More than a century ago, Alexis de Tocqueville said that “the French constitute the most brilliant and the most dangerous nation in Europe, and the best qualified in turn to become an object of admiration, hatred, pity, or terror, but never of indifference.” More recently the French have not been especially brilliant or especially dangerous, and have inspired neither terror nor admiration. Yet it is still impossible to be indifferent to France.
Indeed, since the death of Georges Pompidou in early April, the attention of the world has once again been fixed on France, with the expectation that a new President will effect dramatic changes in French policy, especially toward the United States. But the course of recent French political behavior is unlikely to be reversed by the new President, for that behavior owes more to history than to personality, and is deeply rooted in the traditional feelings of the French both about themselves and about the role of their nation in the world.
Thus, the announcement of the French Foreign Minister, Michel Jobert, not long ago, that France would go its own way in dealing with the Arab oil embargo and that the continued presence of American forces in Europe was in no sense a fundamental concern of the French, was not simply intended to provoke Secretary of State Henry Kissinger into a verbal brawl and a clash of personalities (although it succeeded in doing that), but was perfectly consistent with the longstanding line of policy the French have taken in foreign relations.
Jobert's pronouncements of French independence clearly struck an emotional chord at home, where they were on the whole well received. Others, he implied, may surrender, but the French will resist American domination to the end. France is the only mature nation in Europe, the only one willing to play the European card fully and sincerely; for this it is isolated and vilified. As a recent commentator put it:
American hegemony is the most formidable system of exploitation known in human history. Alone in Europe, France has for fifteen years contested the Manichean division of the world. All it has earned is hatred: the hatred of its European partners, who are enraged because they cannot play the same game—or do not want to. The hatred, conscious or unconscious, of all those in France who would prefer a life of vassalage and tranquility, relieved of courage and all responsibility.
The author of this analysis, Phillippe de Saint Robert, has progressed in his career from the extreme Right to the editorship of a pro-Soviet weekly; his strictures would be of little interest but for the fact that they express the opinions of not a few Frenchmen. Whence do such strange opinions arise? They are connected in part with the curious but well-established ignorance of many Frenchmen of the world outside France, a world which they have made no effort to understand and basically do not care about. In the last resort only French history and geography, and of course French culture, matter: outside France there is a wall of hatred. A corollary of this proposition, unfortunately, is a tendency to regard France as still in full possession of her erstwhile Napoleonic grandeur, which some Frenchmen tend to invoke at the drop of a hat—as if to be French were an argument in itself.
Living in the past causes a great deal of frustration, nowhere more so than in the area of foreign policy. Tocqueville knew the syndrome well: “What misery to direct the foreign affairs of a people which has the memory of immense force but disposes now of little power, a people with the very greatest aspirations, which basically neither wants, nor perhaps dares, to risk anything.” This goes to the root of the problem. At the end of the 17th century Europe was the political center of the world, and every second European was a Frenchman. Today only one out of eight Europeans is French and Europe itself, pace Kissinger, is not one of the five pillars of the world.
There have been other powerful and gifted European nations that believed they had a universal mission, and experienced great difficulty adjusting to the modern world. Some, such as the Germans, inflicted much suffering on themselves in the process and even more suffering on others. But they have been cured; only in France can a national leader still speak of his country as la lumière du monde, as having to fulfill her mission as a world power, and still expect such sentiments to find resonance. “There is no corner of the world,” said Charles de Gaulle, “where men do not look to us and ask, What says France?” The fact is that all but the deaf know what France says; it is the most monotonously predictable country in the world.
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France's crisis of adaptation dates back more than a century. As Germany, Britain, and the United States forged ahead in the industrial age, France, that rich and talented country, fell behind. The most bourgeois of nations, France had a number of the bourgeois virtues—thrift and modesty and reasonableness—but lacked vigor, enterprise, daring. The French bourgeoisie wanted profits and security, but security even more than profits. The nation wished to be strong, but did everything possible to hamstring a strong executive, swearing undying attachment to la patrie, to glory and the great achievements of the French Revolution, while fighting against the introduction of an income tax. The history of France during the last hundred years has to be written with the focus on the absence of civic-mindedness and on the general negativism of the French middle classes.
