How Royals Squashed a Rumor

A few weeks ago, I read an interesting article about the Science of Rumors concluding that the worst way to fight a rumor is to ignore it. It is an interesting study because it leads me to my next question: How much of a past ruler's image is affected by their ability to squash rumors?

Obviously the biggest invention to change how rumors were spread was the invention of the printing press around 1440. You may guess that religious material would be the hottest reads to roll off the presses, but that was not the case. Pamphlets and libels ridiculing the elite were the first best sellers. Instead of disseminating rumors through word of mouth, a deluge of printed material could now reach the masses. As a result, Kings and Queens were forced to make a painful decision….do they ignore the printed slander or punish the authors?

Queen of France, Catherine de Medici, best remembered for being responsible for the The St. Bartholomew's Day massacre, chose to ignore polemic pamphlets. Around 1575, after the death of her son Charles IX, an especially misogynistic pamphlet was printed entitled Discours Merveilleux de la vie, actions et deportements de Catherine de Medicis Royne. In it, Catherine was blamed for the St. Bart ‘s ruckus and ordering the murders that sparked the violence. (The basic gist of it was that she was the female devil incarnate sent to seduce the people of France.) This pamphlet was more than just tabloid trash. It was distributed widely and translated into German, English and Latin. It became so popular that it was even used to later discredit future female rulers, Marie de Medici and Marie Antoinette.


What did Catherine do when she read it? She laughed herself silly. She even had the audacity to further quip that the author left so much out and remarked that if he had gone to her directly… then she could have given him much more juicy tidbits. Yet, Catherine is not remembered for her sense of humor. Her name has unjustly become synonymous with bloodshed.

During the same time period, Elizabeth I of England would not tolerate any slanderous pamphlets attacking the crown. The zealous puritan, John Stubbs wrote a book entitled, The Discoverie of a Gaping Gulf whereinto England is like to be Swallowed by another French Marriage. You can pretty much figure out from the title how Stubb’s felt about Elizabeth’s possible marriage to Catherine de Medici’s son, The Duke of Anjou. The queen was not enlightened by Stubb's work and she promptly ordered the public removal of his right hand.¹ Ouch! Today, this may seem like a draconian punishment for a little free speech, but Elizabeth (and certainly her advisers) understood the importance of royal image making. A weak monarch was a matter of appearances.

What do you think about the power of rumors? With the election just days away, how much of our voting decision is based on rumors?

(1) Elizabeth may have not found the book amusing, but Stubbs kept his sense of humor to the end. Before his hand was chopped off, he delivered one last bad pun and said, “Pray for me now my calamity is at hand.” Then after they chopped off his hand, he managed to retain his composure enough to get out a “God save the queen” before fainting.

Sources and Further Reading:
Pamphlet from The Gordon Collection.
Strage, Mark. Women of Power: The Life and Times of Catherine de Medici. New York, NY: Harcourt Brace Jovanowich, 1976.
Lancelott, Francis. The Queens of England and Their Time, D. Appleton and Co., 1858.

Leonora, The Lost Medici Princess

If you google “Marie de' Medici” or search for images of her on Wikepedia you will find this painting depicting a doe-eyed, young girl with reddish brown hair, sumptuously dressed in priceless jewels befitting a queen. This painting does depict a member of Medici royalty, but I highly doubt it is Marie. The alluring beauty portrayed in this painting most likely belongs to the forgotten Eleonora di Toledo de Medici, called “Leonora” and sometimes "Dianora."

Much has been written about Leonora’s aunt, Eleonora di Toledo, Duchess of Florence and Siena and her uncle Cosimo Medici, the powerful grand duke of Tuscany. If you have ever visited the Uffizi gallery then you have experienced the tremendous scale of Cosimo’s legacy. Yet, Leonora’s legacy and the obvious foul play surrounding her death have been all but forgotten to history.

Leonora was the only daughter of Don Garzia di Toledo and Vittoria d’Ascanio Colonna. She was born in the glittering Florentine court in 1553 and was left in the care of her aunt Eleonora and uncle Cosimo while her father completed his tour of duty as a naval commander-in-chief for Spain. As a child, the princess Leonora’s beauty and charm were celebrated throughout Florence. One writer said she had eyes, ‘like two stars in her head.’ She was certainly a shining star to Cosimo for he grew so fond of Leonora that he became reluctant to see his pretty niece married off far away from Florence.

Cosimo’s solution was to betroth Leonora to his son, Don Pietro (shown here in his youth) so that he could keep an eye on those two crazy kids. Leonora was given a generous dowry which included forty-thousand ducats of gold (around 18 million in today’s currency) and Cosimo added to that a few Medici villas and lands across Tuscany. You would think that spending your honeymoon in your private Italian villa rolling in the ducats would make for a good marriage, but such was not the case. Pietro was a violent, simple-minded, little viper who liked to empty the Medici coffers on gifts for his mistresses. He avoided Leonora to the point that the marriage was not consummated until a few years after the wedding.

