Just Watch Me

by John English

  Radwanski indicates that Trudeau particularly admired Donald Macdonald because he was frank, direct, and extremely competent. Yet Macdonald, who had left the Cabinet only in the late summer of 1977, was also critical of Trudeau: “There’s one area where he does have weakness, and that’s dealing with people. You know, he’s a very private person himself and he doesn’t, I think, have a great deal of empathy for other people, and he can fail to comprehend or sympathize with other people’s situations.” While he believed Trudeau was not “deliberately callous,” he had difficulties being “warm and sympathetic,” and it had caused difficulties in his relationships with colleagues.22

  These comments betray a fin de régime mood of reminiscence and remembrance, not a tone of expectation or enthusiasm.* Trudeau’s own remarks are retrospective and lead directly to Radwanski’s conclusion—that as a prime minister, he was “unfulfilled,” that he had not attained greatness even though no alternative leader could have done more, and incongruously, that his career was entering its “decisive phase” on a terrain he had so carefully tilled. The book, admirable in its research and thoughtful in its analysis, reflects its times, and for that reason it offers insights into the curious rise and fall of Trudeau as a champion of “English Canada” against the challenge of René Lévesque’s PQ government. Historian Ramsay Cook has argued that such a “casting” reduces “the debates of the 1970s to mere personality clashes” and thereby “banishes confusion at the risk of introducing obfuscation.” Yet the times framed the debates as a stand-off between Lévesque and Trudeau. The issue that divided the two defined the Canadian political scene in the late 1970s, and the extent to which politicians responded cogently and convincingly to that question defined their success: Was it best for French-speaking Canadians to be a majority in a pluralist Quebec state or a minority in a pluralist Canadian state? As a result, so much of the Trudeau government’s broader record became obscured in the dark clouds and thunder that accompanied the contest between the governments of Quebec and Canada. Radwanski wrote his book as Lévesque’s referendum loomed and as Trudeau’s increasingly unpopular government was framing its own answers to this challenge.23

  Trudeau’s speech to the American Congress and his interventions in Commons debates in early 1977 set out three possible choices for Canada: Would it be a pluralist, bilingual country with individual rights as its centrepiece, or two separate countries, or two linguistically distinct entities bound together loosely by an as yet undefined understanding? The clarity of this vision was increasingly appealing to many francophone and anglophone Canadians in the spring and early summer, as a referendum loomed and the PQ concept of an “association” seemed confusing. But then the vision became blurred. Trudeau’s parliamentary opponents attacked him for rigidity and inflexibility—and, indeed, his strong opposition to special status and to decentralization did seem adamant. In the late summer and fall, as his policies developed, they were much more ambiguous than they had been before. Trudeau responded to this change when he wrote in his memoirs that in terms of the distribution of powers, “I was determined to show that I could be as generous as the next guy, and perhaps even more.”24 And generous he was in the “deal” he offered the provinces in 1979, as we shall see. He was flexible, but as he later complained, his flexibility was misunderstood.

  One of Trudeau’s first responses to the separatist challenge had been markedly decentralist, although its full impact was not recognized at the time except by political economists and Finance Department bureaucrats. At the first ministers’ conference of December 1976, Trudeau agreed to remove the conditions attached to the major cost-sharing programs—a move that responded to Quebec’s demands after the Quiet Revolution and, as Trudeau pointed out later, to his own early writings on the Canadian Constitution. The agreement affected Quebec less than the other provinces because it had already opted out of many cost-sharing programs, and Lévesque was quick to assert that the federal government’s true aim was to reduce its own costs. There was truth in the charge, but the agreement remains a major source of growth in provincial autonomy. In the House of Commons in February, when Donald Macdonald introduced the new Established Programs Financing Act, Ed Broadbent denounced the agreement as “the first major step toward the balkanization of our country … The inevitable result of these proposals is to downgrade the national government’s role in ensuring minimum standards in health services and in post-secondary education.”

