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Archduke Franz Ferdinand would have been 147 today; but he stopped counting in 1914. His assassination was, at the very least, a disaster for Sarajevo’s tourism. If only the heir to Austria-Hungary had the consideration to have been gunned elsewhere, World War I could have been averted.

The Emperor Franz Josef couldn’t stand his nephew. The archduke was crass, humorless and irritable; there was no Viennese charm about him. In fact, Franz Ferdinand hated Vienna: too intellectual, too artistic and–or is this redundant–too Jewish. The elderly Emperor may have kept living just to keep his repulsive nephew from the throne.

And if Franz Ferdinand had been killed anywhere but Bosnia-Herzegovina, the old Emperor might have chuckled and shrugged. The Hapsburgs were inured to violent deaths. Crown Prince Rudolf, the Emperor’s only son, had suffered depression and alleviated it with a pistol. (If only young Dr. Freud had advertised!).  The Emperor’s brother Maximilian had been executed in Mexico. The Empress Elizabeth had been assassinated in Switzerland. Yet Austria had not declared war on Mexico or Switzerland, and Franz Josef actually liked his wife.

Unfortunately, the assassination of Franz Ferdinand could not be rationalized or ignored. Bosnia-Herzegovina was Austrian territory (whether or not Bosnians liked it) and it really was a breach of etiquette for the Serbian secret service to be encouraging the murder of Hapsburgs there.

So Austria-Hungary had to declare war on Serbia, so Russia had to declare war on Austria, so Germany had to declare war on Russia, and France was only too eager to declare war on Germany, so Germany had to declare war on Belgium (poor Belgium was in the way), so Britain had to declare war on Germany. Turkey hated Russia and didn’t want to feel left out.

On the positive side, the next-in-line to the Hapsburg throne was the Archduke Karl, and the Emperor liked him.

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Attention Sweatshops.  For roughly the same amount of money you paid that illiterate ten-year-old, you could have hired  me.  Fulsome insincerity and shameless grifting are always more effective when grammatical–or at least coherent.  Here is what I would have written.

Mr. Finerman, a distinguished writer like you deserves a portfolio as impressive as your wit.  Our child laborers would be honored to make you a briefcase; they can barely contain their excitement–and really don’t need the added distraction of sleep or food.  They would be nearly as grateful as your millions of readers and, of course, Western Civilization itself.  Awaiting your patronage, we are gratefully  (link).

The rumors are true.  I am seeing a younger woman.  Of course I am under no delusion; she only loves me for my kibble and chew toys.  Still I am infatuated with this blonde coquette with a natural pug nose.  She is with me now; in fact, you can probably hear her snoring.  Oh, yes, I suppose that you want to be introduced.  Her name is Pebbles; apparently her previous owner was a geologist or a Flintstone fan.

A neighbor asked me how many pugs I have had.  It took me a few minutes to come up with the total.  Over some 50 years of my life, I have  had the privilege and pleasure of being the servant–and occasional midwife  midhusband–to 18 furry, little mandarins. 

And it is time to take Ms. Pebbles for a walk, and show her off to the neighborhood!

Speaking of pug lovers:  https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/12/11/edward-viii-becomes-windsor-i/

December 9, 1674:  Edward Hyde’s Permanent Writer’s Block

Edward Hyde (1609-1674) may have been the most miserable speechwriter in history. I don’t mean that he was the worst: a fifth century Roman orator named Sidonius Apollinarus has that distinction and could be the reason that “ad nauseum” is a Latin term. No, Edward Hyde was likely the most frustrated, unappreciated and persecuted practitioner of “executive communications.” (That is the corporate designation for speechwriters; it sounds impressive but discreetly vague, avoiding the impression that our clients require ventriloquists.)

Our poor, sorry Hyde wrote speeches for Britain’s King Charles I. If you are familiar with his Majesty’s autopsy report, you can deduce that the speeches obviously were not a success. No, Hyde was not beheaded, too; speechwriters are never worth killing. But Hyde endured humiliation, disgrace and exile–and that was by his fellow Royalists.

Charles I felt that he had the Divine Right to bully and suppress Parliament; however, he also felt that good manners required some justification for his conduct. Of course, you can not expect a busy King to spend hours scribbling on parchment, nor could you really expect a Stuart to write an intelligible paragraph. So Edward Hyde offered his literary assistance to the King. Hyde had been one of Parliament’s few moderates. He was neither an obtuse Royalist nor a fulminating Puritan. When the Civil War began, however, he preferred traditional tyranny to the unforeseen excesses of a Parliamentary mob.