Some observers believe that the French bourgeoisie was originally an upright and decent class that only later went into sad decline, becoming avaricious and morally bankrupt around the turn of the century. This interpretation may be too simplistic. Balzac's novels, than which there is no better guide to French social life and politics past and present, already show a middle class undistinguished by any trace of humanism. Yet at the same time, the scions of the “degenerate” French middle class did fight well in World War I, and decades of stagnation did not prevent a spectacular economic upsurge in the 1950's and 60's. In truth, there has always been in the French a curious mixture of reckless bravery and deep anxiety (the latter occasionally sporting a distinctly paranoiac streak), of grandeur and pettiness, of idealism and sacrifice on the one hand, narrow egotism and an utter lack of scruples on the other. These contradictions have somehow been held together by the notion that France's sacred egotism is at the service of humanity. In one of his early books, well before he became famous, de Gaulle wrote of the confluence between the permanent interests of France and the great aspirations of mankind, a synthesis “both beautiful and profitable.” De Gaulle himself, on rare occasions, almost brought this synthesis off, but his successors have less to boast of; the recent French deals with Libya and Saudi Arabia may or may not turn out to be profitable, but they have no particular beauty about them.
French politics have not, on the whole, been guided by common sense, although the system has produced a number of geniuses. The inter-war period is an example. The idea of magnanimity in victory was quite alien to Clemenceau and Poincaré: Germany, instead, was to be bled white. Against the advice of the British and Americans, the French leaders pursued a policy which contributed not a little to the rise of Hitler. Then, once the Nazis came to power, the pendulum swung to the other extreme: appeasement was more widespread and went deeper in France than in England.
The subsequent years were among the most painful in French history. By now comforting myths have sprung up about the Vichy regime, according to which most Frenchmen never really accepted defeat at the hands of the Germans and secretly supported the resistance movement from the beginning. What actually happened was that the majority of Frenchmen, as at the time of Munich, withdrew from politics altogether. The Establishment, with a few exceptions, supported Pétain and his “national revolution.”
After Vichy and the Fourth Republic came that colossal anachronism, Charles de Gaulle, whose actions and ideas dominate the French scene to this very day. De Gaulle showed courage and foresight at two decisive turning points in French history—in June 1940 when all seemed lost, and in 1958 when he got his country out of the Algerian quagmire. But the good he did is outweighed by the disruption he caused in the 1960's—all those grandiose projects and vast designs that were destined from the beginning to fail. As de Gaulle saw it, the world was ruled by one superpower, the United States; the excessive strength of that country (which had won the cold war without apparently realizing it) was the main danger to world stability. Hence a former ally became the main enemy against which French policy was to take up arms, whether through economic strategy (the campaign against the dollar) or by thwarting American political and military designs in Europe (“Atlanticism”) and the Third World.
A late convert to the idea of Europe, de Gaulle did not think much of his new allies. The Germans were mere vassals of America; the British were heirs to a great tradition but had turned masochistic; Italy was nonexistent; and as for the Belgians, two provinces did not a nation make. France, then, was to be the arbiter between the Soviet Union and the “Anglo-Saxons,” Russia's main interlocutor, and the only power capable of eventually overcoming the division of the world. For a long time de Gaulle boycotted the European Community despite the fact that France was its main economic beneficiary, and he withdrew the French armed forces from NATO; the old power balance, he believed, was to be replaced by a condominium with France and the USSR as its main pillars. To help create this new world order, the old gentleman with the towering figure traveled to Turkey and Somalia, to Poland and Peru, to Montreal (Vive la Québec Libre!) and Teheran, to Rumania, Cambodia, and a great many other places. The red carpets were rolled out, flags hoisted, sonorous platitudes uttered, factories inspected, cultural agreements signed, decorations bestowed, and toasts exchanged. The carpets having been rolled in and the flags hauled down, it invariably emerged that the momentous visit had not been of the slightest consequence, for the hard fact was that France needed a global policy no more than Scandinavia.
De Gaulle had a view of the world from which he never deviated, even though it was based on a series of mistaken ideas. According to this view, Russia and America had divided the world at Yalta, and since France had not been present to prevent the evil deed, everyone had to suffer the consequences. Yet Roosevelt's and Stalin's signatures did not bring about, they merely confirmed, a change in the world balance of power that had already occurred as the result of World War II. Next, de Gaulle was wrong in his belief in America's omnipotence, just as he greatly underrated the cohesion and the power of the Soviet bloc. His whole policy, moreover, was founded on the support of a strong and united nation, but France was neither strong nor united, and his neglect of France's domestic problems did not make them disappear. Lastly, while paying lip service to a “European Europe,” regarding it as an essential counterweight to America and Russia, de Gaulle fought European integration tooth and nail; instead of uniting Europe, he divided it. All the while it never occurred to him that he was entangled in a web of contradictions, that he had no policy but only a number of mutually incompatible visions.
