The Origins of a Centuries-Old Hatred
To trace the origins of a feeling — at the very least, one of hostility — that the French have towards us Italians, we must turn to history books, and for most people that already means a superhuman effort. I’ll try to help, and if anyone spots any mistakes, I’ll be happy to be corrected.
To begin with, I’d like to say that our feeling toward the French is a reaction, not something that originates with us — after all, we Italians are a bit more likeable than our cousins across the Alps. But that’s another story.
It all begins with the arrival in France of one Caterina de’ Medici. She didn’t belong to the main branch of the Medici family, though she was the daughter of a Lorenzo de’ Medici — not “the Magnificent,” since she was born in 1511, about twenty years after his death. She came to France as the wife of the king, becoming the Reine de France. She bore Henry II three sons: Francis II, Charles IX, and Henry III. So Catherine was the mother of three French kings and the wife of a fourth.
An Italian woman with such standing could hardly inspire affection in France, a deeply nationalistic country. Her husband died young, leaving her as regent for their first son — who also died young, and so on. Catherine managed everything at court — from the kitchens to the furnishings, from domestic to foreign policy — and she guided her sons’ decisions in every respect. The soupe à l’oignon, so proudly claimed by the French, was actually her recipe, brought from Tuscany, and the French court became heavily Italianized. She even designed a square — the splendid Place des Vosges.
This might be a first clue to explain the French hostility toward us, but there’s more.
Some years later, King Louis XIII was living the good life — hunting and attending social events. He preferred his own sex to the other, and he made no secret of it. After all, he was the king. The politics of France were in the hands of Cardinal Richelieu, who ruled with an iron grip. The cardinal let the king indulge in his amorous and hunting adventures, but there remained the question of France’s royal succession — so they had to find him a suitable wife.
Enter Anne of Austria — a great match and, by all accounts, beautiful. But as mentioned, the king had other tastes, and the situation seemed hopeless. That devil Richelieu pulled a rabbit out of his hat: he brought to court a young, handsome, and cultured man — Cardinal Mazarin. The two young people (Anne and Mazarin) shared intellectual interests, and it didn’t take long for a spark to ignite. Some time later, Anne of Austria became pregnant, and the king was quite happy to be rid of the embarrassment.
Nine months later, a child was born — none other than Louis XIV, the Sun King. So perhaps the Valois line produced an Italian heir after all. Naturally, these are only hallway rumors — but perhaps not entirely unfounded.
Mazarin later became perhaps even more powerful than Richelieu, who had since died, and together with Anne of Austria he acted as regent until Louis XIV reached eighteen.
And if all that weren’t enough to explain this open hostility, there’s the much more recent example of Mussolini’s treacherous attack on a defeated France in 1940 — at the peak of his parabola of power — showing a disarming cynicism. He demanded vast territories after little more than a skirmish — a splendid example of Italian opportunism.
To paraphrase Mario Monicelli’s film Il Marchese del Grillo, and speaking on behalf of the French:
“Can we be a little pissed off?”
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