Working with Hyde, the King issued a series of proclamations and pamphlets that justified the Royalist cause in a persuasive and moderate voice. Charles may even have believed those balanced and temperate words while he was with Hyde. However, when Charles was in the company of his more belligerent advisors–particularly his battle-axe of a wife, the malleable monarch did what they told him. That created a dismaying dichotomy: Charles had the voice of reason and the actions of a thug. Worse for Charles, his belligerent advisors were far better at starting wars than winning them.

But the war faction did have one success: blaming Hyde. His moderate writings allegedly sullied the the dignity of the monarchy: a king does not need reason. If you believed the Queen, Hyde was as great a danger as Cromwell. For his demeaning rationality and treacherous temperance, Hyde became a pariah at the Court. A man of Hyde’s character was obviously unfit for government, but he did seem a suitable choice as the official guardian (babysitter) for the Prince of Wales.

Unfortunately, being the moral authority to the future Charles II, Hyde had another hopeless task. At least, Hyde was not required to write speeches to justify and rationalize the young Prince’s misadventures in Britain and France, the debts and the illegitimate offspring. (If only he had, Hyde would have been the pioneer of Restoration Comedy. ) In fact, after the restoration of the monarchy, Charles II bestowed an earldom on his hapless but loyal guardian. The new Earl of Clarendon was further appointed to the Royal Council where he once again proved a political naif but a convenient scapegoat. Hyde ended up in exile again; he had plenty of free time to write his memoirs. On this day in 1674, Hyde had a permanent writer’s block.

At least Hyde died with an Earl’s title and income. Most of us will not have that comforting a retirement package. Edward Hyde may have been most miserable speechwriter in history but he was a successful failure.

December 7, 1776:  A Date That Will Live in Larceny

The Marquis de La Fayette knew that there was more to life than just the minuet and syphilis. Marie-Joseph-Paul-Yves-Roch-Gilbert Du Motier–as he was known to his friends–wanted to help the American colonists in their heroic struggle for liberty, so long as he could be a major general. However, 19 year-olds were rarely granted that rank–even in an army where competence was irrelevant. Generals usually invested years of fawning sycophancy over some royal dolt or his favorite mistress.

But America was a land of opportunities for the ambitious teenager. He simply had to find the right official to bribe. Of the American emissaries, Arthur Lee was inconveniently ethical. Benjamin Franklin was skeptical although he might have been willing to let Madame Lafayette persuade him. (If historians had to choose”The Father of Our Country“, Franklin would be named in the paternity suit.) However, Silas Deane had an open mind and hand.

Deane was an operator. When the French government wanted to covertly supply the Americans with arms and money, Deane handled the smuggling and the money-laundering. A man with such entrepreneurial skills might be expected to have a few lucrative sidelines. So, if a rich teenager wanted to be a major general, it was just matter of paperwork. The Continental Congress had not given him that authority, but Deane was never one to be stymied by legality. On this day in 1776, Deane conferred on Lafayette the rank of major general.

Of course, the Continental Congress was somewhat surprised when a French teenager arrived in Philadephia and expected command of an army. The Congress was starting to catch on to Deane’s sidelines; it seems that he had issued a number of questionable commissions. Deane was recalled from Paris in November, 1777 and tried for financial irregularities. However, he was too clever to be convicted.

As for Lafayette, he could not be taken seriously but he proved a very likable young man. Congress did not have the heart to be rude. As long as he agreed not to be paid and stayed under the adult supervision of George Washington, Lafayette would be allowed the title of major general. The young marquis could feel like a hero, and George Washington got the world’s fanciest valet.

p.s.  Let’s not forget the other reason to remember December 7th:  https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/12/07/your-rda-of-infamy/

From a Russian perspective, the fight seemed fair. Outside the walls of Kiev was a besieging army of Mongols, but within Kiev there were 400 churches, all spiritually fortified with icons and relics. A miracle should have been effortless: a battalion of sword-wielding angels or at least a timely plague in the Mongol camp. The devout Russian garrison expected no less; otherwise, the outnumbered and beleaguered force should have surrendered when Mongols emissaries had demanded it.

