France's Part
I
WHEN I was wondering how to answer my American correspondent who told me that America was growing to distrust France, I came across a passage in the shrewd and entertaining Journal of the De Goncourts, in which Gladstone, dining at Girard in’s, was reported to have said that ‘the Conservative Party of France is the stupidest of all the Conservative parties in the world.’ And then I recalled the phrase about the Bourbons learning nothing and forgetting nothing. The Bourbons to-day are a handful of bourgeois rulers, upon whom the same verdict might be passed by a harsh critic.
What is the truth concerning the French? Is Gladstone’s judgment right? Sometimes one is truly tempted to believe that the cause of France’s virtual separation from countries which were prepared — nay, were anxious — to continue on the closest terms of friendship with her, is sheer stupidity. France, like the raw recruit, declares that she is the only person in the regiment who is keeping step. Now it so happens that, whether the raw recruit was right or not, France is undoubtedly right. She is the only person who keeps in step, who has not changed feet, who has not put her rifle on the other shoulder. She has forgotten nothing: she has learned nothing.
Will it be permitted to a true friend of France, alarmed at the change of opinion in America, as in England, to present some defense of France — a defense which, however, will be anything but official — will be nothing if not frank?
It is, unfortunately, a fact that, whereas three years ago France had friends even among her enemies, to-day she has enemies even among her friends. The tremendous change of opinion, which has swept all the shores of the Atlantic, cannot now be denied; and it is better to start by dropping pretenses and by admitting that everywhere France is considered to be the principal power standing in the way of a reasonable settlement of the world’s political and economic affairs. There are, of course, plenty of people in every country who still hold with France; but even in these specifically pro-French quarters there is an undercurrent of misgiving. Nor will it suffice to scout indignantly the allegation that France is latently, if not blatantly, imperialist. That is not the charge. Nor is the charge that of militarism-run-mad. There are, doubtless, ill-informed folk who make such accusations, and Frenchmen devote all their energy to repudiating these accusations. In truth, all that can be said against France’s large army, all that can be said against her designs on the Ruhr, and so forth, is beside the point. It is wasting breath to attack France on these grounds, and it is unnecessary for France to attach any importance to those who are so woefully irrelevant in their criticisms.
Such spirit of imperialism and of militarism as exists in France — as it exists in all countries — is comparatively negligible, and at any rate arises out of a much more evil spirit of which it is only an incidental expression. The real vulnerable point of France is her apparent selfishness. The indictment that is framed in men’s minds — sometimes unconsciously — is that France is thinking only of herself and not at all of the great world outside France. As my correspondent puts it in the vernacular, people are beginning to say that ‘France will neither gee nor haw when the whole world demands that the European team tug at the plough in unison.’
II
Certainly it is incontestable that there is a general demand for coöperation. The writer long ago placed on record his conviction that the growing need of the age is a greater consciousness of universal solidarity. He has himself preached, in season and out of season, this doctrine. One is tempted to call it a new doctrine — but of course it is an exceedingly old one. Nevertheless, not until our time have all its implications been understood and its practical realization rendered possible.
A short digression — which is really not a digression, which is really the central thing in any consideration of France’s relations with the rest of the world — must here be pardoned. It may be that I shall be twitted with elaborating the obvious, with emphasizing a truth that everybody understands. But it was not so when I began to proclaim, in every article I wrote, the oneness of the world. A truism, if you please, but a truism that few people accepted, and that required saying again and again. A truism that sounded like a revolutionary idea.
I do not know at what stage of the world’s history except our own the truism was, for practical purposes, true. The brotherhood of mankind as a moral ideal has long been preached; as a physical fact it had little importance until commerce began to make us, in all countries, dependent one upon another. The industrial age began to translate a vague philosophy into concrete terms of absolute necessity. It is only a few years since the machinery of the world was so organized that every country became a vital wheel in the machinery. Amazing progress in this sense has been made; to-day nothing can happen any where without sending repercussions round the globe. Steamships and cables, aeroplanes and wireless telegraphy, have reduced distance to a little thing. Innumerable instances could be cited to show that the natural products and the peculiar manufacturing skill of this land are of essential value to that land, and vice versa.
