When I became President, de Gaulle and I closed the breach that had developed between France and the United States. Unlike some of my predecessors, I did not scorn de Gaulle’s advice and counsel but welcomed it, for I knew I could profit greatly from his experience and wisdom in world affairs. I believe this change in attitude alone went a long way in improving the relations between our two countries.
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The lessons on leadership that de Gaulle encapsuled in The Edge of the Sword were remarkably simple yet equally trenchant. If a leader has mystery, character, and grandeur, he can acquire prestige. If he can combine prestige with charisma, he can command authority. And if he can add prescience to authority, he, like de Gaulle, can become one of those few leaders who make a difference in history.
But the aloofness of mystery, the self-reliance of character, and the detachment of grandeur carry a heavy price. De Gaulle wrote that a leader must choose between prominence and happiness because greatness and a “vague sense of melancholy” are indivisible. “Contentment and tranquility and the simple joys which go by the name of happiness are denied to those who fill positions of great power.” A leader must endure strict self-discipline, constant risk taking, and perpetual inner struggle.
De Gaulle wanted to revive his nation’s grandeur and was willing to pay the personal price for it. His drawn face, with lines etched by age and events, gave him the leader’s melancholy aura. His lips were pressed together in a sort of permanent frown. When he did smile, they straightened out, but never seemed to curl upward. His deep-set, icy blue eyes, with dark circles beneath them, seemed to radiate a certain sadness. His left eye, cast ever so slightly outward, could give one the impression that he was a hopeless romantic who could see his vision but who would never see it realized.
To maintain his personal aloofness, de Gaulle felt he had to shun the friendship of his colleagues. None of them ever addressed him with anything less formal than “Mon Général.” One biographer even argued that de Gaulle purposely transferred away any aides who had worked with him for a long time in order to reduce the risk that they would become too familiar with him.
But no man could maintain this dour, austere manner at all times. The “human” side of de Gaulle occasionally crept to the surface. For instance he had great respect for the traditional values of family life. He knew by memory the names of the wives and children of the members of his staff and asked about them often.
At times sharp bursts of typically sardonic French humor lighted up his usually serious demeanor. On one occasion during his presidency, an aide was trying to get through the tangle that is the Paris telephone system. Giving up in frustration, he slammed down the receiver and exclaimed, “Death to all fools!” De Gaulle, who had come into the room without his aide noticing, remarked, “Ah, what a vast program, my friend!”
Gerald Van der Kemp, the distinguished curator of Versailles, told me of another example. When de Gaulle was taking an inspection tour of the refurbished guest quarters for state visitors in the Grand Trianon Palace, someone remarked that Napoleon’s bathtub might be too small for President Johnson. De Gaulle shot back, “Perhaps, but it would be just about right for Nixon.”
De Gaulle wrote that a leader cannot enjoy the simple pleasures of friendship, but in social settings he proved himself wrong. He was the very essence of courtesy. At official dinners he did not dominate the conversation, but tried to bring everybody into it, including Mrs. Nixon and Mrs. de Gaulle. I had known, of course, that he had been a great officer, but after seeing him at close hand, I knew that he was a great gentleman as well.
Many leaders are so wrapped up in the affairs of state or are so obsessed with themselves that they do not talk with or show any interest in their dinner partners. But this was not the case with de Gaulle. At the dinner we gave in his honor in 1960, Mrs. Nixon had gone to a great deal of trouble to arrange a beautiful floral display—orchids surrounding a fountain in the center of a horseshoe-shaped table. De Gaulle noticed it and commented graciously about how much time it takes for a hostess to plan and to make arrangements for an official dinner. Mrs. Nixon later pointed out that most visiting dignitaries either would not have noticed or would not have bothered to compliment the hostess for it. “The mark of a true gentleman,” she observed, “is that he thinks and talks about others and not just himself.”
