approach was preferred. The Company offered its services to the various rajahs and princes of India, providing “western” efficiency–at a considerable fee–while the Indian royalty was lulled into indolence and dependence. Company officials made fortunes as military advisors and tax collectors for the Rajahs. Occasionally, the incomes were so astronomical that Parliament had inquiries; after all, partners-in-crime don’t like being cheated of their share. The Company also preoccupied the Indian populace by the hallowed strategy of “divide and conquered”, princes, sects and castes were pitted against each other. And there was the company in the middle–arbitrating, encouraging and profiting.

Unfortunately for Britain, it never thought of using a similar strategy in North America. An Englishman can’t be treated like a Wog. But in hindsight, why not? What if a West India Company had been given license to manage the American colonies? The India Company approach might have set up the Lees as the Rajahs of Virginia, and then toy with the Randolphs and the Byrds about supplanting the Lees. Maryland and New Jersey would have been advised about the aggressive policies of Pennsylvania–those Quakers aren’t as pacifist as they claim–and Pennsylvania would have to be protected against its neighbors. (And New Jersey can’t really trust those Maryland Catholics.) The Dutch and the English of New York would be at each others’ throats–with only the Company to stop the bloodshed that it had incited. With 13 colonies, the Company could create and manage 52 crises–one for every direction.

And for these indispensable services, the Colonists would gladly pay pounds in taxes to the Company; and the Crown would get its share in shillings without any of the blame. Yes, the Colonists would finally catch on; Americans might have won autonomy or independence under a mystic pacifist named Lincoln. By that time, however, American taxes would have paid off Britain’s debts for several wars, and Sir Andrew Jackson would have won the battle of Old Orleans–against Napoleon.

March 6, 1836:  Tin Pan Alamo

This is the anniversary of the fall of the Alamo. Those valiant Texans died fighting for their freedom: specifically the freedom to own slaves. The tyrannical Mexican government sought to abolish that right.

That detail is generally omitted in Hollywood’s account of the battle.  No, historical accuracy can ruin the script and it is certainly less important than a good film score.  Remember “The Alamo” or at least John Wayne’s version.  Wayne produced, directed and starred in the extravaganza, a film that was on a larger scale than the actual battle.  His “Alamo” could be described as a laborious imitation of John Ford, but its redeeming and lasting grace was the excellent music.

The Mexican Army march is superior to anything the Mexicans actually had.  The haunting ballad, “The Green Leaves of Summer” is equally effective for seduction and death.  On an AM radio in 1960, you would have heard the hit single “The Ballad of the Alamo.”  The public thought that it was an old folk song.  Although sung by the popular country star Marty Robbins, the ballad’s lyricist and composer were not quite so down-home.

Lyricist Paul Francis Webster was born in New York City; it is unlikely that the family brownstone was made of sod. He done learned his letters at schoolhouses called Horace Mann and Cornell. No, he probably wasn’t an “ag” major. He did finally go West, if only to pick up three Academy Awards for best songs of the year: “Secret Love”, “Love is a Many Splendored Thing” and “The Shadow of Your Smile.”

Dimitri Tiomkin, the composer of “Ballad of the Alamo”, really was from the West…except that it was in Russia. However, the Ukraine was certainly wild, especially when its cowboys–the Cossacks–got liquored up; they had their own form of rodeos called pogroms. Mr. Tiomkin’s family would have been all-too-familiar with those Cossack celebrations. By the time of Mr. Tiomkin’s birth, in 1894, pogroms had become regulated and required government permission. However, the Tsar never said “nyet.”

Ironically and schizophrenically, the same Tsarist government provided a full scholarship for the young Tiomkin to attend the St. Petersburg Conservatory. “Hey, Jew, we want to burn down your house–and maybe you in it–but we want to encourage your gifted child’s musical career.” The imperial conservatory acquired so many of these Jewish prodigies that the director Alexander Glazunov became philo-Semitic; he would criticize inferior performances as “Gentile.”

Dmitri Tiomkin was raised in this meshuggah society. Despite his status as a pet Jew, he initially favored the Russian Revolution. However, when he saw no hope for any pampering under the Bolsheviks, he migrated. Fortunately, he found in Hollywood an equally meshuggah society. His songs and musical scores won three Academy Awards: for “High Noon”, The High and the Mighty” and “The Old Man and Sea.” He received nominations for 13 other films, including “The Alamo.”

So “The Ballad of the Alamo” really is a paean to America. Where else could an Ivy League New Yorker and a Russian Jewish immigrant pass themselves off as “country-n-western”?

Queen Philippa of England, wife of Edward III, was in a constant state of pregnancy. That was a common situation among 14th century women. What was extraordinary, however, was that she and most of her children survived. This may have been gratifying for Philippa on Mother’s Day, but it also meant six princes and only one throne. This excess of underemployed but ambitious dukes would result in decades of dynastic war and eight Shakespeare plays.

