After the French defeat the country was divided into two at the seventeenth parallel. The north was given to the communists, and in the south the Americans discovered their third-force leader in the Catholic Ngo Dinh Diem, who was made president of the republic.
Norodom palace in Saigon, once overflowing with French advisers, military and civilian, was now overflowing with American advisers. American newspapers, the American legation, and the many young Americans in Saigon genuinely believed they could do better than the French. They were ready to take over to defeat the communists – and colonialism too: ‘Little by little, the folks back on the farm will realize that the world is theirs, whether they want it or not, for good or evil.’5
At this time The Quiet American was published. Greene had finished it in late June 1955 and it was brought out in England, in less than six months, by 5 December. It received powerful supportive reviews: Christopher Sykes in the Tablet thought it Greene’s best book; Donat O’Donnell, the pen name of Conor Cruise O’Brien (New Statesman) called it ‘The best novel for many years, certainly since The Power and the Glory’; Nancy Spain (Daily Express) thought it ‘as near a masterpiece as anything else I have ever read in the last twenty years’; whilst Evelyn Waugh (Sunday Times) found the work ‘Masterly, original, and vigorous’.
Greene touched a raw nerve among certain American reviewers, touchy about his portrayal of their national character as reflected by Pyle – so young, so naïve, so democratic in the face of the complex oriental mind. To some extent Greene had prepared the way for the novel’s hostile reception with his much-publicised anti-McCarthy, anti-McCarran stand, especially his remark that Americans lived in a ‘red-obsessed “state of fear”’. But Greene’s particular enemy was Newsweek. Its headline was ‘This Man’s Caricature of the American Abroad’ and the article which followed questioned Greene’s purpose in inventing such a shallow figure, a cardboard lampoon, as Pyle. Newsweek answered its own question by suggesting that Greene had become overtly anti-American because in 1952 he had been ‘temporarily denied a visa to the United States’ by the consul in Saigon on the grounds of his membership of the communist party as a youthful prank for a few weeks in 1922. Greene’s anti-Americanism was seen as arising out of personal pique.
The oddity about the review was that the novel was not published in America until March 1956, yet the review appeared on 2 January. One can only guess why the magazine decided it should attack a book so much in advance of publication. Presumably Newsweek was determined to put an end to the popularity of this British gadfly, this provoker and irritator; perhaps the magazine’s sympathies were with Senator McCarthy.
Later that year Newsweek returned to the attack under the headline ‘When Greene is Red’ because it had discovered that Greene’s novel was popular in Moscow:
Wonder of wonders, the Kremlin has discovered Graham Greene. Not the Greene of the breath-taking ‘entertainments’, like ‘Orient Express’, ‘This Gun for Hire’, not the Greene of ‘The Heart of the Matter’ and ‘The End of the Affair’ whose characters wander through a haze of tortured religiosity. But the political Greene of ‘The Quiet American’, the controversial novel about Indo-China which has aroused many American tempers.
Joining a chorus of acclaim from Soviet journals and newspapers, Pravda itself called the novel ‘the most remarkable event’ of recent British literary history and gave it five precious columns of comment … why [are] the Reds shouting over the work of a Roman Catholic novelist? It seems that the Soviet critics found a key to the secrets of the novel. All the leading characters turn out to be cut-and-dried political symbols, rather than the complete fragments of humanity which Greene intended (but hardly achieved).6
Thus Fowler, the ‘cynical, world-weary, opium-smoking British newspaper correspondent, stands in Pravda’s view for humanitarianism triumphant: Alden Pyle, for anti-humanitarianism repulsed … “Pyle”, Pravda now says, “is a symbol of the antihuman forces with which Fowler no longer wants to associate himself.” When he decides to “become a human being” Fowler “commits an act of great courage” by entering into a conspiracy to murder Pyle.’ Here was proof, thought Newsweek, of Greene’s ‘dreary stereotyping of his American characters’; ‘Greene may take American criticism of The Quiet American somewhat more seriously, now that the communists have proved the woodenness of characters by making them over so effortlessly into Marxist stereotypes.’7 Newsweek did much to establish in the minds of Americans that Greene hated America.