• • •
These incidents of public warmth were the exceptions that punctuated a career characterized by frosty dignity. De Gaulle reserved his emotions for his family, and he managed remarkably well one of the most wrenching challenges a leader faces: the conflict between duty to his family and duty to his job. For those who make their way to the top, the family usually comes out second best in this competition—not because the leader loves them less, but because he knows that millions of other families depend on his decisions. Because of the long hours he has to give to his work, because of the uncertain schedules with which he must live, his family often feels neglected. Life under the relentless scrutiny of the cameras, the trailing hordes of reporters, and the ubiquitous gossipmongers is difficult at best, and the family called on to put up with these intrusions needs the father’s support more rather than less. Yet usually he has less time to give.
De Gaulle compartmentalized his life, keeping work and family separate. In the Élysée his office was only a few steps across a hall from his residence, but it might as well have been across the continent, because the two were entirely different worlds. His aides knew that de Gaulle was almost completely inaccessible after he left his office at the end of the day. No one was to call him unless there was an emergency. His time with his family was his own and their own. Equally, when he was attending to affairs of state, his family did not intrude and did not expect to be consulted. But with this separation he struck a balance that few are able to—neither job nor family came second. Each was first in its own sphere.
On a typical evening he returned to the residential quarters of the Élysée at about eight o’clock. After watching the televised news and eating a quiet dinner, he would relax with his family over books, music, or conversation. The de Gaulles were not enthusiasts of any sports. Like Adenauer and de Gasperi, de Gaulle’s only exercise was walking. The family was devoutly Catholic and never missed Sunday mass.
As the patriarch of the family, de Gaulle enjoyed gathering together his children and grandchildren for weekends at La Boisserie. The whole clan was always very supportive of de Gaulle and his policies.
Family support is always very important for a leader. One who rigorously separates his public and private lives and maintains an austere and distant public persona has an even greater need than others do for a warm, supportive family. He needs a place where he can relax, among those few whom he knows he can trust beyond question, where he can drop the public mask and be his private self. A General de Gaulle needs a place where the private Charles de Gaulle can live. Without cronies, he needs his family more. As de Gaulle wrote in his memoirs, “This family harmony was precious to me.”
De Gaulle’s wife, Yvonne, ranks very high among the first ladies in the world. She played the role very differently from such first ladies as Madame Chiang and Eleanor Roosevelt, who were public figures in their own right. Mme. de Gaulle did not seek publicity, but instead tried to avoid it. Many among the Paris elite resented her refusal to wear the latest fashions and bask in the limelight. But she remained steadfast.
She at once complemented and deferred to de Gaulle as a great pianist does when he accompanies a great singer. The pianist must sublimate his role to that of the singer. And the greatness of the pianist is measured not by what one remembers about how he played, but by what one remembers about how the singer performed. Similarly Mme. de Gaulle saw her role as solely that of making him look good, rather than being obsessed about making herself look good.
Yvonne de Gaulle was no glamorous showboat, but she was every inch a lady. She always dressed like a lady, acted like a lady
, and thought like a lady. From my conversations with her I could tell that her mission in life was to make a happy home for her husband and her children. She summed up her attitude when she told me with simple eloquence: “The presidency is temporary, but the family is permanent.” She provided de Gaulle with the simple, private home life that he appreciated so much. I could tell that he had deep affection and respect for her. As a family friend once said, “Few people realize how much the General depends on Yvonne. She has sustained him all these years.”
The de Gaulles had three children: Philippe, Elizabeth, and Anne. One cannot always judge a leader by his family, but one can in de Gaulle’s case. If a leader’s children turn out badly, it is often a result of their inability to cope with the strains of life in the political fishbowl. If they turn out well, it is usually because their upbringing imbued them with the values that animated the leader’s public life. De Gaulle’s wife and children reflected his old-world gallantry, his Christian values, his great respect for women, and his love for family life. His family was one of his most impressive legacies.
