The French Mind
FRANCE does not resemble any other country, for her conception of production, of politics, and of life is essentially her own. Also the scale of values in the modern world has altered to such an extent that generally she is not understood, and often is isolated. To those of the French who do not travel this statement would seem paradoxical in the extreme, for they would be tempted to believe that the civilized world still looks in their direction, just as it did a century ago. The wellspring of our influence is still living and fresh, but the world has changed. We are mostly appreciated by those who preserve a certain conception — now out-of-date — of individuality, liberty, and culture. This conception gives us our numerous, although sporadic and nearly always individual, friends. One is bound to think of France in terms of individuals!
Economically France is not the contemporary of the countries which lead the world to-day, a fact we must bear in mind if we are to understand French politics. The United States, Germany, and even England are all of recent formation economically. We are watching the American captain of industry and the American workman develop under our very eyes, and the German business man is the creation of the last two decades of the nineteenth century only.
The French personality, on the contrary, was a finished product by the end of the eighteenth century. Our peasants and artisans both come from the Middle Ages, and deep heartsearching reveals that every essential of our character already existed at the time of the 1789 Revolution. We are not a new country, and, like all other highly developed organisms, we are staid and do not take kindly to change. We are hard because we are old. Among so many peoples who are young or rejuvenated — sometimes almost childishly so — the French give a definite impression of being adult.
Since the completion of this our national individuality in that already fardistant past, two world-wide forces of tremendous consequence have arisen: first, the Industrial Revolution has transformed all methods of production and indeed every aspect of material life; and secondly, the development of the countries overseas has been so rapid that the very centre of gravity of the planet has been altered and all our traditional measures of greatness, and even the comparative proportions of the nations, have been completely upset. France was great in the last century with her 204,000 square miles, but where is she to-day with the 2,900,000 square miles of the United States?
The transformation of the world goes deeper still, for we are now confronted with an entirely new theory of life. Quality has given way to quantity, the individual to the gang or the machine. In a word, humanity has entered upon a new phase. But what is to become of France, conceived and constructed for another age? If she is to adapt herself to these new conditions she must alter her outlook on life, the character of her production, her manner of living, and her ancient conception of political life, which some of us still believe to be in the forefront of progress. Or is there possibly still a corner in this modern world for France, born of individuality and the Revolution? The problem is almost tragic, for what is really at stake is the French personality and the original character of a civilization.
Now, French politics happen to be less than anything else adapted to the preoccupations which are now dominating the world, and this contrast will provide the basis of the present essay.
I
Even after a century of intense industrial life, the social structure of France is still essentially built up of peasants, artisans, and bourgeois.
In spite of the drift to the cities, which seems to be part of the normal development of our Western civilization, the mainstay of French life is still the peasant. The census of 1921 estimates at 54 per cent the rural population of France, as against 49 per cent in the United States, and only 20 per cent in England. In contrast with the English farmer and the grain grower and stock raiser of the United States, the Frenchman may be considered as the very type of the peasant; a small landowner and solitary worker, who lives by cultivating his own plot of land. Out of 8,591,000 farmers in France, 5,000,000 are their own masters. This is a fact of supreme importance in our study of the French point of view, for the peasant heritage is always close at hand even in the heart of the cities; and although they may be far from the land the French continue to feel and react like peasants. Paul Morand speaks of the extraordinary persistence of this peasant spirit: ‘It is the vegetable garden, the pride of our middle and working classes, which even in this age of machinery draws the Frenchman to the soil. It is the vegetable garden with its strawberries and radishes that means home to him out in the colonies, while to the British the chief preoccupation is tennis or golf. At the end of his day’s work the English miner departs to play football, but the French miner, being essentially a peasant, goes into his garden.’