But it is finance that has woven its web all over the world, in such a way that any ripping and vibration in one part will affect the entire web. Nothing can be cut away, nothing can be ignored. What is a calamity for one, is a calamity for all. Indeed, it is the suffering caused by the dislocation and the disturbance which has taught us to appreciate this truth. In the school of bitter experience we have learned that we are members of each other. We may speak of this in a moral manner, or we may — afraid of ‘high-falutin ’ language, of the appearance of hypocrisy — confine ourselves to the realistic language of trade. I am not sure that it is not better to confine ourselves to material considerations. It is the fiscal facts that strike home — that have struck home.
Balzac, I remember, puts a moral problem before his readers. He supposes that one of us has only to press a button, which will direct a deadly current, to kill a Chinaman whom we have never seen, but whose death will bring to us untold gold. Would we not press the button, he asks. It is possible that our moral sense is as yet feeble enough to allow us to perpetrate a lucrative murder, easily accomplished and never seen. But the problem would be stated otherwise in these days. Balzac lived before universal solidarity had been realized. To-day we would certainly not gain a fortune — we would lose a fortune — by injuring the unknown person beyond the far-off Chinese wall. We have to think twice before pressing our button, because the distant perturbations will shake the ground under our feet. It is not that we are more moral, but that we are more practical; and the impossible hypothesis of Balzac has been converted into an unmistakable reality in exactly the opposite sense.
The war taught us how to pool on a limited scale; the peace is teaching us that we must pool on the largest scale; for already, by the operation of an intricate and interlocking civilization, our joys and our sorrows are pooled. Dimly, inarticulately, it may be, the average man in nearly every nation is aware of the dominating idea — which is the dominating fact — of our generation.
This is, I said, not a digression. For it is just because the rest of the world is grasping this truth and France is not, that we witness the deepening of the division that has manifested itself between France and the rest of the world. The reproach against France is that she is egotistic, mindful only of her own interest and not of the interests of others. Her own interest, rightly understood, would be to come into the worldscheme, but there are special reasons why she should not understand.
III
The chief point that distinguishes France from countries like America and England is that, economically, France is, apparently and in large measure, self-sufficing. More than half the population of France is engaged in agriculture, and although, contrary to popular belief, French agriculture is poor and backward, producing much less to an acre than German, American, or British agriculture, France has managed to get back to a total production which corresponds to the country’s needs. French peasants are certainly industrious and admirable in many respects. But, in the nature of the case, their vision is limited. They are ignorant, as peasants always are ignorant; but they are uncommonly shrewd and thrifty. So long as they can go on cultivating their bit of soil, even though their methods are often antiquated, even though the much-vaunted system of peasant proprietorship is economically unsound and lamentably fails to make the most of natural resources, so long as they are personally prosperous, and while foodstuffs are plentiful in the towns, France is not likely to feel the pinch that industrial countries are feeling.
The peasant strikes the keynote. It is not Paris which dictates its politics to France: it is France (that is to say, the countryside and the little towns) which dictates its politics to Paris. The majority of deputies, meeting in the Palais Bourbon, see, in their mind’s eye, not the towers and monuments and busy boulevards of the metropolis, but the fields and villages which they represent. France has initiated mighty movements in the world, but France in politics is essentially conservative. We have to reckon with the simple thought of the peasant who demands that Germany shall pay, as France paid after 1871, out of treasures hidden in a woolen stocking, without troubling about modern modalities; and who cannot see the need of renewed relations between France and an outlandish Russia.
Curiously enough, England is still regarded as an island. The fact is, of course, that it is France which is an island. We must not allow ourselves to be misguided by the map. England is indissolubly embedded in the centre of the Continent. France is, as it were, economically withdrawn from the Continent. France can wrap herself, if she pleases, as in a cloak, and ignore the outside world. Geography may be an exact science, but it is often untrue. For England, dependent upon industry, upon foreign markets, upon the widest possible diffusion of her commerce, every closed door is a disaster, every outlawed country is a lost customer.