The Soviets had a use for Gaullism: as they well recognized, it was a divisive and destructive force so far as the West was concerned; it weakened NATO and made a common European defense impossible. De Gaulle himself, on the other hand, was confident that sooner or later nationalism would reassert itself in Eastern Europe, and that following the French example, the Warsaw Pact countries would show increasing independence. He flattered the Poles, invoking their great tradition and the bright prospects of French-Polish cooperation. The Poles listened with enthusiasm but knew perfectly well that while France could leave NATO, there was not the ghost of a chance that they could break ranks and desert the Warsaw pact. De Gaulle's Ostpolitik proceeded in a world of fantasy. As for détente between the U.S. and the USSR, of this de Gaulle was of course an early advocate. But only in theory, for when America did begin to extricate itself from Southeast Asia and to move toward détente, the reaction in Paris was by no means one of relief. Two “hegemonies” dividing the world then seemed an even greater danger to the general's dreams than one.
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When de Gaulle resigned in 1969, both his foreign policy and his domestic policy were in a shambles, and it was generally expected that his successors would follow a more moderate line. The new men were the pragmatic cadres, the technocrats interested in results rather than dazzling but impractical schemes of grandeur, less anti-American in outlook, more aware of France's limited potential in the modern world. The Gaullist faithful distrusted them. In their eyes the Pompidou era seemed the return of the juste milieu; some regarded it as the victory of Vichy over the resistance, of traditional bourgeois timidity over the great ideas of French nationalism, a victory of defeatism over a strong and independent French policy. And at first these fears seemed justified. Britain was allowed to join the European Six, friendly gestures were made in the direction of America, and, to the horror of the orthodox Gaullists, Pompidou even put his name on a European document pledging greater economic and political unity by 1980.
But the keepers of the Gaullist conscience had sounded the tocsin too early. Even before the recent war in the Middle East there were signs of new strains between France and its European allies. France's attachment to the European idea largely depended, to put it somewhat inelegantly, upon the size of the subsidy the rest of Europe was willing to pay for French agriculture. Unfortunately, it had already become clear to German, British, and Benelux housewives that these subsidies were what was responsible for the high cost of food, and that the mountains of butter the French were producing were being sold to the Russians at a fraction of the price Europeans had to pay. The resulting popular pressure brought to bear on European governments caused the French no little chagrin.
The real crisis came with the outbreak of war in the Middle East and the oil embargo; this, as it subsequently emerged, marked the parting of the ways between France and its allies. The French argument was, very briefly, that it was stupid and self-defeating to have a single coordinated policy for the industrial countries of the West and Japan; this would cause a head-on collision with the Arab producers. For the Gaullists this was not a question of tactical approach but an article of faith, and epithets like “betrayal” and “treason” were freely bandied about. French patriotism and dignity, it was maintained, made it imperative to go to Riad and Tripoli; to attend the Washington conference, on the other hand, was considered a national disgrace, tantamount to a second Munich. For America had not the slightest intention of helping Europe, and was merely exploiting the oil crisis to reimpose its hegemony, while France saw an opportunity to establish a European-North African-Arab bloc under French leadership, which would not only secure Europe's oil supply but eventually emerge as an effective third force in world politics. Why were France's European allies so slow in seizing this opportunity?
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At first sight the French idea certainly seemed attractive, like one of those get-rich-quick notions so appealing to Balzac characters—the ones that cause their subsequent ruin. Not that a head-on collision with Arab oil producers would have solved anything either; one did not have to be a Richelieu or a Mazarin to understand that Western policy vis-à-vis the oil producers, to be effective, had to be flexible, ranging from affirmations of unending friendship to the threat of intervention. The real issue at stake was not confrontation but cooperation among the consumers, not only the industrial countries of the West but also the Third World. And in this respect there were bound to be differences between the United States and France for the simple reason that France wanted above all to assure its own oil supply, whereas the United States, being a world power, had to consider not only its own needs but also those of its allies, not to mention such long-term problems as the repercussions of the crisis, economic and political, on the world financial system and on the common search for alternative sources of energy. The French did not in principle rule out discussion of such topics; they just proposed that the discussions be held at the United Nations, and everyone knew what that meant.