Industry has by no means influenced French character to the same extent. Even after the Treaty of Versailles, which has shifted the centre of gravity of the nation to the metallurgical industry in the Northeast, one may still say that our great manufacturing production remains strictly localized and that its influence does not permeate the mass of the people. No doubt Flanders or Lorraine taken separately would deny this impression, but if we study the statistics we realize that industry as such occupies only second place in the economic system of the nation. Out of 21,721,000 individuals who make up our working population, 6,181,000, or 28 per cent only, can be counted as contributing to manufacturing production. Again, out of these 6,181,000 only 4,270,000, or about 69 per cent, draw regular salaries, but of the remainder 1,162,000 are workers on their own account (19 per cent), and no fewer than 683,000 (11 per cent) are employers of labor. If we note that British industry is made up of 90 per cent wage earners, 6.3 per cent workers on their own account, and only 3 per cent employers, we can well comprehend the difference in the structure of the two countries. France contains far more small employers, and above all a considerable number of independent workers free from the discipline of collective production. Furthermore, the staffs in the great factories are astonishingly small, for, according to the census of 1921, out of 4,000,000 wage earners there were only 774,000 in plants having more than 500 workmen.
The secondary importance of the working classes is reflected in the limited number of trade-union members, only 1,846,000 in 1925. In this same year the Confédération Générate du Travail had only 605,000 members (Year Book of the International Federation of Amsterdam, 1925), and in 1928 the Confédération Générate du Travail Unitaire had only 525,000 (figures given by La Vie Ouvrière). Even these two figures are actually overoptimistic, and yet they seem exceedingly low, especially if we recall that during the 1920 period of prosperity the membership of the British trade-unions exceeded 8,000,000! As a matter of fact, and although the number of persons engaged in large plants is increasing (as the 1931 census will doubtless show), France remains primarily a country of craftsmen.
We find typical craftsmen on every side, such as the village joiner, who can, if necessary, make a piece of fine furniture; the mechanic of the small town, who can construct an automobile as well as make repairs; the dressmaker, who also designs dresses; and also the nurseryman and the wine grower, who should, I think, although both country people, be classified with the artisans. These people are so wrapped up in their work that they occasionally will dream of it at night till it becomes part of their very being. Often they have a knack for solving problems which seem far above their comprehension. In this age of Henry Ford, France may seem out-of-date; nevertheless it is in the individuality of the worker, if only it can survive, that our true personality lies.
France is also a country of bourgeois. For our word bourgeois I would suggest as a definition, ‘a man with some accumulated savings.’ As a type the bourgeois is complex, mingling caution and ambition with a delicate sense of balance. Class egotism exists side by side with devotion to class, while materialism rubs shoulders with culture. Our bourgeois values property for the independence it gives him, an independence that guarantees him a standard of living which not only distinguishes him socially, but also provides an inheritance for his family.
As M. Johannet rightly notes, ‘the bourgeoisie is the result of an effort born of self-control.’ This effort to attain a certain social standing for the sake of the children is nowhere more common than in France. In this sense almost all French people, including even many communists, possess the bourgeois spirit. One can hardly say that Americans have the bourgeois spirit, since there are no class distinctions in the United States and in nine cases out of ten the fruits of success are not in fact personally kept by the next generation.
In France, on the contrary, the bourgeois spirit is everywhere latent. The artisan, the peasant, the small shopkeeper, and indeed all the little people, come under this heading. The wellkept houses, where the linen although mended is in perfect order, are typically bourgeois, especially in comparison with other countries, where the careless housekeeper will hurry through her mending and finish it off with safety pins. We find the same thing if we look into a Frenchman’s private account book. He usually has contrived to make both ends meet, even if the State budget is in deficit. This is in striking contrast to the English community, where the private budget may show a deficit, while the State finances generally will be balanced majestically. Finally we must note the astonishing instinct for saving which lies deep in the character of every Frenchman.
It is no wonder that a foreigner is completely at a loss when he tries to understand us, let alone judge us, for he has no opportunity of meeting the people that we consider most typical of our country. How could he possibly get into contact with the peasant? Also we must not overlook the fact that to an American the word ‘peasant’ means a serf attached to the soil, and therefore he often judges our agricultural workers erroneously.
