The Figaro of late has been publishing a series of
" Imaginary Conversations" by Andre Gide. Some of these have been admirably translated into English in The pages of Horizon. In these interviews Gide discusses certain aspects of French literature, such as the fables of La Fontaine and the long tradition of French popular poetry. I imagine with delight the perplexity of the Gestapo when confronted with these articles ; I imagine with even greater delight the perplexity of my friend Friedrich Sieburg (whose knowledge of French culture has given him a high position in the German propaganda service in Paris) when asked whether Gide's articles are really as "attentistes," are really as unfriendly, as they somehow seem. Monsieur Gide makes no mention of any political matter, nor does he refer to the occupation in any words. Yet in insisting upon the traditional and specific distinction of the French intelligence he suggests somehow that French individualism is not really attuned to a New Order dictated from Berlin. The subtleties of his suggestions are so tiny, • yet so pervasive, that they elude the precisions of any Gestapo micro- scope. Herr Sieburg must know very well that it is not what Monsieur Gide writes that is so provoking, but the way he writes it. Since by his manner he reminds the French that their intelligence is as slim as a steel blade, and their traditions deeper and more lasting than any periodic disaster :
"Au dehors quelqu'un murmura Une veille chanson de France Mon mal enfin s'est reconnu Et son refrain comme un pied nu Troubla Peau verte du silence."
Much, however, as I admire the individualism of the French I wish at moments of crisis that they possessed a more marked faculty for combination. At the Albert Hall last week the French colony in London organised a mass demonstration to celebrate General de Gaulle's fine gesture of two years ago. The General addressed his vast audience with strength and eloquence. Emotionally, as when the flags are lowered to the sound of the Marseillaise, the French are identical. But it is their glory and their misfortune that intellectually they have no mass mind. Assuredly the French, of all peoples on this earth, are the most difficult to rule or to direct. That evening, in a wave of enthusiasm, they found themselves as one. But when they streamed out into the sunlight of Kensington already little different thoughts were germinating in their minds. I wish some- times that those who have made so great a sacrifice to join La France Combattante would consent, if only for the duration of the war, to become a little less intelligent.
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