It was all very well, during the period of excitement which followed the war, to demand the uttermost farthing from Germany; but now England, forgetting her own attitude of three years ago, wants to wipe off her bad debts and begin afresh. Germany is as good a dealer with whom to have dealings as any other — and better. It is with great perplexity that England observes that France cannot agree to this placid repudiation of the Versailles Treaty, to which England was a party so short a time ago. England’s forgiveness of Germany is not dictated, of course, by any noble application of the precepts of Christianity — it is dictated simply by necessity. There is much common sense in this inconsistency. But it is, perhaps, asking too much, that France should, as a matter of course, follow her.
France, indeed, stands precisely where she stood in 1919. She continues to point to her ruined North, her unbuckled budgets; and she states with some truth that the alternatives for her are German payments and French bankruptcy. That is putting the case too high. I do not believe in the bankruptcy of France, but I do believe that financially the situation will be exceedingly difficult if money is not forthcoming, as was promised, from an outside source. Sooner or later, I even think, there must be a writing-down of debts — both internal debts and external debts. France’s problem is not so much economic as financial. Her real prosperity seems assured. She will continue to earn enough for herself to go on living comfortably. But she cannot, it seems to me, go on earning sufficient to pay off her creditors, whether they are Frenchmen or Americans; and some bookkeeping operation is necessary, which will link up German payments with French payments.
When M. Loucheur flatly says that France cannot acquit her debt to America unless Germany acquits her debt to France, he is speaking the plain truth. Nor do I think that the United States can reasonably expect repayment unless all the allies and associates help her to obtain the wherewithal from the nation declared by everybody to be the ultimate debtor. But it is, in spite of anger, possible to ignore these external debts — which does not imply their repudiation. The connection between France’s incomings and outgoings cannot be denied. If that were all the problem, we could safely wait for the day when there would be agreement about the desirability of a clean international slate. Unfortunately, there is also the internal debt. That debt is piling up and up. It is not likely that Frenchmen will consent to a reduction of their claims on the Government, to forgo a good part of their savings lent on the strength of expectations on Germany, without putting up a most desperate fight. Surely, in spite of the gradual, and now almost complete, change of opinion in other countries, the maintenance of the old opinion in France can be readily understood. Every one hundred marks that Germany fails to pay comes off the bondholding of an individual Frenchman.
IV
Besides, there is a perfectly natural hatred and distrust of Germany in France, which does not, which cannot, exist elsewhere. It would be superfluous for me to enlarge upon the causes of this antipathy, which is mixed with fear. Invasion — murderous, malignant, destructive in the last degree is a terrible experience; and, human nature being what it is, it would be amazing were France to forget as quickly as those comparatively happy countries which sent their armies to be killed on the French battlefields. Undoubtedly the intense horror that France has of Germany colors her policy.
Further, it is clearly seen — and I think with justice — that, unless there is a radical change of international relations, another attempt at invasion is inevitable. Provocation offered by France will undoubtedly hasten the day when Germany seeks her revanche; but against, the fine humanitarian conception that now prevails in many quarters, — that general friendliness and surrender of special claims is the best means of preventing a clash, — France argues that she does not believe that Germany can be won over by concessions; that, at any rate, France cannot afford concessions, and that such concessions, if they are not effective in their object, will assuredly weaken France against the ineluctable hour of trial. Either you have faith in the nobler future of mankind, when feuds will be set aside — or you have not. France has not. Probably she is wrong in this lack of idealism; but it must be confessed that the idealism demanded from her is blind and perilous. It is not my business to argue against the fallacy of force. Suffice it to say that if at present France is at all disposed to trust in God, — and in her allies, — it is on condition that she be allowed to keep her powder dry.
