Even in his youth de Gaulle maintained his distance from his peers. His family quipped that his personality was so cold that he must have been trapped in an icebox as an infant. An instructor at the French War College wrote that de Gaulle had the “attitude of a King-in-exile.”
I cannot imagine him slapping someone on the back, grabbing someone by the arm to emphasize a point, or engaging in buddy-buddy familiarity with his constituents or colleagues. He did not object to others doing so, but he felt that it would be out of character for him. But at the same time his personal manner had none of the condescending arrogance that is a common characteristic of small men in big jobs.
As a national figure, de Gaulle attracted a fiercely loyal cadre of supporters, but he remained aloof from them, reflecting his own dictum that a leader can have “no authority without prestige, nor prestige unless he keeps his distance.” In his office in the Élysée Palace, de Gaulle had two phones on a table near his desk. But they never rang. He considered the telephone as an intolerable nuisance of the modern world, and not even his closest advisers dared to call him directly.
Like MacArthur, de Gaulle had little patience for small talk. Whenever I met with him, it was clear that he wanted to turn immediately to serious issues. He was also like MacArthur in the precision of his language, whether in a press conference, in an extemporaneous speech, in answering questions, or even in informal conversation. Both men spoke with polished sentences that captured precisely their nuances of meaning. If either had been in the U.S. Congress, he would not have had to revise his remarks before they were printed in the Congressional Record.
De Gaulle did not tolerate ineptitude. At the official dinner that I gave in his honor in 1960, he used as his interpreter the French consul general from a major American city. As he translated de Gaulle’s toast, the interpreter’s hands were shaking, and he fumbled considerably. I could see that de Gaulle was very irritated. I learned later that he had dismissed the consul general and gotten a substitute for the balance of the trip.
De Gaulle never participated in bull sessions. In cabinet meetings he would listen closely to his ministers and courteously take notes on what they said. If he wanted to exchange views with a minister, he usually arranged for a private meeting.
The decisions on the big issues were de Gaulle’s alone. He did not believe he had the knowledge of a Solomon, but he did believe he had the judgment of one. He would first call for “all the papers” about a particular issue and, using his immense capacity for the mastery of detail, would learn everything there was to know about it. He would then withdraw from his advisers to study and contemplate his decision in solitude. He understood how vitally important having time to think can be for a leader, and at his insistence his staff reserved several hours a day for undisturbed thought.
I tried to follow a similar pattern as President, but found that one of the hardest things for a leader is to enforce this discipline against the demands of administration officials, legislative leaders, and others for a portion of his time. They typically assume, when they see an opening in his schedule, that he therefore has time for them; they are intent on making their priorities his priorities. But usually their priorities are not—and must not be—his priorities. His responsibilities transcend their responsibilities.
Very few of my major decisions as President were made in the Oval Office. When I had a major decision to make, I always tried to get away for a few hours in the Lincoln sitting room or the small libraries at Camp David, Key Biscayne, or San Clemente. I found I could do the best thinking and make the best decisions in places that provided solitude away from the babel of voices in Washington.
• • •
In addition to aloofness, de Gaulle wrote, mystery requires an economy of words and gestures and a studied manner in bearing and movement. “Nothing more enhances authority than silence,” he continued. But silence, “the crowning virtue of the strong,” produces its effect only if it appears to conceal strength of mind and determination. “It is precisely from the contrast between inner power and outward control that ascendancy is gained, just as style in a gambler consists in his ability to show greater coolness than usual when he has raised his stake, and an actor’s most notable effects depend upon his skill in producing the appearance of emotion when he is keeping strong control of himself.”
De Gaulle knew that politics is theater—in its practice if not in its substance—and it was in part through his mastery of the theatrical that he imposed his political will.
Like Caesar and MacArthur, de Gaulle often referred to himself in the third person in his writings. He would, for example, write of “a growing impulse toward an appeal to de Gaulle,” of the necessity of “answering ‘yes’ to de Gaulle,” and of how “there could be no alternative to General de Gaulle.” A journalist once asked him to explain the reasons for this habit. He replied that, while he occasionally used the third person for stylistic purposes, “the more important reason was my discovery that there was a person named de Gaulle who existed in other people’s minds and was really a separate personality from myself.”
He first encountered the power of his public persona in a wartime visit to the city of Douala in French Equatorial Africa. Thousands of people lined the streets and chanted, “De Gaulle! de Gaulle! de Gaulle!” As he moved through the throng, he realized that General de Gaulle had become a living legend, a larger-than-life figure who dwarfed Charles de Gaulle. “From that day on,” he later said, “I knew I would have to reckon with this man, this General de Gaulle. I became almost his prisoner. Before I made a speech or reached a major decision I had to ask myself, ‘Will de Gaulle approve of this? Is this the way people expect de Gaulle to act? Is this right for de Gaulle and the role he plays?’ ” He added wistfully, “There are many things I would have liked to do but could not, for they would not have been fitting for General de Gaulle.”