As already noted, Jobert's stand in Washington was widely acclaimed back home. The few dissenting voices pointed out that the French would still have to pay for the oil at the end of the day, and that the effect of Jobert's policy was to increase the price, whereas consumer action (the American suggestion) would bring it down. The Arab sheiks, moreover, were not exactly reliable partners; for all one knew they could be overthrown tomorrow, and there was no guarantee that their successors would honor the “special relationship” with France. Anyway, aside from oil they had nothing to offer; they could not help in the defense of France, and were not even able to buy a substantial share of French exports. Above all, what if the French bluff were called by the other Europeans? What if the British and Italians and Germans tried to establish their own “special relationships” with the Arabs?
This last point was well taken, and reflected the lessons of experience. For several years France had maintained a special relationship with the Soviet Union, with unimpressive results. The moment Washington and Bonn established their own direct line to Moscow, the French special relationship withered. And there was the danger that other European countries might begin supplying unlimited quantities of arms and nuclear power stations to the Arab world; some needed little encouragement in that direction. French policy could work successfully only if France were the sole nation to pursue it and if the Americans continued to provide a kind of “protective zone” from which, the French could make their forays into the harsh world outside without fear of ultimate defeat or abandonment.
Much has already been made of France's success in concluding bilateral agreements to secure its oil supplies. It is true that contracts have been signed with the Arab oil producers and Iran, but these express intentions rather than realities. France expected to sign an agreement with Saudi Arabia for 800 million tons of oil over a period of twenty years, but all it got was the promise of 30 million tons for three years at a very high price. (France paid $10.80 a barrel; two months later oil was offered at $8.50.) Similarly, France hoped for an agreement with Iraq for deliveries valued at $1 billion; but after Jobert's visit to Baghdad it was announced that no treaty had been signed. In 1974 France will have to spend an additional $6 billion for oil over the previous year, which means that by the end of this year France will be left without foreign currency reserves.
France's “independent oil policy,” in other words, is a chimera. And France needs Europe even more than Europe needs France; Europe and America, not Kuwait or Abu Dhabi, are where France's markets are. The only lasting effect of recent French foreign policy has been to exasperate its European neighbors. West Germany is no longer willing to subsidize the French economy, and other Common Market countries show equally little desire to go along while France transgresses the ground rules of European cooperation. In all likelihood France will soon have to start working its way back into the European fold, and it will also have to move toward a rapprochement, however limited, with Washington. Sooner or later the political and military realities always reassert themselves.
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In the final analysis the real danger is not one of deep and lasting estrangement between France and other Western countries. It is the situation inside France that is cause for worry. The Fifth Republic has been in a state of crisis for some time. If it had not been for three successive years of substantial economic growth, Pompidou's regime would have been in serious trouble long ago. But in any case 1973 was the last year of prosperity; 1974 will be a year of stagnation and of price inflation, coupled with a substantial trade deficit and an unemployment figure not too short of a million. Whoever succeeds Pompidou will inherit a country bitterly divided between the dominant, privileged class and the majority of the underprivileged and exploited. As of this writing, it is not clear who the new President will be, but basically the question is not one of personalities, it is whether France's political structures are strong enough to weather the coming storms.
Seen against this background France's defiant foreign policy has something to recommend itself. But according to past experience the domestic impact of a nationalist foreign policy is shortlived. The foreign political triumphs of General de Gaulle did not prevent the crisis of June 1968 which almost brought the regime down. In the last resort it is the standard of living at home that matters, and if the price of eggs rises by 50 per cent again, as it did last year, the average Frenchman will be up in arms no matter what is being said by French spokesmen in Washington, London, and Bonn.
The recent history of France has been a record of failure, with short intervals of apparent glory; France may still be a grande nation in the realm of the spirit, but it is no longer one in world economics and politics, and it has no special global mission to fulfil. Unfortunately there has been an inclination in America to take France too seriously; in this respect Mr. Kissinger is only following a time-honored tradition. Yet France's capacity to do either good or mischief to the U.S. is limited. Given France's internal condition, would America be manifestly better off if she were a faithful ally? French politicians have behaved provocatively toward the United States with the result that Western Europe as a whole has come under fire, as if it were somehow genuinely hostile to America. The real problem, of course, is not Europe's hostility but Europe's impotence, its lack of solidarity and the erosion of its political will. Actually there is very little America can do to help Europe in its misery; neither bullying nor appeasing will have much effect. Mr. Kissinger will have to go on invoking interdependence, Atlantic unity, and partnership, to act as if he were dealing with equals, whereas in fact he is dealing with a vacuum.
The countries of Europe will no doubt once again draw closer to America as their internal crisis deepens and outside pressure increases. Western Europe as a major, active factor in global politics, however, is not a reality but a figment of the imagination. For this state of affairs France bears a large share of the responsibility.