The visitor will run up against a craftsman if he has occasion to have something repaired — that is, of course, if he does not throw the article away instead. If he chances upon the traditional type of French workman he is first amazed and then often as enchanted as if someone had presented him with a new and rare specimen. With the bourgeois he can only hope to have the most formal relationship, for he will seldom be invited to dinner in his home, and over this it must be confessed there is a good deal of heartburning. If he were to have access to the life of our bourgeoisie, he would discover that the French, who he imagines are rather fast and addicted to night life, are quite the reverse and follow a rigid routine of work, occasionally so severe, indeed, that even he himself would rebel against it. In brief, those of us who mix with foreigners are generally not representative of the French people, especially in respect of their political life. On this point, I dare say, many Parisians are quite as ignorant as foreigners, for one can frequent the salons of Paris for months without coming across a single Frenchman who is politically of the right vintage. It is in the provinces, and only there, that one must look for the men who really count politically.
II
The France of to-day is not economically what she was before the war, and yet her chief economic feature remains the same, for she still feels independent economically of other countries.
Looking back, the best description that one can give of pre-war France is that it was a happy country. Many other countries had a larger foreign trade, but France enjoyed the fortunate situation of scarcely needing the outside world either as a market for her manufactures or as a source of raw materials, a fact which was reflected in the small foreign trade, and especially in the low volume of our exports, for which we earned the reproach of our expansionists. Nevertheless any adverse balance of trade was automatically adjusted without the slightest difficulty either by our investments abroad or by invisible exports. These easy circumstances, coupled with the self-sufficiency of the nation, led to a widespread feeling of economic security, in spite of the political insecurity of a menaced frontier. This feeling of economic security nations like England can never understand. Other countries were apt to feel envious about this, for by our undisguised self-satisfaction we showed only too clearly how indifferent we were to the rest of the world.
This atmosphere, as M. Paul Morand recalls, is not entirely of the past: ‘Other countries may be parts of a continent or of the world, but France is an integral unit, a separate entity, not in the least interested in Europe, although Europe is certainly interested in her. One can almost feel the German villages quiver at the sound of a Russian army manoeuvre, and Spain gets quite worked up over an attempt on the life of a governor of one of her Moroccan dependencies. London, the nerve centre of the world, trembles, and with cause, at the announcement of a new oil gusher in Mexico or a political murder in the Punjab. But Paris, egotistical Paris, never turns a hair! News of universal upheavals comes flickering over the wires, is passed on to the editorial staffs and caricaturists, and then to a mocking public which makes limericks out of the items. On leaving France one has a distinct feeling of having freed one’s self from a contented domesticity and avoided the dangers that lie in living with one woman who suffices.’
Basically this description still holds good, although France is now more concerned than before with international affairs. Her imports of raw materials are heavy, as she is obliged to go abroad for all her cotton, for more than nine tenths of her wool and raw silk, for at least one fifth of her coal, and for over half her coke and practically all her oil. On the other hand she has within her own boundaries almost all the foodstuff she requires, and, although her colonial produce naturally comes from overseas, her imports of meat are negligible and decreasing. As for wheat, she produces almost 90 per cent of her consumption, and in a bad year she may need no more than 15 or 20 per cent imports. If we compare this with England, where the imports of meat amount to two fifths and wheat to two thirds of the country’s consumption, we can appreciate that the anxiety that haunts all importing countries is never felt in France.
The export situation is very similar. France sends abroad principally prepared or at any rate refined foodstuffs, raw materials that have been partly worked till they can be classed as halffinished products, and high-grade manufactured articles which, though not necessarily luxuries, as is usually believed, are nearly always of high quality. In 1928, wearing apparel and textiles accounted for 46 per cent of the exports of manufactured articles.