Abandoned and unloved, Leonora grew increasingly gloomy. To console herself, she spent her days with her vivacious cousin, Isabella de Medici. (shown here bearing a striking resemblance to Leonora) Isabella was beautiful, cultured, educated and best of all, threw fabulous parties at her private Florentine residences of Palazzo Medici and Villa Baroncelli. Isabella had an atypical level of autonomy for a Medici princess while under her father, Cosimo’s protection. Her husband, Paolo was indebted to Cosimo to keep the ducats flowing so Isabella was allowed to stay in Florence while Paolo worked in Rome.

And while the cat was away spending Isabella’s dowry, the mice princesses did play. Isabella’s parties promised the finest food, music, theater, poetry and art. Most interestingly, were the naughty, late night party games like “the school master” where one guest would role-play the school master and instruct (wink wink) the other guests. Another party favorite was the “game of the devil’s music” where guests would reenact animal sounds. If there is one thing that can cheer a girl up it’s howling like a wolf.

It isn’t hard to guess what happened next. Leonora began an affair with a dashing, young poet named Bernardino Antinori while Isabella snuck around with her handsome cohort, Trolio Bandito (shown here greeting Catherine de Medici) And while the princesses had their fun, the clock ticked away on the protection Cosimo afforded them. Time ran out when Cosimo died in 1574 leaving his son Francesco to rule as Grand Duke of Tuscany.

In 1576, the foolishly, hot-headed Bernardino was imprisoned in Bargello for brawling (allegedly fighting with another courtier for Leonora’s affections). He was imprudent enough to write Leonora love letters and these letters were discovered hiding in Leonora’s footstool. Bernardino was arrested and imprisoned in Elba’s prison. He was strangled a month later.

The scandal reflected poorly on Francesco because it looked like he had little control over the Medici women running amok under his nose. And if there is one thing you can’t have in a ruling Italian family…it’s to look like you are losing control. In God Father like style, Pietro got the ok to take care of his wayward wife. Leonora was staying at the Medici villa at Cafaggiolo in July of 1576 when her husband strangled her with a dog-leash. She fought hard and allegedly bit Pietro's hand during the struggle. Leonora was just 23 years old.

Her young son, Cosimino suspiciously died of dysentery a few weeks later. We can only speculate if his death was due to natural causes, but Pietro may have suspected that Cosimino was not his son.

Francesco reported that Leonora had died of a “really terrible accident”, but no one was buying it. In typical Machiavellian spin control, Francesco had to come clean with the court of Spain and Phillip II (Leonora’s father Don Garzia was pissed). Francesco wrote to Phillip admitting to the honor killing:

Although in the letter I had told you of Donna Eleonora’s accident, I have nevertheless to say to His Catholic Majesty that Lord Pietro our brother had taken her life himself because of the treason she had committed through behavior unbecoming to a lady¹..

Isabella suffered the same fate a few weeks later. While on a hunting trip in Cerreto Guidi, she was murdered by her husband, Paolo.

Murder of a Medici Princess
If you enjoy a true murder and mischief tale, then I highly recommend Murder of a Medici Princess by Caroline P. Murphy. Murphy’s amazingly detailed research focuses on Isabella de Medici, Cosimo’s beloved daughter. Murphy deftly unravels the power and corruption that destroyed Isabella along with her unfortunate cousin. The book contains historical treasures such as letters Isabella wrote and first hand accounts of her murder. I especially enjoyed how Murphy deciphers the hidden meanings and often thinly veiled sarcasm in Isabella’s letters that show how the spirited Princess attempted to appease her distant husband. It’s these nuances that I would have missed if I read the letters on my own.

Murphy doesn’t sugar coat Isabella’s story either. The Murder of a Medici Princess is by far a darker tale then your typical royal biography, but it does promise a fascinating, albeit disturbing look into how the Medici women were forced to navigate through Florence’s political machinations and corruption.

Back to the Painting…

I am not sure how Francesco’s daughter, Marie de' Medici, became labeled as the sitter in Alessandro Allori’s painting. Allori did paint Marie de Medici as a young girl with the intentions of using the portrait in betrothal agreements and also painted her wedding at Cana. But an earlier miniature identified as Leonora clearly resembles the mislabeled painting in both dress and likeness. Leonora wears a peacock blue gown mimicking her aunt Eleonora’s Spanish colors. The dress and jewels are practically identical. (shown above)

Another painting clearly marked as Leonora (notice the left hand corner) also shares the same dress patterns and likeness. It's very possible that a painting of Marie would share the same Florentine lily motifs and coat of arms, but it's the similarities in the collar and facial features that convince me that this painting is really Leonora. I have already talked about what Marie de Medici really looked like as a young girl in previous posts, but if you have more information or a different opinion about the painting then please feel free to share.

