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can hardly go wrong kicking the French. Every other day someone
from that fair land reminds us that treachery, cowardice, and corruption
are part of the human condition, and perhaps a special part of the
French condition.
Lately, we've
heard high French officials denounce our nation's antiterrorism
policies as "simplistic" and seen a French Olympic skating
judge given the heave for apparently conspiring to aid the Russians
(old habits die hard). These people spend an inordinate amount of
time grousing about Mickey Mouse and Ronald McDonald. Americans
can hardly be blamed for wishing we had let the Germans annex France
and wiped our hands of the whole mess.
Yet the fact
is, not all French people are sneering dopes. Indeed, every Frenchman
and woman I know — not many, to be sure — are wonderful
human beings, in love with life and only slightly obsessed with
their appetites and desire to be seen as sophisticated and superior.
They are hardly alone in those desires. New York mayor Michael Bloomberg,
a mousy fellow if ever there were one, apparently has told his staff
that the suburbs are full of second-raters while city dwellers like
himself are the Crowns of Creation. If people want to flatter themselves,
what's the harm? They'll end up in Boot Hill with the rest of us
and that will be that.
The larger
fact is that we should not be so hard on the French. We're at war
and it is widely believed the French have excellent contacts within
the shadowy world of international terrorism. They might betray
those contacts, for the right price. Meantime, a closer alliance
between the people of our country and theirs couldn't hurt. We should
recognize, after all, that the French don't hate us nearly as much
as the papers suggest. Only about one-tenth of the French population
is anti-American, according to French Foreign Minister Hubert Vedrine.
That's not so bad when you consider that at least 80 percent of
Americans don't like the French.
One way to
forge closer relations is to recognize the existence of sympathetic
Frenchmen. Unfortunately, most Americans probably can't name a single
Frenchman they really like.
Lafayette,
of course, should come to mind, though one assumes his name barely
makes it into our history books any more, lest it crowd out some
preferred personages such as the fellows who developed the Comanche
nation's central banking system. Charles de Gaulle strikes most
modern Americans as being far too arrogant, and of course he was
ugly. Jean-Paul Sartre remains a hero on some campuses, in some
part due to his love of Fidel Castro and his relationship with the
ghastly Simone, who presented herself as the strong independent
type but played the doormat with every bit the dedication of the
most ignorant, toothless, wood-chopping, water-toting, backwoods-trailer
bride. Sartre was also quite ugly as well.
So who can
be held up as a Frenchman Americans can love? Victor Hugo comes
to mind. Hugo, the great poet and novelist whose 200th birthday
was Feb. 26, will be celebrated over the course of the next year.
His corpus — and his spirit — may serve as a bridge of
understanding between his nation and ours.
Hugo is best
known here as author of Les Miserables, largely because his
masterpiece was made into a pop opera. He also wrote the book we
know as The Hunchback of Notre Dame. While writerly types
are not the typical American hero, at least these days, he once
had a large following here, especially after the publication of
Les Miserables in 1862, which was popular with soldiers fighting
our Civil War.
And no wonder.
Unlike many of our current authors, Hugo could write. Here's his
description of the conniving innkeeper Thernardier:
"An
innkeeper's business," he once said furiously and in a low
voice, "is to dispense to all comers food, rest, light, heat,
dirty sheets, maidservants, fleas and smiles; to lure the passer-by,
empty small purses and legitimately lighten larger ones; to afford
the traveling family respectful shelter and fleece the lot of
them, men, women, and children; to reckon the cost of everything
— the open window and the closed window, the chimney-corner,
the armchair, the straight-backed chair, the stool, the settle,
the feather-bed, the hair mattress, and the truss of straw; to
know how much a mirror wears out in the darkness and take this
into account — and, by God, make the traveler pay for everything,
down to the very fleas his dog eats."
That is much
better than the ruminations on neurosis, impetigo, crotch-gazing,
bungholery, and other topics of current infatuation. More to the
point, Hugo wrote about universal themes in a highly compelling
way — whether the subject was love, war, revolution, poverty,
or religious faith. He also, to be sure, made great copy.
Hugo was a
big man, thanks to a sizable beef and wine ration, and also a highly
accomplished satyr, to the degree that would put our former president
to shame. Hugo had a wife and mistress of long standing, with the
latter usually living nearby, along with countless girlfriends of
short duration — perhaps a half hour or so.
He was also
in possession of an unquiet mind. While pounding out Les Miserables,
for instance, he was known to have conversations with fence posts
and much greater Beings as well. Hugo is quoted by biographer Samuel
Edwards as saying, "I am probably the only person now alive
who has discussed the nature of the Godhead with none other than
the Holy Ghost himself. It was an edifying experience, principally
because I discovered that He and I were in total agreement —
in all our views."
Americans admire
a man with self-confidence, and also a winner. Hugo earned a large
audience and lived into his eighties, with some two million citizens
attending his Paris funeral. Today, we can rally 'round him as well, at least until we suffer another slight at the hands of the French, which with any luck will no doubt occur before this column is published.
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