  Later, when Trudeau attacked Brian Mulroney’s constitutional innovations, some of the Meech Lake defenders, including Liberal elder statesman Jack Pickersgill, pointed to the 1976–77 agreement as the most radically decentralizing decision of the postwar era. The criticism was unfair because it lacked the context of the times: the cost of social programs was rising rapidly while federal government revenues stagnated, and the federal government needed the provinces who administered the programs to take more responsibility for them. Still, both spending and the political influence that derives from direct contact with citizens were shifting to the provinces.25

  Most Canadians did not notice these federal-provincial agreements, which seemed like another tedious act in a long and boring drama. However, they did pay attention in July 1977 to the appointment of the Task Force on Canadian Unity, chaired by John Robarts and Jean-Luc Pepin. The creation of this task force seemed puzzling at the time and remains so today. Robarts, the former Ontario premier, was a spent force, and Pepin was much more open to special status and nationalist views than were his former Cabinet colleagues. Gordon Robertson, the deputy minister of federal-provincial relations, later wrote: “I think Trudeau never believed that the result of the task force’s work would be something he could accept as a solution to the constitutional problem. His thinking and that of Pepin were miles apart.” The only reason for the appointment, he suspected, was that Trudeau “believed … something had to be done to respond to the PQ victory.” But for most Canadians, the resulting report was one further blow to the clarity of Trudeau’s message about national unity. When Pepin visited Quebec City, he reportedly asked Lévesque whether sovereignty-association was different from renewed federalism, and Lévesque responded, not surprisingly, that sovereignty-association was renewed federalism in a hurry. This exchange did not help Trudeau’s cause. Nor did the task force win support for the government elsewhere. Five days after the Quebec City encounter, several groups walked out of the meeting organized in Toronto because the task force had allotted only two days for its stay in that city—the same as in Charlottetown. Despite this tight agenda, Premier William Davis insisted on speaking for over an hour. In Edmonton, however, Premier Lougheed chose not to speak at all and sent no Cabinet member to the task force hearings. It was not a good start.26

  Simultaneously, the federal response to the Lévesque government’s Bill 1, which later became Bill 101, also perplexed Canadians. When Trudeau’s old friend Camille Laurin, now one of the most militant PQ ministers, first brought forward this bill delineating the language of education in the province, the federalist and English-Canadian response was strong and hostile. Yet as the year progressed, Ottawa made it clear that despite the bill’s objectionable features, the federal government would not dis allow the legislation, as many anglophone groups in Quebec were demanding. Disallowance, though legally possible, was politically unthinkable. More surprising was Ottawa’s decision not to refer the legislation to the Supreme Court. After all, had not Trudeau said that the legislation was retrograde and a return to the “Dark Ages”?

  Events over the summer of 1977 confused matters further. At their meeting in St. Andrews, New Brunswick, the premiers approved a statement in which they agreed “that they … [would] make their best efforts to provide instruction in English and French wherever numbers warrant.” Lévesque would not accept this pledge but offered, instead, to work out bilateral or multilateral agreements with the provinces—an offer the anglophone provinces understandably believed would represent their de facto acceptance of
Bill 101. Yet on September 2, Trudeau released a long public letter to Lévesque in which he acknowledged the latter’s disappointment with the other premiers’ statement “because there is nothing in it to provide any certainty of implementation or any guarantee of permanence.” However, Trudeau went on, this deficiency could be met “by appropriate constitutional provision,” although he was willing to discuss “other less desirable alternatives.” Lévesque replied a week later that he was pleased that the Government of Canada was “now willing to accept, as the criterion for admission to Quebec’s English-language schools, the Charter of the French Language’s main teaching criterion, namely the parents’ language of education. We take this to recognize our law’s constitutionality.” He also noted that Trudeau’s letter implicitly recognized that Quebec’s situation differed from that of the other provinces. Nevertheless, he rejected embedding educational rights within the Constitution because they would then be subject to interpretation by the Supreme Court—which would always have an anglophone majority.