The Medicis: Family of Mischief
In 16th century literature in media, The Medicis’ scandals seem to fall in the shadow of the Tudors’ many romps and beheadings. Maybe they just had better PR because as far as dysfunctional families go, the Medicis don’t disappoint. They are chock full of pampered princesses, ruthless thugs, smarmy popes, adultery, incest and corrupt rulers clawing their way to power. There’s a little bit for everyone.

In a few weeks, I will be traveling across to France to feature Leonora and Isabella’s cousin – the famed poisoner and supposed instigator of the St. Bartholomew Massacre, Queen Catherine de’ Medici.

Sources:
Langdon, Gabrielle. Medici Women: Portraits of Power, Love and Betrayal in the Court of Duke Cosimo I, Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press, 2007.

Murphy, P. Carolone, Murder of a Medici Princess, New York, NY: Oxford University Press: 2008.

Notes:
(1) Langdon. p. 179

The Royal Portrait Prank

Being a hopeless romantic, I have always wondered what it must have been like to marry someone you have never met. People during George IV's marriage to Caroline of Brunswick gossiped that it was sort of like buying a "pig in a poke." (A poke is a small bag). But royals did not have to enter into marriage agreements completely blinded. They did have portrait miniatures to appraise their future mate's true beauty. Often these small, lifelike paintings of the bride or groom were sent well before the marriage took place. Here is the harlequin romance version of how I have always pictured the anticipation of that first meeting.

The impatient king nervously shifts in his saddle waiting for his future bride to appear in the horizon. He longingly gazes down at the portrait miniature of his beloved rendered in tiny, gentle brushstrokes and closes his sweaty fingers around this small talisman of her beauty. For one brief moment, he nervously wonders if the artist has captured her true likeness.

He sees her approaching in the distance. She is getting closer and closer and the brush strokes that formed her lovely visage start to get sharper and sharper as the real flesh and blood form comes into focus. But wait. What’s this? No, this can’t be. This is not the rosy cheeked woman in the painting! This must be her inbred cousin sent as a trick…one last practical joke on the king before he gets settled into matrimonial bliss.

But it is not a trick. The king has just been a victim of the Royal Portrait Prank.

The Flanders Mare
Probably one of the most famous victims of the portrait swicheroo was Henry VIII. In 1538, Henry was back on the marriage market looking for wife #4. In an effort to secure a Protestant alliance, Henry's chief minister, Thomas Cromwell pushed heavily for a union between Henry and Anne of Cleves. Cromwell sent Henry's court painter, Hans Holbein to paint Anne knowing that Holbein was famous for his flattering portrayals. Henry immediately fell for the youthful, clear-faced beauty in Holbein's painting and agreed to the marriage alliance.

But when Henry laid eyes on Anne he was shocked to find "a lady so far unlike what had been represented."¹ Legend has it that Anne looked more like a "Flanders Mare" than Holbein's painting. Anne was reportedly gangly, pock marked and was blessed with the fashion sense of a Long Island grandmother. To further add insult to the foreign princess, Henry pronounced that his repulsion was so great that it prevented him from consummating the marriage and he feared that he could never produce another heir with such an uncomely creature. Then as comical relief for the rest of the court, Henry called in his court doctor, Dr. Stubbs, to attest to the fact that Henry could still do the deed if Anne was not occupying his bed.

Many a monarch would have grinned and bared the old portrait prank, but Henry didn't like being tricked. Heads were going to roll. He could have punished Holbein, but truthfully the artist was just too darn good to destroy and Henry had a great appreciation for art. No, Cromwell had pimped the supposedly unattractive princess out and now he must pay. Anne was sent packing with a generous settlement, Cromwell lost his head, and the whole ugly business was quickly forgotten when a pretty, nubile distraction named Catherine Howard became Henry's next royal pursuit.

History fails to record Anne's reaction to her future husband although she agreed quickly to the annulment. Henry at this point had become the fat, tyrannical, beast of a man that we know and love. His festering leg wound oozed pus, his hair was thinning and his breath stunk. Anne could not have been pleased.

I Have Been Deceived!

In the painting to the right, Marie de Medici commissioned Peter Paul Rubens to recreate her betrothal to Henri IV. We see small cherubs playfully holding up the painting as Henri adoringly gazes upon the beautiful Medici Princess. Now, if there is one thing that I have learned in life, it's this — never trust the naked winged babies. They are always up to no good. See the helmeted figure to the right of the besotted king? She is whispering, “It’s a trick old chap. You're going to find her as attractive as a sow’s behind.”