Greene often said that he was not anti-American but ‘anti American foreign policy’. What he disliked was the vast influence of America spreading inexorably around the world. He wrote in his Congo journal in 1959 when rebellion had broken out in the Belgian colony: ‘[the bishop] feels – as I cannot – that the tribal framework must be broken and material incentives be given for that purpose. Doesn’t this lead straight to the gadget world of the States? He spoke of the necessity for a mystique, but is there any mystique in America today, even inside the Catholic church?’8
Yet were Americans not right to be disturbed at Greene’s more provocative statements, for example when he said that he would prefer to end his days in the USSR rather than the United States? Greene later said that he meant the comment to be ironic:
I think that the writer is taken more seriously in Russia than he is in the United States. In the US I could attack anything until the cows come home, as long as my books sold, they wouldn’t object. But if in the USSR I wrote as I felt, I would soon find myself in a labour camp or some prison. I would end my days fairly soon but at least I’d have the compliment of being taken seriously.9
The explanation is still anti-American, though a variant of it found in Malcolm Muggeridge’s diary makes more sense:
I ran into Graham Greene, whom I hadn’t seen for a long time. We were affectionate with an undercurrent of hostility. Greene described having a haemorrhage in New York. He seemed to me in poorish shape on the whole, talked a lot about how Russian domination would be less terrible than American, etc. I mentioned the Church and he said Russians only destroy its body, whereas the Americans destroy its soul. Altogether, he’s as difficult as anyone I know, but I still like him.10
Not every American reviewer thought The Quiet American deserved the attacks it received. Robert Clurman in the New York Times Book Review felt it was high time that Greene (‘a most quiet Englishman while Americans were frothing at the mouth over his book’) said a word or two. The question which needed answering was how literally was one to take the Englishman Fowler, whom many readers interpreted as a spokesman for the author. In a letter to a friend, quoted by Clurman, Greene replied:
If one uses the first person the point of view has obviously got to be I, and one must put one’s self in I’s skin as intensely as possible. It would be absurd, however, to imagine that the author is Fowler any more than he is the boy gangster in Brighton Rock … As Pyle stood for complete engagement, Fowler obviously had to stand for an equally exaggerated viewpoint on the other side. Those who have read my war articles on Indochina will know that I am myself by no means a neutralist. I share certain of Fowler’s views, but obviously not all of them – for instance, I don’t happen to be an atheist. But even those views I share with Fowler I don’t hold with Fowler’s passion because I don’t happen to have lost a girl to an American.11
While the novel is anti-American, it is also anti-British in the sense that Fowler, the tired cynic, commits the greatest sin in Greene’s catechism – the fatal betrayal of a friend. In life Greene’s loyalty to friends knew no limits. Fowler involves himself with the Vietminh because he discovers that Pyle’s naïve dealings with the rebel Colonel Thé have led to the deaths of innocent civilians.fn1 Pyle is involved in political intrigue beyond his capacity to manage.
The Quiet American is based on Greene’s experiences, but it is based on other people’s as well. Pyle, as we have seen, has no single source. The young unfortunate Jollye, whom Greene met in Malaya
, alone made an important contribution to the creation of Pyle in the sense that Jollye’s naïveté and lack of cunning gave Greene his notion of how to develop his fictional character. That an Englishman was one source for the American is ironic. Newsweek’s title for its review: ‘This Man’s Caricature of the American Abroad’ need not have burst any American blood vessels for Pyle was also ‘This Man’s Caricature of an Englishman Abroad’.
*
Absorption of a place and its atmosphere was a necessity for Greene. He searched for exactitude in order that his characters could come alive in their setting. He felt, as did Conrad, the necessity of doing ‘justice to the visible universe’.