Philippe de Gaulle, who bears a striking resemblance to his father, fought bravely with the Fighting French in World War II. He is now an admiral in the French navy. When I met with him in Paris in 1980, he escorted me through the quarters that his father occupied during the years out of power. The simplicity of the general’s private office impressed me. There were no ornate pieces of furniture or elegant paintings, just some rickety tables and chairs, a beat-up typewriter, and a few mementos. I have noted through the years that great leaders do not try to impress their visitors with huge offices. Whether it is a leader in government, business, or the professions, more often the rule is: The smaller the man, the bigger the office he insists on.
Admiral de Gaulle told me that public office did not interest him. He said his only aspirations were to serve his country as a naval officer and to do nothing that would be unworthy of the memory of “the General.” De Gaulle’s daughter Elizabeth married an army officer and embodies the simple grace that was the mark of her mother.
In one of my conversations with Mme. de Gaulle, she spoke movingly of the difficulties that people in public life have in raising children and giving them a normal life. Though she did not refer to it at the time, I had the feeling that she was thinking about what they had gone through with their third child, Anne, who was born retarded and died at the age of nineteen. Mrs. Nixon recalls that Mme. de Gaulle showed no interest in attending fashionable parties or seeing historical sites during her visit to Washington: She only wanted to visit children’s hospitals and homes to see how they cared for the retarded.
If there was ever really any question whether de Gaulle lacked the full quota of human emotions, the sad story of Anne’s life and death surely dispels it.
Yvonne de Gaulle was struck by a car shortly before the birth of her third child. She was uninjured, but may have gone into shock. When she gave birth to Anne, the doctors told the de Gaulles that their daughter was retarded and would probably never be able to speak. They went into despair. Mme. de Gaulle once wrote in a letter to a friend, “Charles and I would give anything, health, all our money, advancement, career, if only Anne could be an ordinary little girl like the rest.” They loved Anne deeply and would not part with her. When it was suggested that they put her in a home, de Gaulle replied, “She did not ask to come into the world. We shall do everything to make her happy.”
During her brief life, de Gaulle was the only person who could make Anne laugh. He shed all his austere dignity when he was with her. A neighbor in Colombey recalled that de Gaulle “walked with her hand-in-hand around the property, caressing her and talking quietly about the things she understood.” According to biographer Jean-Raymond Tournoux, he would dance little jigs with her, do short pantomimes for her, and sing popular songs to her. He even let her play with his military cap, the very sight of which brought a gleam into her eyes. In her happiness she made almost articulate sounds and laughed like all the other children. “Then,” as Tournoux wrote, “tired but happy, she would go off to sleep, with her hand in her father’s.”
The de Gaulles fiercely protected Anne from curiosity seekers and the press. During the wartime years in Britain, he forbade photographers from including any of his children in the publicity shots at his country house because he knew that the presence or the absence of Anne would be sure to elicit comment. Other children teased her because she was different, and her pain was compounded because she did not understand why she was different.
The de Gaulles feared that there would be no one to protect Anne after they died. Therefore they established a trust that would guarantee that Anne received proper care. Using their own meager financial resources, they bought a castle on some wooded land near Milon-la-Champelle. Nuns of the order of Saint Jacut agreed to staff the home, and it opened in 1946. De Gaulle later pledged a large portion of the royalties from his memoirs to maintain the solvency of the Anne de Gaulle Foundation.
In 1947, shortly before her twentieth birthday, Anne died of pneumonia. At the conclusion of a brief private service at the graveside in Colombey’s humble cemetery, de Gaulle and Yvonne stood silently with tears in their eyes. After a few moments he took her hand and said, “Come, now she is like the others.”
• • •
Seldom has history seen a leader whose personality combined all the admirable qualities that de Gaulle’s did. He could be both human and superhuman. I had the honor of welcoming him to the United States in 1960 and the privilege of being invited frequently to the Élysée during my years out of office. But my most memorable meetings with de Gaulle were our last ones, when we came together as Presidents of our respective countries.
