Can I learn something from a book I didn’t like? I asked myself that question right after I finished J.E. Neale’s The Age of Catherine de Medici. Published in 1962, it’s been in my personal library for who knows how long. One hot summer night two years ago I brought it to the pub to read but after just one page I lost interest. Upon returning home I exiled the vintage paperback to a hidden nook and cranny in my personal library and promptly forgot about it. Then a week ago I was once again craving stuff on European history and decided to give The Age of Catherine de Medici another chance. The good news is since it’s a short book just over 100 pages I read it in no time. The bad news is I still didn’t like it.
Part of the Harper Torchbook series of”quality paperbacks” specializing in fields like religion, philosophy, history and economics The Age of Catherine de Medici is a collection of four lectures the author gave at Alexandra College in Dublin in 1938 and four year later at University College of North Wales (now Bangor University). As one would guess, it covers the mid-1500s when Catherine was queen, and later queen mother to three sons, each of which would have a turn ruling France. I figured since they’re lectures, The Age of Catherine de Medici would make for light reading. Unfortunately, I never warmed up to Neale’s writing style.
While being the queen mother to three sons might sound impressive, the reality was otherwise. All three kings were weak and ineffective rulers, with their respective reigns, in Hobbesian terms best described as nasty, brutish and short. Their mother Catherine, lacking the intelligence, political savvy and indomitable will when compared to say, England’s monarch Elizabeth was ill-equipped to hold the country together during this period of extreme civil and religious unrest. (She also had the added disadvantage of being Italian-born, and being a foreigner was therefore was seen by many as ill-suited to guide the nation.) Dubbed by historians as the Religious Wars, the series of conflicts which ravaged France were in effect a decades long civil war, as Catholics and Protestant Huguenots fought back and forth for control of France. (Although arguably, much of the time Catholics were the aggressors.)
Neale’s book confirmed for me our species’ bad reputation for communal violence, especially toward those seen as threats or worse, potential threats to our well-being. The St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre in 1572, when Catholics in Paris and throughout France rose up and murdered thousands of Protestant men, women and children bears an eerie resemblance to such later large-scale atrocities as the Indonesian mass killings of 1965–19966, the Rwandan Genocide of 1994 and the murderous “ethnic cleansing” in the former Yugoslavia from 1992–1995. An unpleasant, but perhaps necessary reminder of what we’re capable of.