American journalists on their way to Vietnam, after the French had withdrawn, took in their backpacks a copy of The Quiet American. It was the most reliable account of what it was like in Vietnam: it was also prophetic. Americans writing later about the Vietnamese debacle, when they in turn lost to the Viet Cong, felt that American policy-makers should have listened to Greene. It was the truth of the situation he found in Vietnam that was important, so since he was such an accurate chronicler of the period, anti-Americanism in some form had to appear in the novel because strong anti-Americanism was historically present, most of it emanating from the French. The Americans were pouring in arms and economic aid of all kinds, but it did not make them loved by the French – generosity often provokes envy. France had entered its colonial twilight. The French rulers knew in sober moments that the tale of their day was told and that their Far Eastern possessions would be lost. American prodigality often aroused in the French an impotent malice. The Americans were the new Romans, the new super power, and this political phenomenon was difficult for the French in particular and the West in general to face, and harder still to swallow. The journalist Howard Simpson recalled running into a group of French legionnaires in the company of a famous colonel who had lived in Vietnam since 1940. They were drunk and out of their mouths came the questions which many Frenchmen were asking the new peaceful invaders:
The colonel loosed a barrage of barbed questions that raised my boiling point. Why were the Americans in Indochina? What did we think we’d accomplish? How much time had I spent in Vietnam? Did I know anything about the country?13
Lucien Bodard, the French foreign correspondent, described America’s secret policy: ‘They were only waiting for the chance to back nationalism once more – since Ho Chi Minh was a Communist, the right patriotic nationalist had to be found, the one who would beat Ho Chi Minh and his Communism far better than the repressive French.’ Bodard’s anti-Americanism leaps out from the page:
All the Americans in Saigon, those in the embassy, those in the military mission and the special services and the USIS, to say nothing of the American journalists, were ill with Francophobia, virtuously ill at the spectacle of the French setting up ‘colonialism’ once more. They had such a wonderfully deep and sincere belief in the essential evil of it all. And they were so sure that America would do so much better than France … How passionately they all longed for a real Vietnam, a friend of America, instead of this Vietnam given over as a prey to the French.14
It was Bodard’s view that the Americans were secretly working against the French in their zeal to stamp out colonialism. Moreover they gave arms to such bandits as Colonel Thé:
Americans of every kind whispered to Vietnamese of every kind, ‘Ask for more. Don’t give in. Don’t let yourselves be swayed by the French … they are trying to get out of their difficulties by disguising their colonial problem as anti-Communism.’ It worked one hundred per cent against the French. By every means, and above all by the use of dollars, the Americans built themselves up a following. The secret services for their part went further: they gave arms to Bacut [leader of the Hoahao], to Thrinh Minh Thé, the Caodaist, and to all the leaders within the sects who went on hating the French and killing them in the name of nationalism …15
Despite official pronouncements promoting Franco-American friendship, the French only saw that their influence was being undermined by a ‘flood of goods “made in USA”’:
it was the whole gamut of Yankee civilization, from DDT to canned cheese. And each parcel was sewn a huge label with the crossed flags of Vietnam and the United States and the words ‘A gift from the people of America to the people of Vietnam’.16
The economic aid mission (to which Pyle belongs) was most dangerous to French interests:
It was the experts of the Economic Aid Mission who carried out the free distributions. They travelled all through Indochina telling the crowds, ‘The French are your exploiters, but the Americans are your friends.’ Nothing diminished their zeal … How ardently, in spite of their racial prejudices, they tried to love the Vietnamese.
… what fury, what bitterness, what cries of impotence against the high-ups who understood nothing, and against the French, who went on being kings of the castle! Naturally all these little Americans, eaten up by their consciences and carried away by zeal, went beyond their orders and joyfully did everything they could think of against the French …17
Bodard also stressed the Americans’ lack of sensitivity to the Vietnamese culture. When two US officers were taken to visit a purely Asian unit they were honoured with a banquet of Vietnamese delicacies – a lacquered piglet, quantities of shrimps and nem (rice-flour fritters):
At the sight of the feast the Americans shuddered: then, apologizing, they took sealed packets out of their briefcases, cellophane-wrapped germ-free food. The Annamese NCO went pale as they started to eat their hygienic sandwiches without so much as touching the dishes he offered them: he was mortally offended.18
The Americans’ preference for the cellophane-wrapped germ-free food seems likely to be an anecdote. Greene described Pyle’s eating habits:
‘Like a sandwich? They’re really awfully good. A new sandwich-spread called Vit-Health. My mother sent it from the States.’