In fact, a miracle was all that the Kievans could expect. No Russian army was coming to their relief; there was no more Russian army. The Mongols had demonstrated its customary exterminating efficiency; at least the buzzards ate well. And the Mongols would be impervious to the Russian winter. Raised in the Gobi Desert and inured to Siberia, the Mongols would have regarded December in Southern Russia as a vacation. So, the Kievans should have been reconciled to a servile surrender. Yet, they felt so confident and chipper that they murdered the Mongol diplomats.

Perhaps the Mongols were supposed to be intimidated by such bad manners. They weren’t. It turns out that their manners were even worse. When they stormed Kiev, on December 6, 1240, they massacred or enslaved the population of 50,000, then leveled the city. Kiev certainly was worth looting. Check your 13th century editions of “Let’s Go Europe.” Even with a second-hand Byzantine culture, Kiev would have been richer and more sophisticated than Paris and London.

Kiev was the undisputed cultural center and tenuous political capital of feudal Russia. After the Mongols, however, Kiev would have been hard to find. In the wake of this annihilation, the remnant Russian culture shifted from its southern, Black Sea orientation to the more isolated, less devastated principalities in the North.

What had been the heartland of Kievan Russ was no longer even Russian. The Mongols settled in the south, creating a Khanate along the Black Sea. And Poland occupied the western region. Under this Polish rule and its occidental influence, a hybrid culture with a distinct identity emerged: Ukrainian.

Among the remaining Russian states, Novgorod was so far in the northwest that the Mongols never reached it. (Out of prudence, the city still paid tribute to the Khan.) Its safe distance from the Mongols, however, also made it ominously close to the Swedes and the Germans. (This might make a good Eisenstein film.) But when it wasn’t fighting for its survival, Novgorod was willing to trade with the West.

And then there was Moscovy, battered but standing, isolated, brooding, plotting and waiting. Any resemblance between its policy and the Russian character may not be a coincidence.

On this day in 1791, Antonio Salieri was framed for murder. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart couldn’t possibly have died of natural causes at the age of 35. Even by the standards of 18th century medicine, if you survived childhood’s 50 percent mortality rate, you likely would live to 43. Yes, doctors could bleed you to death; the medical profession seemed unaware that a shock-induced coma might be unhealthy–however restful it looked. And if the blood-letting doctor had previously used that lancet on an infected boil, who knows what other surprises were entering the patient’s circulatory system?

Through the science of second-guessing, historians now think that Mozart actually died of rheumatic fever. But that is too prosaic an autopsy. The public demands a conspiracy! Someone had to kill Mozart. Salieri became the popular scapegoat; there were rumors of his deathbed confession to murdering Mozart. For some reason, the gossip especially appealed to Russians; at least, it passed Tsarist censors–although they would have preferred a story incriminating liberals and Freemasons. In 1831, six years after Salieri’s death, Alexander Pushkin wrote “Mozart and Salieri” to dramatize the alleged rivalry between the two composers. (Pushkin was shot six years after that, but the killer was Mrs. Pushkin’s lover and not Salieri’s ghost.) However unfounded and unfair, the Salieri rumors still incite and inspire artists. In 1897, Rimsky-Korsakov wrote the opera “Mozart and Salieri;” but it was nothing to drive Tchaikovsky to murder. (Actually, Tchaikovsky was already dead–and there are rumors about that, too.) Of course, we are familiar with Peter Shaffer’s “Amadeus”; if his play does not exonerate Salieri, at least it presents an unbearable Mozart we’d all like to strangle.

But Salieri really is an implausible villain. The man was a respectable composer and a highly esteemed teacher; if he really possessed a homicidal envy, he would bumped off one of his students–a youngster named Beethoven. Yes, Salieri was Italian but that is not always criminal. Salieri was from Northern Italy; they don’t kneecap in Milan. Any crime there is strictly white-collar and no one has ever accused Salieri of embezzling Mozart.

But if you want a versatile culprit, you should consider Mozart’s favorite librettist: Lorenzo Da Ponte. They collaborated on “The Marriage of Figaro”, “Don Giovanni” and “Cosi Fan Tutti”. (Without Da Ponte’s Italian libretto, “Don Giovanni” would have been “Ritterherren Johan.” How seductive is that?) So why blame Da Ponte? Even if he had no motive for killing Mozart, Da Ponte possessed an all-encompassing guilt that could fit into any conspiracy theory. In his remarkable, scandalous life (1749-1838), Da Ponte was a Jew, a defrocked Catholic priest, and an Ivy League professor. There’s something to offend everyone.