The most conniving of her sons was born this day in 1340, in the city of Ghent. Given the English reluctance to correctly pronounce another language, the prince was known as John of Gaunt. Intelligent and brave, he would have been a promising king; but he was the third son in a healthy family. John had to find other outlets for his energies. Of course, there was always the French to kill. Furthermore, he demonstrated intellectual tendencies that might qualify him as a medieval liberal. At the time, the Catholic Church had become so contorted with politics that it literally had split in two. In the Great Schism (1378-1417), there were two competing Papacies: Rome and Avignon. Many Christians, including John of Gaunt, were so disgusted that they looked elsewhere and found spiritual satisfaction in a reformist movement known as the Lollards. With their emphasis on the Bible and a simplified approach to worship (none of Rome’s theatrical rituals), the Lollards may have been premature Protestants. (When the Church finally ended up the Schism, its first act was to crush the Lollards.) The leader of the Lollards in England, John Wycliffe, had a friend, patron and protector in John of Gaunt.

The Duke, however, still wanted to be King somewhere. He thought that there was a chance of becoming King of Castile. Its ruler, the memorably named Pedro the Cruel, was trying to maintain his throne against an ambitious half-brother. Pedro’s only legitimate heir was his daughter, and guess who decided to become his son-in-law? John’s plan might have worked if only Pedro had won the civil war; John was stuck with a wife whom he disliked. However, he did find solace–no, not in Lollardism–but in the comely governess of his children. In fact, he soon had a family with her, too. (That was his third brood; he had been quite prolific with his first wife Blanche of Lancaster, and reasonably virile with the Spanish princess.)

Although John would never get to be king, he did end up ruling England. Whether it was a disease or the medieval doctors, the Prince of Wales died before ascending the throne. His young son Richard II then succeeded grandpa. Uncle John was only too happy to assist his nephew in governing the kingdom. The Regency proved rather surprising; the Duke had many talents but competence was not among them. He was an abysmal administrator. His misjudgements incited a peasant rebellion that ravaged the country and even seized London. England barely survived John of Gaunt.

But ruling in his own right, Richard proved even more disastrous: he was both unscrupulous and incompetent. Furthermore, he turned out to be conspicuously “artistic.”  The next generation of Plantagenets would not be springing from his loins. He had a number of underemployed cousins (courtesy of the underemployed uncles) who were vying to succeed Richard. Henry, the son of the John of Gaunt, didn’t even bother to wait. He overthrew Richard and established himself as King Henry IV.

If not a king, at least John of Gaunt was the founder of the Lancaster dynasty. In fact, he is also the ancestor of two royal families that are still reigning. King Juan Carlos of Spain is descended from the John’s Castilian marriage. Queen Elizabeth is descended from John’s indiscretions with the governess, but you wouldn’t be rude enough to mention that to her.

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 forbid 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.

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. In fairness, he certainly did a better job than George Bush would have. Nevertheless, Charles’ resume consisted of a birth certificate. He certainly 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.

How would you like to rule over an impoverished, fractious land with the added perk of a violent death? Just send your resume to 15th or 16th century Scotland.

On this day in 1437, James I resolved an argument with some cousins by being stabbed to death. He also set a precedent for names and sudden deaths. His son was James II who, while besieging an English castle in 1460, belatedly discovered a need for caution when standing next to a cannon. He was succeeded by James III whose son just couldn’t wait to be James IV; among royalty, civil wars generally are family reunions. Having killed dear old dad, James IV became king in 1488. In 1513, he had a fatal family reunion, fighting his brother-in-law Henry VIII; and that created a job opening for James V. Unfortunately, in 1542, he died in flight from Uncle Henry. James V forgot to have any legitimate sons and he could not bring himself to naming his heir Jamesette. No, she was known as Mary, Queen of Scots. Her autopsy report is fairly well known. Mary’s heir was…wild guess…James VI; however, he heard of a job opening in London where the pay and longevity were better. He was the first reigning Stuart in nearly 200 years to die of natural causes.

Charles I must have been a traditionalist, chipped off the old block. But his descendants were content to die of the pox (both syphilitic or small) and alcoholism.

Yes, I am referring to Abraham Lincoln. In case you were wondering, my other favorite Republicans are Teddy Roosevelt, Jimmy Stewart and Adolphe Menjou. True, it is not a long list. I could include three 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 an 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 a moderate, unoffensive 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 get 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. Adolphe Menjou was a wonderful actor. Consider his fascinating performance as the diabolical general in “Paths of Glory.” Menjou was so suave and knowing, and he could convey all his cynicism with just an arched eyebrow. It was a remarkable feat of acting.