For the German repudiation, now in sight, does imply armed resistance. When Germany signed the Rapallo treaty with Russia, it became evident that France would have to reckon with a Russo-German alliance. Could she count upon British support? Could she expect American assistance? Hardly. Both countries had denounced her intransigeance. Both countries were washing their hands of French troubles. Then, cried many of France’s advisers, what can we do but take care to get our blow in first? If we allow the RussoGerman menace to develop, then we are lost! Better seize at once the Ruhr, which is an arsenal of Germany, from which flows the economic lifeblood of Germany!
One is bound to deplore such reasoning; but, given the premises, it cannot be described as illogical. The truth is that France feels herself deserted. Not only has she not received the payments promised her, but she is railed at by those who promised the payments as being unreasonable in expecting them! She sees England and America disposed to side with her old enemy, Germany, and to turn against France, because she insists upon what three years ago was considered a fair demand . Whether everybody was wrong three years ago is beside the question: the point is that the converted scoundrel (if indeed we were, in the political sense, scoundrels in 1919) can have no moral right to turn upon his unrepentant partner with abusive epithets.
Still, although the Ruhr policy would find great support in France, were political passions to be played upon, calmer thinkers in France are not unaware of the peril. The blow would be got in first — but after? Would that prevent, or would it make more certain, retaliation? It is easy to go in, but will it be easy to come out? What profits can be extracted from the Ruhr, or from Berlin itself? Nobody who considers the matter as a business proposition can do anything but condemn such a policy. Many thousands of bayonets will not dig a ton of coal. There will be an uneasy occupation for a longer or shorter term, — and be it noted that the military men themselves are afraid of such an expedition carried out on what may be called a peace footing, feeling that such an occupation, so far from the base, should be executed with the number of men and the technical precautions that a warlike expedition would require, — during which the mark will collapse, making payments, even were they not absorbed in military expenditure, less and less possible. And then? Some day France will have to get out. Whether she got out peacefully, because the experiment had ruined her, or whether she got out in face of the concentration of Russian and German troops and resources — either kind of retreat would be a confession of failure and a deep humiliation. One could paint the picture in much darker colors. One could show the chances of an attack on Poland by Russia, who would have an understanding with Germany — the necessary reply to this challenge by France; the general conflagration, which would break out and extend, and not burn down until European civilization had gone up in smoke. But, indeed, there is no need to dwell upon these hypotheses. The French themselves sometimes feel that only a final catastrophe can lie at the end of that path; but they also feel themselves driven by an irresistible fate, like the hero of an immense Grecian tragedy.
V
What is to be done? Here is the menace which hangs, like the sword of Damocles, over the head of Europe and of the world. If I may express frankly my personal opinion, I am bound to say that I think France is right and the rest of the world is right. That is the pity of it. It would be easy were someone entirely wrong. Unfortunately, most of us can see only one side of the shield at the same time. When we are fighting for what may conveniently be called the Lloyd George view (though, of course, no one has changed his opinions oftener than Mr. Lloyd George and no one is more distrusted in France), we are apt to cry shame on the French, and to regard it as inconceivable that any one country can be so obstructive. We can find no justification whatever for the French. Such an attitude can only make matters worse, can only drive the French more swiftly and surely in the direction we consider undesirable. Such an attitude can only make the French more conscious of their isolation, their helplessness, and force them to seek desperate solutions. On the other hand, those who understand the psychology of the French case are usually indignant with Mr. Lloyd George and his British followers, and with those in America who are supposed, for reasons of high finance, to be engaged in a conspiracy with Germany to cheat France of her dues. The really tragic aspect of the whole situation is that there never was a case which had two such distinct sides. Until that fact is recognized, we shall simply play our game of cross-purposes, get red and hot in our anger with each other, and hasten the dénouement.
The French case against any sort of rapprochement with Russia is contained in the French case against Germany, and it is unnecessary to enlarge upon it. Once you admit that France is being wronged, once you admit that she is bound to stand against this supposed betrayal by her allies, it follows that Russia must be put in the German camp, must not be assisted, France stands facing a Germany who is in league with Russia, who can forge her arms in Russia; while England, America, Italy, and most of the neutral countries, are, rightly or wrongly, suspected of applauding Germany, if not of actively assisting Germany.