Since the war we find a surprising increase in our exports of raw materials, a remarkable innovation in a country like France. Expressed by weight, our exports in 1928 reached the total of 41 million tons, 34 millions representing raw materials, of which 32 millions were ores or half-finished metal products. This development is due to the acquisition of the Lorraine iron and steel industry, which has an important bearing on our balance of trade as a whole.
The proportion of our manufacturing production, however, that is exported is relatively low. Certain exceptions exist, such as the silk industry, which sends abroad 50 to 75 per cent of its production, and steel, which exports sometimes up to 40 per cent, but other industries of equal significance export relatively little. The woolen industry, for example, exports only one third of its production, and cotton only 3 per cent of its yarn and 35 per cent of its piece goods, half the latter going to our own colonies. Thus we work principally for the home market; and again it is interesting to compare with England, which exports four fifths of her cotton, two thirds of her metal products, and quite half her woolens, thereby creating an entirely different atmosphere — one might say a different economic climate.
The effects of this balance on the French attitude toward other countries can hardly be overemphasized. From the moment that a country is not obliged to go abroad for its foodstuffs or to market its own productions, it ceases to be interested in the affairs of the world in general. Many of our most important exporting industries, such as the women’s fashion trade, do not even need to look for their foreign customers in other countries, for these foreign buyers flock to Paris every year by hundreds of thousands, and what they take away with them must be reckoned as invisible exports, as it does not appear in the government trade returns. Under these circumstances the export complex, as Freud would say, hardly exists in France, although certain exceptions exist to prove the rule, such as Lyons, Alsace, Bordeaux, Paris, and the North. The French manufacturer pays little heed to other countries, and instead of worrying about new markets he is anxious to keep intact what he has already, and especially his home market. Only international matters of first rank can ever hope to command the attention of the French Parliament. A maritime or colonial question will only interest some fifty members, and leave completely indifferent three hundred others. Contrast this with England, where the representative of the exporter, the shipper, the financier, of the City of London always has the last word.
III
A Frenchman is above all an individualist, and therein lies not only his strength but also his weakness. He wants to be self-sufficient intellectually, and some hidden instinct prompts him to make himself self-sufficient economically also. To acquire a little property, a little house, a little business, a little income from investments, is the dream of millions of French people — a dream that is narrow and devoid of romance. It is the counsel of wisdom, if you will, but the result borders on mediocrity.
The Frenchman is said to be sociable. Yes, so long as he is assured of stimulating conversation. Where his family, his business, and his private affairs are concerned, he is reserved and almost impenetrable. In no other country can one feel so utterly alone as in France, where people barricade themselves in their homes as if they were fortresses. Yet these same people are usually prepossessing, and even charming, if you meet them on neutral ground. All the Frenchman desires is to be independent, and to this end he will amass and hoard his hard-earned savings in order to build a little house, even at the price of endless efforts. It is always this personal independence — possibly under another name — which he hopes to secure in his old age, and which he values above worldly success. ‘The most striking characteristic of democracy is that it is antisocial,’ writes Alain, who concludes that every democratic movement, in contrast with natural association, has an antisocial tendency. This is a farreaching assertion, and actually is true only of France, for the AngloSaxon democracies are hardly based on that kind of individualism; in fact they are perhaps the reverse.
With such basic traits the Frenchman has many serious faults. He is even unsympathetic at times. It must be admitted that he is incurably suspicious — as suspicious as a country lawyer, and with no thought of granting credit even when it would be to his advantage to do so. He is jealous, partly from envy and partly from a latent fear that the rich and powerful will dominate him. He is astonishingly devoid of sentiment when his interests are at stake, and he takes into his calculations matters that seem to have but the remotest bearing on the subject. He is wonderfully calculating about matrimony, and equally so when it comes to adding to the population. (Although they had certainly never heard of Malthus, the French bourgeoisie and peasants of the nineteenth century were really the first Malthusians.) When at last he considers himself to be independent, with enough for his own wants, he ignores with beaming self-satisfaction everything that does not appertain to his own community, almost to his own person. Materially he falls into a rut, and geographically he shuts himself in as if he were alone in the world.
