The Future of an Illusion

The summit conference will not take place this winter, as Eisenhower and Macmillan apparently desired. It will instead take place during the spring, as General de Gaulle desired, with the exact time and place at de Gaulle's pleasure. Nikita Khrushchev, who will also attend, has not been consulted about these plans for the diplomatic season, but he is inclined to show up when invited, "any place, any time."

France has stamped its little foot, thrown its little tantrum, and won its little point. De Gaulle's motives, from the point of view of Western policy, are none too clear, but he will have his way.

Under the Fifth Republic, French foreign policy--except in the colonial field--has been more concerned with form than with content. Charlemagne, having decided that loose talk of France as a second-rate power had gone far enough, served notice that henceforth France would be heard from in Western councils. France has been heard from, sure enough, but it has had distressingly little to say.

The basic French foreign policy is, reputedly, one of grandeur, a reassertion of the historic role of France in world affairs. It is a simple compound, one part reality to five parts romantic memory of Napoleon and Louis XIV and four parts de Gaulle's concept of his personal destiny. In getting rid of the immobilism that characterized the Fourth Republic, de Gaulle and his government have picked up a generous share of political illusions, and chief among them is the grandeur upon which their diplomacy is based.

For France is a second-rate power--militarily, strategically, and economically--and most of the politicians of the Fourth Republic were ready to admit it, if only in unguarded moments. The French remain part of the "Big" four only through archaic convention, and through the conviction of some Western leaders that being on the right side in World War II is more important than physical power in computing diplomatic "size."

Most of the grandeur of the Fifth Republic's first year has been symbolic. De Gaulle has practically reinstituted the rites of a medieval court in a modern setting. There have been periodic shows of pomp: the Fourteenth of July was "the biggest ever," with fireworks, parades, and dancing in the streets (at the Invalides, a massive amusement park called Le Plus Grand Bal du Monde operated from 4 p.m. to 4 a.m. throughout the four-day week-end); the French Community of Nations was initiated in grandiose ceremony, and the various African dignitaries who comprise the Community Senate are made much of on their frequent visits to Paris.

The Fourteenth of July probably demonstrated more clearly than anything how hollow grandeur really is. It might have been the biggest ever, but the consensus in the press the morning after was that is had been the biggest flop. The only thing the festivities lacked was spontaneity. On the domestic front, the regime was looking for a vote of confidence; all it got was a public ready and willing to have a politically neutral good time. On the international front, in a scene reminiscent of Moscow May Days, the French paraded through the Concorde all their newest and finest military equipment. Jets trailing blue, white, and red streams flew overhead. The aerial effect was gaudy, but the material comparison with the Red Square extravaganza was pitiful. "The French Army," said an American observer, "is admirably prepared for World War II."

Admittedly, the French are hard at work on an atomic bomb of their very own, though once they explode it over the Sahara, they won't have it anymore. A cartoon last summer depicted an angular de Gaulle, clad in intrepid explorer togs, leading a safari of equally angular Africans, who carried on their heads a single oversized bomb. The caption read "La France va disposer de la bombe atomique," (France will dispose of the atomic bomb), a direct quotation from a de Gaulle address.

The President's critics emphasize that la bombe is singular and likely to remain so for some time, and wonder what on earth de Gaulle proposes to do with a stockpile of one (or even two or three) atomic bomb. They wonder too why de Gaulle insisted on controlling the use of the American nuclear weapons based in France, thus forcing the NATO air bases to move to West Germany.

France's Western allies have been puzzled by these antics also and by de Gaulle's slow-down tactics on the summit conference. The French nuclear test in the Sahara is going to be embarrassing at a time when serious consideration is being given to disarmament. The moving of air bases from France to West Germany was strategically inconvenient.

And the other Western powers--particularly the British--are quite sincerely committed to the prospect of an early summit conference. The British tabloid press has reacted to de Gaulle's actions with a vitriolic fury that prompted the French weekly L'Express (not exactly part of the regime's cheering section) to point out that Anglo-French amity is far from traditional and that perhaps the two nations really are natural enemies.

The American State Department has handled the whole affair to date with a tact and tolerance that it would not have shown in the days of Dulles' "agonizing reappraisal." How long this restraint will last is difficult to say. De Gaulle can be allowed to have his way on the dates and places of conferences; but if grandeur starts interfering with serious Western policy, obviously the United States must, however reluctantly, put the French in their place.

A foreign policy founded on mythical grandeur won't get very far, but the French don't seem to care.