Where indeed are the friends of France? Will Poland not seek to save herself by coming to an anti-French understanding with Russia, or Germany, or both? Will the nations of the Petite Entente in the last resort range themselves with France? or will they, in a spirit of self-preservation, make such peace as they can with the growing monster which confronts France? As I write, even Belgium is, contrary to most reports, sharply divided in her sympathies.
VI
A plain statement about the Entente between France and England seems called for from one who has always held that the Entente is the basis of any European peace, and who, when it was a question of choosing between the Entente and his long connection with British liberalism, was obliged, at great personal sacrifice, to choose the Entente, and to detach himself from all those British liberal influences which would frankly shatter the Entente. I cannot see any hope or help for Europe if British publicists turn savagely on France; for, however right may be the view which is gaining ground in England, and is, I believe, conquering America, it appears to me beyond dispute that nothing good can be done in the face of French passive resistance, much less in the face of French active opposition, and that anything which tends to separate France and England (and, with England, America) can result only in the driving of France into an extreme position, which is really a false position, one which she does not wish to take up, dreading lest the drama should end calamitously for all the world.
But, having made my personal position clear, I am obliged in all honesty to declare that the anti-French movement in England, in spite of such men as Lord Northcliffe, is making headway. Much has appeared in the newspapers, which have indulged in almost incredible verbal violence. Again, to my regret (if in such a situation these personal references may be forgiven), I am compelled to say that that great British journalist, Mr. Garvin, under whose inspiring banner I have marched, beggared the dictionary in his search for epithets to be fastened on France. This is lamentably wrong, and the very worst method of attempting to mend matters.
There has been generally a fatal lack of balance, an inability to see both sides of the shield, an excess of vituperation, which bodes ill for Europe. I cannot do better than to quote from a letter which I lately received from a most competent observer in London.
‘To judge from the French press,’ he says, ‘people over there have not yet begun to understand the enormous effect which the Genoa Conference has produced upon Anglo-French relations, just as they took a long time to understand the effect of Washington on Franco-American relations. Broadly speaking, among all classes, in the clubs and in the pubs, there are no differences of opinion. Everybody looks on France as the single stumbling-block to European reconstruction and trade recovery. However much the justice of the verdict may be questioned, there is not the least doubt about the verdict, nor the least possibility of its being reversed. English opinion, as you know, moves slowly, but it sticks; and one of the symptoms of the new attitude will very likely be a growing disinclination to protest against French politics, on the ground that they no longer seriously concern us. There is a general feeling that Lloyd George is wasting his time in trying to come to any understanding with Poincaré. A spectacular rupture of the Entente would no doubt, at this moment, be very popular here. A row with France is the best card in the whole of Lloyd George’s bag of electoral tricks.’
That is a serious statement; and the truth is that any political demonstration, and spectacular conferences, such as those of Genoa, are, given the present state of feeling in France, utterly bad. They serve to emphasize and publish the deep divergence. The Genoa fiasco was especially ill-timed. Political pretense, of which there is much in France, was beginning to wink its eyes at quiet attempts on the economic terrain to arrive at a settlement with Russia and Germany. The moment political passions are awakened, all chance of agreement must be abandoned; and with an open quarrel between France and England, reasonable accords are further off than ever.
What, then, is the remedy? It seems to me that a great flaming gulf lies ahead of us, and that we shall escape it only if France, too, realizes in time her solidarity with the rest of the world, and the rest of the world realizes its solidarity with France. Mere blame for France is stupid and devoid of understanding. Mere sympathy for France is useless. The only helpful way is to rally round France once more, to offer her concrete proposals of assistance in her financial difficulties, and to allay her fears. This means that America must come back to Europe. It means that America must throw in her lot with Europe. I do not know whether this is practical politics, but I think I know that, without it, worse days of confusion and upheaval await Europe, and that America will suffer if she supposes that she can pass by on the other side, and survey the whirling chaos from across the Atlantic.