Yes, all this is true, but part and parcel of it is a brilliant quality which, in the apostle’s phrase, covers a multitude of sins. The Frenchman is essentially an adult. He looks life straight in the face, with no trace of hypocrisy or childishness, and with no illusions. If you talk with him he has something to say, for he has usually pondered much on the problems of life. He is wise with a wisdom based less on books, magazines, and newspapers than on personal experience and a time-honored tradition passed down to him by earlier generations. At present, when the achievements of the masses dominate everything, he bears aloft the torch of individuality. In spite of all we may say, he is a superb idealist.
Corresponding to these national characteristics we find a traditional conception of production in France, which is threatened by the present transition to new methods and habits of life. An instinct for work dominates the peasant, an instinct irresistible as a natural law, which binds him to the soil by a tie amounting almost to devotion.
These inspiring lines from François Mauriac are not in the least exaggerated: ‘Ceres has more worshipers in France than Christ, for the peasant has one religion only, and that the religion of the soil. He possesses the land . . . or rather he is possessed by it, for he consecrates his life to it and the land devours him alive. A veritable sheet anchor was required to attach to the land a part of the human race which was destined to nourish the rest.5
Anglo-Saxons can neither understand nor love our peasants. The intensive toil of our cultivator bowed over the ground from dawn to dusk — is it progress in the light of the eight-hour day of the British workman? Does not such passion for independence fly in the face of modern evolution, based on cooperation? And does not the narrow conservatism of the small proprietor lead to a narrow, selfish routine that is really an insurmountable obstacle to progress? In this almost unconscious antagonism lies the gulf that separates an industrial from an agricultural democracy. The industrial worker lives by a type of production that is more complex and more collective, in immense agglomerations where independence means nothing and a recluse cannot survive. The cultivator wrests his livelihood from the soil, which lends itself more readily to individual exploitation and admits of a more relaxed relationship between proprietors, whose work is similar and independent rather than coöperative. Now the English, by contrast, have been enticed away from the land by a century of intensive city life, until they have lost that love of the soil so characteristic of the French. They look upon the country as a place in which to spend their holidays, and no longer understand the peasant type of civilization, which they neither admire nor envy. We, however, appreciate the strength of the peasants and what they mean to a country; in fact we respect them to such a point that politically we hesitate to antagonize them.
The character of our workingman is well expressed in that most French of French traditions, the honor of work well done. If he is not discouraged by inadequate pay or disgusted by bad conditions of work, he will be absolutely devoted to his trade and his workshop. As any captain of industry will tell you, for intelligence and initiative he is unsurpassed the world over. In spite of the great changes brought about by modern methods, the spirit of the craftsman survives with us to an amazing degree. Referring to the poor quarter of Orleans where Peguy lived in his youth, the Tharaud brothers write: ‘This ancient type of civilization had a culture of its own, formed partly by local tradition and partly by centuries of experience, and owing nothing or almost nothing to the outside world. These people still lived close to the soil, a community of peasant-workmen, of artisans who had hitherto been rustic. They brought to their workshops those old, old virtues of the land, an unbelievable pride in work and the religion of the task well done. This old-world community resembled less the France of our time than the France of the ancient regime.’
This atmosphere of craftsmanship actually existed fifty years ago, and its archaic substrata still lie close to the surface, for the past fifty years have not been able to replace the mark of fifteen centuries. Until recently the French culture was based on a civilization of peasants and small tradesmen. The Industrial Revolution created a superstructure, but it did not assimilate the original foundation, and therefore even to-day we must take into consideration the effect of the artisan and the peasant on the French national character. Here again contrast with England is interesting. The Englishman has a perfect genius for trading; he deals in constantly changing values, and handles them with an ease which we can scarcely comprehend. But big business generally remains a closed book to the Frenchman, who is still as eager as he was in the Middle Ages to create a masterpiece, and still oldfashioned enough to linger over a fine bit of work.