‘No, thanks, I’m not hungry.’
‘It tastes rather like Russian salad – only sort of drier.’
‘I don’t think I will.’
‘You don’t mind if I do?’
‘No, no of course not.’
He took a large mouthful and it crunched and crackled.
In the distance Buddha in white and pink stone rode away from his ancestral home and his valet – another statue – pursued him running. The female cardinals were drifting back to their house and the Eye of God watched us from above the Cathedral door.
‘You know they are serving lunch here?’ I said.
‘I thought I wouldn’t risk it. The meat – you have to be careful in this heat.’
‘You are quite safe. They are vegetarian.’
‘I suppose it’s all right – but I like to know what I’m eating.’ He took another munch at his Vit-Health.19
In contrast to the French anti-Americanism, Greene’s ‘anti-Americanism’ is tame.
When Fowler and Pyle are holed up for the night in the watchtower in Phat Diem they argue about the war and its meaning: Pyle speaks of political ideas, Fowler of war’s personal impact:
‘You and your like are trying to make a war with the help of people who just aren’t interested.’
‘They don’t want Communism.’
‘They want enough rice,’ I said. ‘They don’t want to be shot at. They want one day to be much the same as another. They don’t want our white skins around telling them what they want.’
‘If Indo-China goes …’
‘I know the record. Siam goes. Malaya goes. Indonesia goes. What does “go” mean? … I’d bet my future harp against your golden crown that in five hundred years there may be no New York or London, but they’ll be growing paddy in these fields, they’ll be carrying their produce to markets on long poles wearing their pointed hats. The small boys will be sitting on the buffaloes …’
‘They’ll be forced to believe what they are told, they won’t be allowed to think for themselves.’
‘Tho
ught’s a luxury. Do you think the peasant sits and thinks of God and Democracy when he gets inside his mud hut at night?’20
When Pyle cries out, ‘You should be against the French. Their colonialism,’ he is reflecting the arguments that went on in bars and restaurants of Saigon in the 1950s. Fowler’s point of view is not sound, but perhaps it is an argument which was heard then:
‘Isms and ocracies. Give me facts. A rubber planter beats his labourer – all right, I’m against him. He hasn’t been instructed to do it by the Minister of the Colonies. In France I expect he’d beat his wife. I’ve seen a priest, so poor he hasn’t a change of trousers, working fifteen hours a day from hut to hut in a cholera epidemic, eating nothing but rice and salt fish, saying his Mass with an old cup – a wooden platter … Why don’t you call that colonialism?’
‘It is colonialism … it’s often the good administrators who make it hard to change a bad system … So you think we’ve lost?’
‘That’s not the point,’ I said. ‘I’ve no particular desire to see you win. I’d like those two poor buggers there to be happy – that’s all. I wish they didn’t have to sit in the dark at night scared.’21
Greene provided surprising support for colonialism, suggesting the relativity of his political beliefs. Elsewhere he wrote: ‘the writer should always be ready to change sides at the drop of a hat. He stands for the victims, and the victims change’.22 In an article for Paris Match he took a more Olympian view:
It is a stern and sad outlook and, when everything is considered, it represents for France the end of an empire. The United States is exaggeratedly distrustful of empires, but we Europeans retain the memory of what we owe to Rome, just as Latin America knows what it owes to Spain. When the hour of evacuation sounds there will be many Vietnamese who will regret the loss of the language which put them in contact with the art and faith of the West. The injustices committed by men who were harassed, exhausted and ignorant will be forgotten and the names of a good number of Frenchmen, priests, soldiers and administrators, will remain engraved in the memory of the Vietnamese: a fort, a road intersection, a dilapidated church. ‘Do you remember,’ someone will say, ‘the days before the Legions left?’23
The Life of Graham Greene (1939-1955) Page 60