  On October 6, Trudeau released his reply to Lévesque’s letter—and this time he took a much harder line. He began with a statement that “the position and policy of the federal Government are for full freedom for all Canadians to be educated in the official language of their choice, wherever numbers justify it. Regrettably, in our view, your government has a different perception of future prospects for the French language in Quebec and of the conditions needed to assure its continued development than that held by the federal Government. You do not accept freedom of choice.” He then took issue with Lévesque’s dismissal of a constitutional guarantee of language rights: “It is my personal and deep conviction that the citizen in a democracy should enjoy certain fundamental rights and freedoms which take precedence over the laws promulgated by any legislature and the regulations decreed by any government, because they are so fundamental to the very existence of such a democratic society that they should be beyond the reach of its governmental institutions.” He taunted Lévesque for the restrictions being placed on the English language in Quebec and hoped that, in time, they could be loosened to “enlarge somewhat” what sociologist Fernand Dumont “once called ‘l’aire de la liberté au Québec.’” It was a subtle reminder of past battles that Lévesque, Trudeau, and the prominent academic Dumont, now a separatist, had fought together. Trudeau ended with a defence of the Constitution, the Supreme Court, and the need for a constitutional guarantee that would preserve minority rights. But he also announced that the federal government would not refer Bill 101 to the Supreme Court.27

  Journalist Geoffrey Stevens fastened on the decision not to refer the bill: “If the Trudeau government really believes all the things it said about Quebec’s Bill 101, the course it proposes to take is woefully inadequate, an unsatisfactory compromise between action and inaction. It’s trying to talk loudly and carry a small stick.” Stevens recognized that the government was trapped by a game of political cat and mouse, one where the Quebec government had the longest string because Trudeau would face an election first.

  In the maelstrom of events, Trudeau wanted to maintain focus on the central issue: the threat of Quebec separation. To that end, in September 1977 he appointed Marc Lalonde to coordinate the federal response as the minister of state for federal-provincial relations. Lalonde, who had proved himself as Quebec lieutenant after he succeeded Marchand, now brought that same intensity and loyalty to the task of orchestrating the federalist response to Lévesque. He consulted with the provinces, issued a call to arms in a booklet titled A Time for Action, and introduced Bill 60, which provided for the patriation of the Constitution and the framework of a charter of rights, including minority education.

  As the government entered the fourth year of its mandate, election thoughts stirred once again. On the same page where Geoffrey Stevens discussed the government’s decision not to challenge Bill 101, the Globe and Mail reported that several branches of the federal civil service were moving out of Ottawa—thirteen of them to Liberal ridings across the country. The most notable was to Camrose, Alberta, the home of Jack Horner, the recent Tory defector to Liberal ranks.28

  The Prime Minister’s Office was “again indeed on a war footing; on twenty-four-hour alert for yet another election decision,” Gossage wrote in his diary. “Entrails of all kinds are being examined…. It is all hanging out. Seats are being opened up so that favoured candidates can be run.” Rumours swirled: Jean Chrétien was leaving federal politics to go to Quebec; Radio-Canada was a nest of separatists who would not give Trudeau or other federalists fair coverage; a minister’s personal foibles would soon be exposed. On January 30, 1978, the last rumour proved true, when one of the most promising young ministers, Solicitor General Francis Fox, a favourite of Lalonde and Trudeau and brother of the popular Trudeau aide Marie-Hélène Fox, rose in the House and admitted that he had signed as a husband to permit a married woman, pregnant with his child, to have an abortion. Trudeau wept in his office. Throughout the week, he “remained moody, affected as he hasn’t been since the split with Margaret.” The press ruthlessly pursued their quarry; feminists asked why women needed a husband’s signature; and pro-life activists used the incident to denounce the existing legislation and what they saw as the hypocrisy of the Trudeau government.

  Preparations continued for a federal-provincial meeting in late February, at which the constitutional plans were presented in an attempt to seize the momentum. Instead, in Gossage’s words, “the real moment of the conference came when a determined wedge of Péquistes left the hall and drove through the Delegates’ Lounge for their spoil-sport 3:00 p.m. press conference, a full hour or so before the conference closed. The federal officials blanched. Their months of preparation, of tilling the difficult provincial soil, seemed to evaporate in seconds. Lévesque pulled off the most diabolically effective upstaging of a national forum that could be imagined. It was brilliant.” It was the tenth anniversary of the upstaging of Quebec’s Daniel Johnson by the new federal justice minister, Pierre Trudeau, from which his quest for the Prime Minister’s Office followed. The path ahead in 1978 was not nearly so clear.29