Meanwhile, water is running rapidly under the bridges, and we are living in a great industrial age. The French mind, as expounded three centuries ago in Descartes’s philosophy, has nowadays proved itself capable of ‘rationalization’ — but, after all, theoretically that is not remarkable. In the manufacturing world, as well as everywhere else, the qualities and faults of the French are true to type, as they always arise from the same source, individualism. Unlike the Germans, the French are never tied down to organization. In reality they put more faith in their own intelligence than in the experience of others, no matter how reliable, being almost too inclined to believe that by taking thought they can accomplish anything. ‘Self-help’ will work miracles, no doubt, but it cannot replace preparation, method, discipline, and patient cooperation. Though the French understand organization as well as anyone, they will coöperate only in emergency. Normally they prefer to work alone, and rarely believe that anything can surpass the sterling worth of the individual or that collectivity constitutes an end in itself. In the scholastic sense they are nominalists, for to them the world is made up of individuals. The French political mind is saturated with this philosophy, while another conception appeals to the German and American.
IV
According to the Chinese it is right and proper to steal from the State in order to support an aged parent. At heart the French share this opinion, for according to the dictates of their conscience the family certainly comes before the State, and their obligations to the community seem far off and unreal. The emphasis they place on the home is simply a form of intersexual egotism, while the molecule which forms the family provides a social cement of incomparable solidity. In the last analysis the nation loses nothing, for in this family pride, no longer individualistic, lies a latent altruism. In a critical period, the State has always had completely at its disposal great reserves, which, however, were not accumulated in response to civic virtue.
As the essence of the French nation is social rather than political, an outsider will often mistake a rowdy parliamentary session for a serious national crisis. In a way, France resembles China, where life does not follow any political plan but is attracted to a centre of gravity that lies far deeper and is therefore more stable. We are the despair of the political moralists of the best tradition, for we never mean to borrow our prosperity from our political institutions. As the penetrating and delightful Robert de Jouvenel observes, ‘France is a happy land where the soil is rich, workmen are ingenious, and wealth widely distributed. Politics are the concern only of those who have a bent that way, but are not of paramount importance even to them.’
We must now consider the conception of wealth which arises from this. It is peculiar to France, and, as the war has not altered it, it affords an interesting anachronism. In France riches are not regarded as public property as they are in England, but are, on the contrary, entirely a private matter. A Frenchman does not place his money at the disposal of the community, and if by chance it falls into the hands of the State it is quite against his will. At the back of his mind is always the thought that his savings are not for the benefit of others, but for himself, or at any rate his heirs. The French do not give generously to charity. One does not hear of a magnificent donation to universities or social institutions, as in England or America. The use of wealth with us is considered less as a social duty according to the feudal tradition than under the aspect of the right which we have to keep it and defend it, according to the bourgeois ethics. This idea, hard and clear as one may glean it from the writings of Balzac, gives the nation a foundation of astonishing solidity. No matter what an ass a man may make of himself politically, as an individual he will stand firmly on his feet, so that, being perfectly self-possessed, he may indulge in any foolishness he likes in the realm of ideals. We are too inclined to look for the typical Frenchman among the people who frequent the Paris salons, or among the Southerners, so eloquent or astute. Actually we are more likely to find him in the great central section of the country, among the brown-haired brachycephalic bougnats in the province of Auvergne. How thickset and awkward they are, and how indefatigable when it comes to gathering in the shekels!
Could the spirit of citizenship ever hope to flourish in such an atmosphere? Hardly, I think, if we take the AngloSaxon meaning, which is that morals and personal interests work closely together toward the same material ends, for obviously this aspect of citizenship is not French. This is perhaps because we have drifted away from Protestant ideals, for as soon as we cross the Swiss frontier it reappears.