Charles de Gaulle made certain that he always acted in character with General de Gaulle, whether in minute detail or in grand gesture. In his later years cataracts badly impaired his vision. Unless he was wearing his thick-lensed glasses, he sometimes could not recognize the person with whom he was shaking hands. Georges Pompidou told me of an instance when he was riding in a motorcade with de Gaulle: The French President leaned over and asked his Prime Minister if there were any people to wave to along the parade route. Throngs lined the streets, but de Gaulle simply could not see them. The image of General de Gaulle would not permit him to wear his glasses in public. Because of his vanity and his remarkable ability to memorize his speeches, he never used a teleprompter.
Like MacArthur, de Gaulle was unfazed by personal danger and was acutely aware of the powerful effect this courage could have. In their book Target de Gaulle, Pierre Démaret and Christian Plume describe thirty-one attempts on the life of the French President. In 1962 a barrage of machine-gun fire strafed his car as he rode through a Paris suburb, with one bullet missing his head by only two inches. As he got out of his car at the airport, he brushed away the slivers of glass and said, “I was lucky. This time it was close. Those gentlemen are poor shots.”
De Gaulle expertly staged all his public appearances. His twice-a-year meetings with the press were more like audiences than conferences. Held in the Élysée Palace’s Hall of Festivals, with its grand pendant crystal chandeliers and its gilded and painted ceiling, they were events in themselves and attracted about a thousand journalists.
During one of my visits to Paris in the mid-1960s, I watched a de Gaulle press conference on television in Ambassador Bohlen’s office. On cue two men in white ties and tails parted the red velvet curtains behind the stage, and everyone stood for de Gaulle’s entrance. He took his place behind the microphone, flanked by all his ministers, and motioned for everyone to sit down. He spoke for about twenty minutes on the single subject he had chosen. He then answered no more than three questions and adjourned the session.
We knew he had written the script for the encounter all
the way down to the questions, which his press officer had planted beforehand with certain reporters and for which he had memorized answers. But even though we knew it was staged, it had an almost hypnotic effect. As de Gaulle concluded, Bohlen, who usually spoke disparagingly of the French President, just shook his head and exclaimed, “What a stunning performance.”
He took no less care with other public functions. During the state dinner de Gaulle gave for our visiting delegation in 1969, he delivered an eloquent toast that seemed to be improvised, because he had no text before him. After the affair had concluded, one of my aides complimented de Gaulle on his ability to speak at length without notes. De Gaulle replied, “I write it down, commit it to memory, then throw the paper away. Churchill used to do the same thing, but he never admitted it.”
Though he was a master of histrionics, de Gaulle never used this talent when presenting his case in meetings with me. I never knew him to raise his voice. He never tried to get his points across by bluff or bravado. If he disagreed, he would ignore the point rather than pretend to agree. When he felt something rather deeply, he would gesture somewhat emphatically but gracefully. He thought with pristine clarity, and his speech in public and in private reflected this. He never talked or thought sloppily. He might not arrive at the correct conclusions, but he had the rare ability to think things all the way through and then to express his views with a very compelling, persuasive logic.
In this age of blow-drier-and-hair-spray media politicians, it is useful to recall that de Gaulle was the first consummate media figure. Charles de Gaulle created General de Gaulle on the radio. Many leaders have expertly used the electronic media, but it is de Gaulle’s distinction to have been a pioneer, the airwaves his only forum as he rallied the people of France to his cause. It was by radio from London that de Gaulle, in the dark days of World War II, became a part of the legend of France.
Returning to power in the late 1950s, de Gaulle entered just as television was becoming the preeminent medium. He recognized the dazzling possibilities it offered. As he later put it, “Here, suddenly, was an unprecedented means of being present everywhere.” He knew that he would have to adapt his style to succeed on television. He had always read his radio addresses from a script. “But now the televiewers could see de Gaulle on the screen while listening to him over the air,” he wrote. “In order to remain faithful to my image, I would have to address them as though we were face to face, without paper and without spectacles. . . . This septuagenarian, sitting alone behind a table under relentless lights, had to appear animated and spontaneous enough to seize and hold attention, without compromising himself by excessive gestures and misplaced grimaces.”
His delivery was masterly. The combination of his deep, serene voice and his calm, self-assured manner gave him a distinctly paternal appearance. He used the French language with the same grandeur and eloquence with which Churchill used English. It was a classical, almost archaic French. Yet he spoke so articulately and with such precision that his message seemed to resonate apart from his words. I think someone who had not even studied the language could get the sense of what he was saying.
In an instance of theatrical brilliance, he donned his general’s uniform for his televised address to the nation when the colonists and the generals in Algeria were challenging his authority. Many American critics scoffed at the gesture and dismissed it as a bit of corny melodrama. They could not understand that, by presenting himself in his general’s uniform, de Gaulle touched a deep, emotional chord in all Frenchmen and forged a unity among them that exists only in the worst of times in the hope for better times.
