Hands Across the Channel

The visit began awkwardly. Charles de Gaulle, President of France, seemed nervous, almost defensive, when he stepped off the train in London's Victoria Station to be greeted by Queen Elizabeth. He was 20 years older and 25 pounds heavier than when he had arrived as an exile in 1940. But to many Britons, De Gaulle was still a symbol of icy authoritarianism, a man both proud and touchy who could satisfy his notions of grandeur only by pointlessly exploding A-bombs in the Sahara. As he and the Queen rode to Buckingham Palace in an open carriage, the London crowds watched in chilly politeness.

Precious Encouragements. But within a matter of hours, there was a startling change in public opinion. The change was the work of De Gaulle himself. After laying a wreath at the statue of Marshal Foch, France's World War I commander, De Gaulle suddenly turned away from the waiting VIPs and strode into the watching throng, began pumping hands. At his first-night banquet in the state ballroom of Buckingham Palace, De Gaulle displayed unabashed emotion and proud remembrance. Thanking Britain for assuming the burden of war after the fall of France, he recalled the "most precious encouragements" he had received from the royal family. Turning to Queen Elizabeth, De Gaulle said with feeling, "Where else, Madame, better than in your presence, could I bear witness to my gratitude?"

Grand Girandole. Pomp and circumstance attended him. He stood on a floodlit, red and gold balcony above St. James's Park to watch a cacophonous fireworks display including "The Cross of Lorraine," a "Grand" Girandole of Shells and Mines," and finally, "Ten Signal Aerial Maroons Exploded at a Great Height." Cracked a London newsman: "The explosive power of the demonstration probably equaled one French A-bomb."

De Gaulle spent a cordial half-hour with his old friend and antagonist. Sir Winston Churchill. Addressing the combined Houses of Parliament in the high-raftered magnificence of Westminster Hall, he launched into an eloquent, 20-minute address that proved to be a long paean of praise for things British. Almost wistfully, De Gaulle noted that "with you, in the political field, tradition, loyalty and the rules of the game are so strong that your government is quite naturally endowed with cohesion and endurance. Your Parliament, for the duration of each legislature, has an assured majority, and the government and this majority are always in tune."

Two-Faced Ally. The British press fell into a rosy glow of pleased embarrassment. The Manchester Guardian ran an editorial saying that Britons were not all as wonderful as De Gaulle thought. Even the left-wing press, while dutifully remembering Algeria and the French Abomb, generally agreed with the New Statesman's contention that the British public "recognizes that its old ally has two faces and is prepared to give De Gaulle the benefit of the doubt and concede that he represents the one which we admire and respect."

At the official level, De Gaulle achieved little. Speaking as a man without any stockpile of A-bombs of his own, De Gaulle repeated his proposal that all nuclear weapons should be destroyed and forsworn by everyone. Apparently, he is undeterred by the probability that the destruction of atomic weapons would simply restore military primacy to the nation with the most potent conventional armed forces. Staunchly convinced that Europe's future depends upon the close collaboration of France with Germany, he gave Prime Minister Harold Macmillan little sympathy in his plea for a showdown in establishment of the Common Market.

But at week's end De Gaulle could return to France well content. Problems aplenty remained, but France and Britain seemed once more united by the bonds of sincere fellow feeling that have supported them through two major wars in this century. Their disagreements are in method, not in purpose.

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