Feeling Exclusion

Religious Conflict, Exile and Emotions in Early Modern Europe

Giovanni Tarantino, Charles Zika, Giovanni Tarantino, Charles Zika

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2019
• ISBN:
  9781000708424
• Edition: 1
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: World History
• Index: History

Feeling Exclusion: Religious Confl ict, Exile and Emotions in Early Modern Europe investigates the emotional experience of exclusion at the heart of the religious life of persecuted and exiled individuals and communities in early modern Europe.

Between the late fifteenth and early eighteenth centuries an unprecedented number of people in Europe were forced to flee their native lands and live in a state of physical or internal exile as a result of religious conflict and upheaval. Drawing on new insights from history of emotions methodologies, Feeling Exclusion explores the complex relationships between communities in exile, the homelands from which they fled or were exiled, and those from whom they sought physical or psychological assistance. It examines the various coping strategies religious refugees developed to deal with their marginalization and exclusion, and investigates the strategies deployed in various media to generate feelings of exclusion through models of social difference, that questioned the loyalty, values, and trust of "others".

Accessibly written, divided into three thematic parts, and enhanced by a variety of illustrations, Feeling Exclusion is perfect for students and researchers of early modern emotions and religion.

PART 1

Belonging and displacement

1

EMOTION, EXCLUSION, EXILE

The Huguenot experience during the French religious wars

Penny Roberts

UNIVERSITY OF WARWICK

Exile, in particular the so-called refugee crisis, is the headline issue of our time. The mixed emotional response of host communities, including compassion and suspicion, sympathy and fear, loom large in the discussion. As I write, BBC Radio 4 is having its ‘World on the Move’ day, featuring specialist broadcasts on the topic, including historical precedents. One of those being considered is the 1685 Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, which effectively made the practice of Protestant worship illegal in France and prompted a significant Huguenot diaspora known as the Refuge. This event and its consequences have been widely studied; such works are mainly concerned with the communities of exiles that established themselves abroad, primarily in England and the Dutch Republic, as well as further afield.¹ Another focus of scholarly attention has been the clandestine churches of the so-called Désert up to the Revolution, which marked a partial return to the time prior to the Wars of Religion, before public worship was first permitted by the crown in 1562. Less consideration has been given to the exiles from the sixteenth-century French religious wars, whose communities were not so established, not least because persecution was much more sporadic and interspersed by lengthy periods of official toleration. It is also notable that such studies tend to look at the issue from the perspective of the host communities, or at least from the other side of the border.² With the presence and increasing influence of John Calvin and other French ministers in Geneva from the 1540s, and the predominantly merchants and artisans from France who followed them there, not to mention the contribution of other important refugee centres such as Strasbourg and Lausanne, the exile experience was at the heart of the Reform movement.³ Essentially, too, Geneva was the French Reformed Church in exile, and this fact profoundly shaped the approach of Calvin and his fellow ministers to the situation in France.⁴ Yet, the variable contours of the exile experience in these circumstances have hardly been explored by historians, especially with regard to the practical and emotional impact on individuals and the clandestine activities in which, as a consequence of their displacement, they inevitably became involved.

Despite the intense focus on the violence and brutality of the French religious wars, which has shaped so much of our understanding of the conflict, a specifically emotional history is yet to be written. That is not to say that historians have been disinterested in the impact of the wars both on the kingdom and on individuals. From the anguish of a whole nation to personal trauma during the St Bartholomew’s Day massacre and the self-examination of Montaigne, the psychological experience of elements of the conflict has been closely analysed.⁵ But these partial contributions need to be expanded further. The emotional language and tone of many such accounts is palpable, such as the fifty-page remonstrance from the Protestant nobility of Maine to the King and the Marshal de Vieilleville, listing the atrocities and ‘horrible excesses’ that their coreligionists in the region had suffered during the two years following the 1563 edict of pacification, which should have protected and safeguarded their interests.⁶ Nevertheless, the resulting catalogue of heinous crimes and official connivance deals largely with second- or third-hand accounts. A more sensitive approach can, however, extract evidence of more nuanced experiences. The record, of course, can only ever be partial, since few participants wrote down how they felt during, and as a consequence of, these disturbing acts. Perhaps, then, we might look elsewhere for direct experience of the emotional impact of the wars, but in doing so we may have to look in unexpected places, as Susan Broomhall has demonstrated with the petitions of paupers for poor relief describing the distressing effects of the wars.⁷ Another source of trauma, to be considered here, is the displacement and loss felt by those who were forced to leave their homes to seek an uncertain future in exile.

Nicholas Terpstra has recently reminded us that ‘the Reformation stands out as the first period … when the religious refugee became a mass phenomenon’.⁸ The burgeoning interdisciplinary field of memory studies also draws our attention to the resilience and fortitude of the survivors of traumatic episodes, which seems peculiarly apt for a volume dealing with the issue of emotion and exile.⁹ From many accounts, it is clear that the sorts of ordeals experienced by Huguenots must have had severe emotional repercussions: some became exiles after they witnessed such actions, others struggled to deal with the knowledge of them from afar. In turn, this must have led to a sense of guilt, as well as justification or affirmation of their departure. Frustratingly though, we know very little about what the responses were to such experiences as witnessing the brutal death of relatives and friends; surviving an attack themselves; having a child torn away to be baptized; they themselves being forced to abjure. Of course, these were the very experiences many exiles sought to avoid by fleeing from their homes. As already noted, such trauma is often reported at third hand in chronicles and memoirs or in the correspondence of noble leaders with each other and the crown. Reports of tears and laments, courage and defiance, but also shame and fear emerge, but the descriptions are often quite generic in form. Ultimately, therefore, there is very little to be heard of the voices of the exiles themselves. Nevertheless, while reconstruction may be difficult, it remains both worthwhile and instructive. Exiles were more likely than most to reflect on their circumstances and, indeed, to provide the vital written record needed through correspondence with family, colleagues, and friends. While letters are the most direct primary source we have for evidence of the emotional impact of exile, other documents also need to be examined for the effect of persecution on the emotions of not only those who left, but also those who stayed, and those who eventually returned once the conflict had subsided.