In reality, Henri and Marie’s meeting was not as idyllic as Reuben’s heavenly painting. Rumor has it that the disappointed king exclaimed, “I have been deceived. She is not beautiful.”² Yet in public, Henri appeared to adore his wife showering her with expensive gifts and participating in elaborate festivities to welcome the new queen. The people of France, were enthralled by Marie's youthful, healthy glow and the splendor of her attire. She represented renewed hope in the monarchy and hopes for a future heir to France. To Henry, she symbolized his duty and obligation to France.

Of course, there is nothing wrong with a girl having a healthy appetite, but Marie was a bit plump even in her younger years. The painting that duped Henri had been painted seven years earlier when Marie was 20. We will never know how much the betrothal painting flattered her because it no longer exists. I was fortunate enough to see an amazing art show in Florence on how Marie influenced art in Italy. The few paintings that depicted Marie as a young girl should have left Henri satisfied enough. Marie may not have been as beautiful as Henri's many mistresses, but her regal demeanor demanded respect. It is more likely that the perpetually, love-sick king resented being forced into the matrimonial bed.

The Fat Adonis
While Henri hid his distaste for his wife, George IV was not nearly as chivalrous. He has been sent a portrait of his future bride, Princess Caroline of Brunswick before his wedding and remarked hopefully, "Lennox and Fitzroy have seen her, and they tell me she is even handsomer than her miniature."³ George had little to complain about before the wedding. Caroline's dowry would pay his insurmountable debts and the newspapers had extolled upon her infinite charms and graces. What was there to worry about? How bad could she be?

Unfortunately, Caroline's miniature failed to capture how George's olfactory senses would react to his new bride because she stunk like a barrel of drowned rats. George might have forgiven her short stature, fat figure and over-sized head, but not changing your undergarments (underware had not caught on yet) insulted the pampered prince's sense of decency. Upon meeting his future bride, a shocked George retired to his apartments and asked the Duke of Malmesbury, "Harris, I am not well, get me a glass of brandy."⁴ He then preceded to drink himself into a stupor in the hopes of numbing the rest of his senses.

In all fairness, Caroline could hardly hide her disappointment either and inquired, "My God! Is the Prince always like that? I find him very fat and nothing as handsome as his picture." Often called the "Fat Adonis", the pudgy prince had little right to be picky. It seems both parties had been victim of the old Portrait Prank.

What followed was a marriage that would make the worst Hollywood divorces look positively tame. After their daughter, Princess Charlotte was born, George told Malmesbury that there would be no more children for he didn't intend to ever touch his wife again. Caroline moved into her private residence at Montague House and did what any scorned woman would do with a title, money and plenty of time....she partied like a rock star. Reports of her raucous misbehaving include such gems as dancing topless at a Ball in Geneva and sleeping with her footman (all acts of treason). George so despised his wife and her bawdy behavior that when told by a courtier, "Sir, your greatest enemy is dead." George happily replied, "Is she, by God?"⁵ Unfortunately, his courtier was referring to Napoleon.

The Portrait can Lie

So as you can see, portrait miniatures have led to countless disappointments in marriage negotiations. Unlike state paintings, miniatures were created to capture the likeness of a subject so it would not have been unnatural to assume the painting resembled the sitter. These small treasures measured about 1-2 inches in diameter and were most often painted in watercolors on vellum or ivory. The more striking Italian and Dutch miniatures of the 16th century used oil on copper and silver for a more opaque and far richer painting. The example to the left is a miniature painted in enamel on copper created by George III's much-loved, youngest daughter, Princess Amelia. The example to the right shows an unfinished miniature of Elizabeth I. The artist has blocked in color on a neutral background and filled in the background with the customary blue. Although this painting would have been copied from an original, it does capture Elizabeth's hooked nose and tight lips.

If you would like to see more portrait miniatures then visit the portrait miniature blog.

Sources:
Eustace Chapuys's account of Henry and Anne's first meeting.Chambers, Roberts. The Book of Days. W. & R. Chambers ltd, 1832.
William, Hugh Noel. Last Loves of Henri of Navarre. Hutchinson, 1925.
Weir, Alison. The Six Wives of Henry VIII. New York, NY: Grove Press, 1991.
Pardoe, Julia. The Life of Marie de Medici. Charlestown, SC: BiblioBazaar, 2006.Langdon, Gabrielle. Medici Women: Portraits of Power, Love and Betrayal in the Court of Duke Cosimo I, Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press, 2007.
Clerici, Graziano Paolo. A Queen of Indiscretions: The Tragedy of Carolone of Brunswick, Queen of England. Whitefish, MT: Kessinger Publishing, 2007.
Baur, Karoline. Memoirs of Karoline Bauer. Roberts Brothers, 1885.
Doran, John. Lives of the queens of England of the house of Hanover. R. Bentley, 1875.
Notes:

1. Weir p. 397
2. Noel p. 70

3. Chambers p. 185

4. Bauer p. 449
5. Doran p. 131