However, I personally suspect that Mozart was done in by his final opera. Try explaining the plot of “The Magic Flute”. You will either have a cerebral hemorrhage or get diabetes.

November 24th

What was Charles Darwin writing? It had been five years since he had mesmerized Victorian Society with his latest revelation on the life of barnacles: “A Monograph on the Fossil Balanidæ and Verrucidæ of Great Britain.” Yes, it was a hard act to follow, the public was insatiable and Darwin himself was daunted by the prospect. But, after four treatises on barnacles, the critics were starting to dismiss Darwin as a one-subclass-of-crustaceans hack. That hurt.

He did have some notes from a sea voyage that he had taken 20 years earlier, and he had long pondered his observations of the wildlife of the Galapagos. That was it! Darwin would write a cookbook of finch recipes. The Galapagos natives had dozens of ways to prepare the bird, and the cuisine varied from island to island. In fact, he was amazed by the number and disparity of recipes; how and why did they originate? Darwin concluded that there was a scientific explanation for the evolution of all cuisines: an evolutionary process called “nutritional selection.” And so Darwin presented his theory in “On The Origin of Spices.”

(By no coincidence, the daguerreotypes of the prepared dishes would showcase the tableware of a certain British manufacturer. But that flagrant product placement was the least that the grandson of Josiah Wedgwood could do for his trust fund.)

Unfortunately, the publisher rejected Darwin’s manuscript explaining “The English public has never been interested in food, but we do love an animal story. Perhaps if you rewrote your work with an emphasis on the finches–and without eating the more likable ones–I am sure that you can do for those plucky little fellows what you have done for barnacles.”

So adapting his work to the publisher’s whims, (How else can a writer survive?) Charles Darwin wrote “Origin Twist: The Evolutionary Adventures of Phineas Finch.”

All right, it did not quite happen that way…although the gentle Mr. Darwin might have found it a more congenial approach to introduce evolution to Victorian society. Darwin had no delusions as to the public reaction to “On The Origin of Species”: the outrage, the personal attacks and the less than flattering caricatures in Punch. At least, the Church of England could not burn him at the stake. In fact, the dread of the ensuing controversy had deterred Darwin for many years from publishing his research on evolution. He probably hoped to avoid it altogether, keeping evolution a secret among the scientific community.

Yes, Darwin did not discover evolution; he merely divulged it. By the 19th century, science had becoming increasingly skeptical of the Bible’s explanation for Creation. If nothing else, the growing variety of fossils was raising doubts and questions. Geologists discovered fish skeletons in rock layers on mountains. Genesis did not explain that. Biologists were finding ample evident of extinct species. Had Adam killed them all or had the animals drown in Noah’s Flood? But science preferred to regard the accumulating data as anecdotes on a ribald topic that would only shock the public.

If evolution was science’s dirty secret, then Charles Darwin was–to put it a Sixties’ context–the kid with the best collection of Playboys. With his studies on geology, British barnacles and the wildlife of the Galapagos, he was the acknowledged expert on “you-know-what.” Among his scientist friends, he was even sharing his theory of an underlying principle of (not to be said aloud) evolution. Of course, he knew and dreaded the reaction if his theory ever began public. Natural selection was tantamount to denying God’s precise blueprint of Creation. Darwin was an affable man of fragile health, so he lacked both the temperament and the strength for controversy. To avoid the uproar, he was quite content to keep his theory a secret among friends. It remained so for more than ten years until 1856, when Darwin found himself forced to choose between infamy and obscurity.

That year, Darwin learned that a young British naturalist in Borneo had arrived at a theory of evolution based on a natural selection of the fittest member of a species. This unexpected rival, Alfred Russell Wallace, could not have known of Darwin’s long-standing but secret theory; the two men did not frequent the same drawing rooms. However, using the same empirical perspective, Wallace simply had arrived at the same conclusion as Darwin. Furthermore, being young and unestablished, Wallace was not the least reticent about being the center of controversy. He contacted the British scientific societies about his proposed paper on evolution, and that news reached Darwin.

Even then, Darwin was loathe to react and risk any uproar. He first wanted to see what Wallace actually had to say. Ironically, within a year, he knew. Wallace had written to him with an outline of his ideas. In his communications with the scientific community, Wallace had been told of Darwin’s expertise in evolution. So, looking for guidance, the chicken wrote to the fox. In fairness to Darwin, he never discouraged or disparaged Wallace; he analyzed his rival’s work with a remarkable and laudable objectivity. Wallace actually appreciated Darwin’s help and continued the correspondence, never realizing that he had goaded Darwin into writing his own work on the subject.