It should be emphasized that, although there was much shared emotional experience in the ordeal of exile, it was often evoked in very individual and personal ways. The trauma was deeply felt and internalized as well as publicly expressed. It involved both physical hardship and psychological stress, as well as a sense of abandonment and betrayal, and the questioning of an individual’s identity. Staying put or going back was not a simple choice; after a time, exiles might feel that they belonged nowhere, treated with sympathy but also suspicion in their place of refuge, but fearful of what response awaited them if they went home. The experience of exile both changed and marked those who left, so that returning could be fraught with anxiety, due as much to the ambivalent response of others as to their own sense of displacement at the changes that had occurred in their absence. While exile was a refuge from the threat posed by the actions of the authorities that might compromise one’s faith, others might look askance at the decision to leave family and friends behind. Often believing that they had no choice but to leave, exiles had to justify this important decision continually to themselves as well as to others.

The reluctance of those forced to flee across the border of the French kingdom, by land and by sea, was aroused by fear of the possibly imminent adversity and misfortune on leaving their homeland. On 3 August 1595, the lawyer and memoirist Nicolas Pithou, aged seventy-one, wrote his last will and testament.¹⁰ He had recently returned to his native town of Troyes in Champagne after twenty-seven continuous years abroad in exile. As a committed Huguenot, he had been forced to choose between his home and his faith at the age of forty-four. Like many others, he had brief spells away, initially as waves of persecution ebbed and flowed in 1560s, and finally leaving at the beginning of the third war in 1568. While lamenting the time and money he had spent moving around here and there for more than three decades, he thanked God for keeping him safe, conserving him from ‘so many perils and dangers, misfortunes and calamities’. Finally, he gave tribute to the two people who had been closest to him in his life, his ‘well-loved’ twin-brother Jean and his ‘dearly beloved’ wife Perrette, ‘constant companion’ on his travels. He entrusted Perrette to Jean’s care, trusting that he would extend to her the same ‘intimate friendship’ the brothers had shared. Of course, being so close to a twin or to a spouse was not unusual, but such emotional familial ties must only have been reinforced and strengthened by the adversity and hardship of exile. Nicolas’s experience, like that of other exiles, torn between his native and adopted homes, was reflected in his endowments, which were divided between the poor of the Genevan Church and the poor of Troyes. He would die three years later in 1598, leaving behind him not only his grieving brother and wife, but also a 500-folio-plus memoir chronicling the history of the Reformed Church in Troyes.¹¹ His twin, Jean, died four years later in 1602, still in exile in the Swiss town of Lausanne.

A period of exile could, however, afford fortuitous opportunities, not only to the individuals concerned, but to those they had left behind, in building networks and seeking external support. Another refugee from the third war was Odet de Coligny, Cardinal of Châtillon, elder brother of the better-known Huguenot leader, Admiral Gaspard de Coligny, first victim of the 1572 St Bartholomew’s Day massacre. His was a very high-profile exile indeed, as reflected in a number of letters he wrote to King Charles IX in the days during and after his flight. The first was written on 5 September 1568, as he made his way to the Channel coast to take a boat to England, and two others repeated much the same information in the days following his arrival (suggesting, as for many such correspondents, that he was anxious about the information getting through):

Having received several warnings one after another of the plots against me, and the traps to surprise me in my home… and knowing that those who have long declared themselves the enemies of me and mine… (5 Sept).¹²

To my very great regret, I have been forced at my age [he was fifty-one] to abandon my house, my homeland and your realm, where I have always been honoured to have been well treated by its kings, in order to conserve my life and to keep myself from injury and oppression from those who have always shown themselves to be enemies of the public peace, and particularly of my whole House (14 Sept).¹³

Conscious of the rebellious appearance of such an act, the Cardinal assured Charles that ‘no plots, intelligence or sharp practice have led me to this country where I had never even thought of coming three hours before my departure from my house and the warning I received that I should move out immediately’ (14 September). In particular, he emphasized that he remained the young king’s loyal servant: ‘believe that, in whatever place I am, I would never fail in any way to uphold the obedience, fidelity, subjection and loyalty I owe you’, and that his only purpose was ‘to serve God, pray for your prosperity and health, and to deliver your kingdom from the miseries, calamities and desolation’ it was facing (5 September). He wrote to express his extreme distress, tinged with not a little resentment, at being so treated. Nevertheless, six months later, Odet was condemned in his absence for ‘rebellion, felony, (and the) crime of lèse-majesté’, deprived of all his honours and possessions, and fined a hefty 200,000 livres for ‘common offence’ against the king.¹⁴ He would die, still in exile in England, on 30 March 1571, as he waited at Canterbury for a suitable boat to take him back to his native France.

Unlike Nicolas Pithou, Odet was protected by his aristocratic status and royal favour, and after only two and a half years of this first experience of exile, he was heading back to France on the resumption of peace. Like Pithou, his wife (his former mistress whom he had married in 1564 after his excommunication by the pope) accompanied him, as well as a formidable entourage of some thirty people who...