We have our own type of citizenship, however. Ask a Frenchman for his money to save his country, and perhaps he will not give it to you, even at the very moment when he shows himself ready to sacrifice his life. But appeal to him if you are defending, not a political platform of interests, but ideals like liberty, equality, or the Republic, and you will find yourself surrounded by hundreds and thousands of enthusiastic supporters. Anyone who has been in personal contact with our electorate knows also that it can be swayed by sentiment quite as easily as by its own interests. Such a conception of citizenship is limited, no doubt, since it comes from a party spirit which expands and rises above itself, but it is real. It gave us the revolutionary citizen of 1792 and the quarantehuitard, the bon républicain of Gambetta, the militant supporters of the Left and possibly of the Right, the militant syndicalists, and it may be many of our communists. It is somewhat akin to the classical citizenship, made up of the teachings of Titus Livius and Cicero.
This list of good qualities and bad — it is not easy to say which are good and which are bad — is exceedingly perplexing to the foreigner, who, when he attempts to judge us, frequently goes sadly astray. He considers us frivolous, while in reality we are serious, methodical workers; he finds us changeable, although we stick to our opinions through thick and thin; he thinks we are tricky, but high professional conscience is as common here as anywhere; actually we are more bourgeois than he is himself, as conservative and well balanced, but he insists that we are revolutionary; he fears we are decadent, but the race is socially sound and biologically indestructible.
Instinctively one turns to China for a simile: ‘There is a striking likeness between the Chinese and ourselves,’ writes Paul Morand; ‘the same passion for economy by making things last by repairing them endlessly, the same genius for cooking, the same caution and old-world courtesy; an inveterate but passive hatred of foreigners, conservatism tempered by social gales, lack of public spirit, and the same indestructible vitality of old people who have passed the age of illness. Should not we think that all ancient civilizations have much in common?’
In fact these traits essentially belong to the old-world civilization of craftsmen and peasants to which I referred earlier, but they have been moulded by social life and disciplined by an administration which has been fully aware of the importance of its task. One quickly notices the qualities which are lacking: the sense of what credit and big business are, a collective banking and industrial tradition, as distinct from the individual worth of business directors — in fact, a national economic doctrine and the equivalent of Manchester and the City of London. We have, of course, many centres of industry that are rich in genius and tradition, but geographically they are strictly localized, and any cooperation between our captains of industry is quite recent. France, when all is said, remains a nation of scattered organizations.
V
Out of this atmosphere has arisen a political system suitable to the individual and based on his needs. This system holds its own against the ancien régime, which, at least in its essence, allowed more for organization.
Now comes a new school of thought, chiefly from the United States, based on different principles which bid fair to dominate the world. Instead of personal work, we are confronted with a theory of cooperation; instead of individualism, with discipline; instead of liberty, with efficiency. This new system, like ours, admits of political ideals which are not necessarily antidemocratic, but which almost inevitably assert themselves as anti-individualistic. In the modern world emphasis is no longer laid on the individual, but on the group.
What, then, is to become of France? Economically she would rather continue along the road of individuality and quality, but she is disposed, if necessary, to and is certainly capable of evolution toward mass production. No doubt she will prove sufficiently adaptable to make the change.
Politically, however, such an evolution is not in the way of being achieved. At the very moment when the France of 1789 is already superseded by new social structures, she is still obliged to devote a great deal of her energy to struggling against the traditions of the ancien régime. In fact she does not feel tempted to give up the ideology of the individual in favor of a programme of social efficiency. She remains, then, politically a community of small people, consecrated to a somewhat narrow individualism, suspicious of every form of economic hierarchy, and largely indifferent to the mystical passion for production that is intoxicating and transfiguring the world of our time.
True, but let us not forget that although this democracy may appear mediocre it is teeming with brains and intelligence, alert and ready with infinite possibilities. It is for this very reason that France, as she sticks to ideals of the pre-industrial phase, is politically behind the times. If the individual is to perish in the effort for collective production, France also will perish. But if it is written that the individual will reappear triumphant, France also will rise eternal.