But it was not just through symbolism or oratory or dramatics that Charles de Gaulle created the personage of General de Gaulle. It was the whole occasion of his public appearance—the buildup, the setting, the elaborate staging, the precision with which he crafted his often deliberate ambiguities, winning support from disparate groups with statements that could be read in different ways by those with different interests. General de Gaulle was a facade, but not a false one. Behind it was a man of incandescent intellect and phenomenal discipline. The facade was like the ornamentation on a great cathedral, rather than the flimsy pretense of a Hollywood prop with nothing behind it.
• • •
Mystery can intrigue, but it cannot attract. For this a leader needs what de Gaulle called character. Most people think of character as moral strength and fortitude. But de Gaulle defined character in a leader as the fervent desire and inner power to exert one’s will. As he put it, “The setting up of one man over his fellows can be justified only if he can bring to the common task the drive and certainty which comes of character.”
De Gaulle wrote that, when confronted by the challenge of events, the leader with character turns inward and relies only on himself. The leader with this “passion for self-reliance” finds an “especial attractiveness in difficulty” because only by coming to grips with difficulty can he test and expand his limits. He does not cower at the moment of decision, but takes the initiative with a daring to meet the moment.
The leader with character brings order to the collective effort, he wrote. The “stuffed dummies of the hierarchy”—soldiers and ministers obsessed with safeguarding their ranks and portfolios—can never command the confidence and enthusiasm of others, for “they are parasites who take everything and give nothing in return, weak-kneed creatures forever trembling in their shoes, jumping jacks who will turn their coats without scruple at the first opportunity.”
Only leaders who prove their worth in action, who confront and overcome difficulty, and who “stake their all upon the throw” can win the crowd, he went on. “Characters of this temper radiate a sort of magnetic force. For those who follow them they are the symbol of the end to be achieved, and the very incarnation of hope.”
The man of character does not seek above all to please his superiors, but rather aims to be true to himself. The abrasiveness of his personality and the brazenness of his actions make him unpopular with superiors who do not realize that they need men with strong wills underneath them. He may have been subconsciously describing himself when he wrote, “The best servants of the State, whether soldiers or politicians, are seldom the most pliable of men. Masters must have the minds and nerves of masters, and it is the worst of policies to exclude men of strong character from office for no better reason than that they are difficult. Easy relationships are all very well when things are going smoothly, but in times of crisis they may well lead to disaster.”
De Gaulle often counseled other leaders on the need for strength, self-reliance, and, above all, independence. To the Shah of Iran, who had great respect for de Gaulle, he said, “I have only one suggestion to offer you, but it is important: Put all your energy into remaining independent.” In 1961 he advised President Kennedy to adopt the principle that had always guided his own conduct: “Listen only to yourself!” As we rode into Paris from the airport in 1969, he turned to me, put his hand on mine, and said, “You look young and vigorous and in command. This is very important. Stay that way.”
De Gaulle’s wartime leadership epitomized his idea of character. He displayed extraordinary zeal when the difficult tasks of World War II were before him. In this regard, de Gaulle was similar to Mao. Both seemed to take on new life when faced with great trials. The difference, however, was that Mao upset order to bring about struggle and de Gaulle struggled to bring about order.
As Zhou and I were driving to the Peking airport, Zhou spoke of a poem Mao had written upon returning to his hometown after thirty-two years. He said it illustrated the fact that adversity is a great teacher. I agreed and pointed out that an election loss was really more painful than a wound in war. The latter wounds the body; the former wounds the spirit. But the election loss helps to develop the strength and character that are essential for future battles. I mentioned that the twelve years de Gaulle spent out of power helped to build his character. Zhou concurred and added that men who trave
l on a smooth road all their lives do not develop strength. A great leader develops strength by swimming against the tide, not with it.
Some political leaders never encounter adversity; others never overcome it. A few build upon it. De Gaulle was one of those few. He was no stranger to adversity. In World War I he was injured so severely that he was left for dead on the battlefield, only to be captured and imprisoned for most of the war. In World War II he fought to restore the honor of France against the longest odds and was discarded by the nation soon after its victory. Yet twelve years later he came back into power.
When de Gaulle retired from politics, he went “into the wilderness.” Most politicians, having once tasted power, cannot bear to be away from it. Many senators and congressmen are reluctant to return to their home states after defeat or retirement. They prefer to stay in Washington, on the fringes of power. De Gaulle never forgot the land from which he came; he always returned to it and drew his strength from it.
The town of Colombey-les-Deux-Églises was de Gaulle’s sanctuary—“the wilderness,” both figuratively and literally. Situated on the edge of the Plateau de Langes in the Champagne region of France, Colombey is 120 miles southeast of Paris. With its population of 350, it did not appear on most road maps. De Gaulle’s fourteen-room house, La Boisserie, a white stone building with a brown tile roof and a hexagonal tower at one end, was obscured by trees and shrubbery from the view of passersby. Isolated in this country manor in this tiny village, de Gaulle could have chosen no better setting to enhance his mystery.
In Colombey, de Gaulle found that, if it could be lonely at the top, it could be even lonelier elsewhere. But there was no remorse. “In the tumult of men and events,” he wrote, “solitude was my temptation; now it is my friend. What other satisfaction can be sought once you have confronted history?”
Leaders Page 8