On February 28, 1969, Air Force One landed at Orly Airport, the next-to-last stop in my first trip abroad as President. I shall never forget the splendor of the arrival ceremony—the huge red carpet, the magnificent honor guard, the newly refurbished reception marquee. De Gaulle seemed to tower over it all as he stood at the bottom of the ramp, hatless and coatless in the freezing weather.
At first I thought he might have laid on such an impressive welcome because of the importance of the country I represented. But Vernon Walters had told me that de Gaulle insisted on providing equally splendid receptions for heads of state from smaller countries as well. His policy of treating the leaders of smaller countries with the same respect that he extended to leaders of major countries probably stemmed from the resentment he felt over the demeaning treatment he received from the Allies in World War II. The policy also was very shrewd, for it helped increase France’s influence in Africa and Latin America. Diplomatic slights and lapses in protocol, whether intentional or accidental, have a far greater effect on leaders of minor powers than on leaders of major ones.
The magnificent state dinner at the Élysée and the superb luncheon at Versailles were constant reminders of the glory that was and is France. But the highlight of the visit was the ten hours of one-on-one talks we had in which he expressed his views not just on Franco-American issues but on the world scene as well. The scope of our conversation was as vast as the acres of formal gardens we could see from our meeting place in the Grand Trianon Palace. With a sweeping yet graceful gesture he said, “Louis XIV ruled Europe from this room.” In the grandeur of Versailles, de Gaulle looked completely at home. He did not try to put on airs, but an aura of majesty seemed to envelop him.
During our meetings, his performance—and I do not use that word disparagingly—was breathtaking. At times eloquent, at other times coldly pragmatic, and at all times articulate—like MacArthur—he was not always right, but he was always certain.
The first subject we discussed was western policy toward the Soviet Union. Some of de Gaulle’s detractors had labeled him a rigid, right-wing ideologue, but he was coldly pragmatic in urging a policy of détente with the Russians. While he knew that the Soviet threat was the central fact of life for postwar Europe, he believed that the
Soviets were willing to improve relations. He explained that their traditional fear of Germany was now compounded by an obsession with China. He said, “They are thinking in terms of a possible clash with China, and they know they can’t fight the West at the same time. Thus I believe they may end up opting for a policy of rapprochement with the West.
“As far as the West is concerned,” he continued, “what choice do we have? Unless you are prepared to go to war or break down the Berlin Wall, then there is no alternative policy that is acceptable. To work toward détente is a matter of good sense: If you are not ready to make war, make peace.”
We then turned to the problem that has plagued the Atlantic alliance from its inception and is still a burning issue today. “If the Russians made a move,” I asked, “do you think they believe the United States would react with strategic weapons? And do the Europeans have confidence that we would move in answer to a Soviet attack, or a threat of an attack, by massive conventional ground forces?”
After my questions were translated, he seemed to wait for over a minute before answering. Then he replied with carefully measured words: “I can only answer for the French. We believe that the Russians know that the United States would not allow them to conquer Europe. But we also believe that, if the Russians marched, you would not use nuclear weapons right away, since it would imply a total effort to kill everyone on the other side.” If both the Russians and the United States were to use tactical weapons, he went on, “Europe would be destroyed. Western Europe and the United Kingdom would be destroyed by Soviet tactical weapons, and East Germany, Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Hungary would be destroyed by American tactical weapons. The situation in Europe would indeed be tragic. Meanwhile the United States and the Soviet Union would not be harmed.”
With that thought de Gaulle apparently considered the subject closed. But the next day he subtly returned to it. We began talking about the disastrous effects of World War II on the great nations of Europe. He compressed volumes of history in a single sentence when he said, “In the Second World War, all the nations of Europe lost; two were defeated.” About a year before de Gaulle died, he remarked to Malraux, “Stalin said only one serious thing to me: ‘In the end death is the only winner.’ ” Reflecting on these two comments, I believe that in our meeting de Gaulle was telling me that if there were a nuclear war, there would be no winners, only losers. In his view the only rational East-West policy was one that combines deterrence with détente.
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