  Lévesque and his government had gained assurance and credibility throughout their first year in power. The process of “francization” of Quebec, which had begun with Bourassa’s Bill 22, proceeded quickly as restaurant menus, shop signs, traffic tickets, and the directions for daily life all appeared only in French. The departure of anglophones sped up, but the acceptance of the new reality in Quebec by those who remained was greater. Polls released by the Quebec government indicated that the language bills had overwhelming support in the French-speaking community, and by 1978, a surprising degree of acceptance among anglophones and allophones, many of whom were studying at the numerous language schools springing up in Montreal and other English-speaking enclaves. Moreover, Lévesque’s energy and candour impressed not only journalists but also the general public. Pierre O’Neill, who had earlier worked in Trudeau’s press office but had returned to Quebec to work with Radio-Canada, commented later on the attractiveness of Lévesque’s political personality. When the premier returned from vacation in 1977 to learn that one of his ministers, Bernard Landry, had blamed a sudden surge in unemployment solely on the federal government, for example, he did not hesitate to show his anger and call a press conference to clarify matters. Ottawa, he said, “naturally shared some responsibility, but Quebec could have better anticipated the situation and done more to stimulate employment.”

  In earlier days Trudeau had dreamed of a mass party in Quebec led by an elite that would sweep away the corruption and rot of Duplessis. Lévesque’s government—with its strong base among workers; its coterie of intellectuals, poets, and thinkers; and its willingness to drastically reform Quebec’s electoral system to root out old-fashioned patronage—harked back to the image Trudeau had held when he was organizing the “rassemblement,” a mass party, in the fifties. There was much for Trudeau to admire in Lévesque’s movement—but,
given its purpose, even more to fear.30

  For Trudeau, the challenge from Lévesque was personal: indeed, when they met in December 1977, Lévesque reportedly raised his glass of Vosne-Romanée to Trudeau and said, “To your misfortunes.” Without hesitation, Trudeau raised his own glass: “Likewise.”31 Trudeau’s focus on the challenge from Quebec became ever more intense, and he showed a Churchillian willingness to make pacts with enemies to defeat the greater evil of separatism. As Chrétien toyed with leaving the federal scene for Quebec, Claude Ryan began to emerge as a potential provincial Liberal leader. Ryan and Trudeau had clashed bitterly for over a generation, but the editor of Le Devoir now began to write more favourably about Trudeau in the fall of 1977, praising his letters to Lévesque for their eloquence and for raising the level of the debate. Still, there were many wounds to heal. As the federal Liberals began to dip in the polls, the recruitment of a major public figure of unimpeachable personal integrity and great intelligence to lead the provincial party became essential. The wounds did heal fast, even if distrust abided. From his diplomatic post in London, a puzzled Paul Martin pored over Ryan’s “views on constitutional change,” particularly his support for “two nations or special status,” and asked himself rhetorically, “How will Trudeau get around this last one?” That evening, March 7, 1978, a troubled Martin called Trudeau and found him “in good form and confident of his political future.” He was awaiting the next poll, he told the old political veteran, and then, if the results were the same the following month, he would probably call an election.32

  After so many delays, it seemed the writ would finally be dropped. Trudeau’s office again became frenzied as it cast about for ways to make the prime minister popular. The most successful initiative, a CTV “portrait” produced by Trudeau’s friend Stephanie McLuhan, Marshall McLuhan’s daughter, included an endearing piano duet played by Justin and his adoring father at 24 Sussex, along with displays of diving prowess in the pool. Trudeau was constantly in motion that spring, flying to Quebec for an overnight trip to honour MP Raynald Guay’s fifteen years of service, visiting his Mount Royal constituency to thank volunteers, and throwing out the first pitch at the Blue Jays game at Exhibition Stadium in Toronto. Justin and Sacha appeared on the Globe’s front page with their Blue Jays caps and Canadian flags, but their father failed to charm the fans. As he wound up to throw the first pitch, the crowd, unexpectedly but spontaneously, began to boo. The next week the board of Sun Life confirmed that the major insurance firm would move from Montreal to Toronto, and the Gallup poll showed Joe Clark’s Conservatives tied with the Liberals. Once again, the election was off the agenda. 33