Evolution was no longer going to be a secret. Darwin had long hoped to avoid the controversy, but he would be damned if Wallace’s research would take precedence over his. Resigned to the infamy, Charles Darwin finally published his findings, “On The Origin of Species”, on November 24, 1859.

As for Wallace’s barely remembered role in history, “survival of the fittest” apparently applies to scientists, too.

November 23rd

If you were reading the death notices in 1503, you would have been intrigued by Bona of Savoy’s obituary: she was almost Queen of England and sorta Duchess of Milan. Perhaps Bona (1449-1503) was born to be an underachiever and runner-up. She did have the abysmal timing to be a younger child in the Ducal House of Savoy. The older siblings got the properties and the better marriages. For instance, her older sister Charlotte was married to the King of France. True, he was old (20 years Charlotte’s senior), creepy and cheap; but he still had a status job. (He was also a superb king, but that would be of interest only to his subjects and historians.)

But then Prince Charming–or at least his ambassador–promised to rescue Bona. In 1464 the precariously throned Edward IV of England needed a wife, preferably one who could include a powerful ally in her dowry. The French had been lending support to Edward’s Lancastrian rivals, but a marriage to Bona might alter the Gallic bias. Edward’s chief advisors were encouraging the match, especially the Earl of Warwick. In fact, Warwick was in Paris to negotiate the marriage. Bona should have been enthusiastic about the prospective union. She would not only get a throne but a chance to finally outdo Charlotte. King Edward was young and said to be the most handsome man in England. Warwick, Bona and the French Court thought they had reached an agreement when some contradictory news arrived from London. The most handsome man in England had just married the most beautiful woman in England. Edward had affronted Bona, sabotaged a French alliance and betrayed the Earl of Warwick–and all for a penniless widow with a large, ravenous family.

France would continue to support the Lancastrians, and the Earl of Warrick was about to change sides. The next round in the Wars of the Roses was ready to begin.

However, our concern is Bona. Whether as compensation for the aggrieved or banishment of an embarrassment, the French Court now eagerly sought some acceptable marriage for her. The ruling family in Milan was receptive; the Sforza welcomed any class and legitimacy they could get. Francesco Sforza, a successful mercenary commander, had taken control of Lombardy in 1447. While his power could not be disputed, he was not acknowledged as the rightful Duke of Milan. (Of course, people addressed him as Duke to his face; if Al Capone demanded to be called Mayor of Chicago, would you have argued with him?) Francisco was illegitimate as was his wife; so the status-craving Sforza were eager to have an aristocrat–with royal connections–for a daughter-in-law.

Nonetheless, the negotiations took four years; the Sforza knew how to bargain. But in 1468 Bona became the wife of Galeazzo Sforza. He succeeded his father as the self-proclaimed Duke of Milan and showed himself to be a patron of art and torture. His assassination in 1476 may have been a surprise only to him. Galeazzo’s body was treated as a pinata, but the Sforza family was still in control. (They apparently did not miss him, either.) During the marriage, Bona had produced the prerequisite son, and the 7 year-old was now the sorta Duke of Milan. Bona was supposed to be Regent, but her brother-in-law Ludovico Sforza really was not one for formalities. After a short civil war, Bona was exiled and Uncle Ludovico established himself as regent for his nephew.

Would you be surprised that Uncle Ludovico outlived his nephew? Actually, to Uncle Lud’s credit, the young “Duke” lived for 18 years in comfortable confinement; those comforts included considerable latitude because the young man apparently died of syphilis in 1494.

As for Bona, she was a has-been at 31. Since she did not possess a conspiratorial nature, she was never involve in any political intrigues and so she also never had to hire a foodtaster. In the remaining two decades of her life, she was content to be a patron of the arts. And today’s museums would indicate that she had good taste.

p.s. What happened to the most beautiful woman in England? Her name was Elizabeth Woodville–England’s first queen Elizabeth–and in 1483 she found herself in a similar plight to Bona’s. Edward IV had died, leaving a young son as his heir and a fight-to-the-death over who would be the regent. Elizabeth also had a hostile brother-in-law; and her sons would not live long enough to get syphilis.