FRANCE: Man of Distinction

In his traditional top hat, striped pants, red sash and morning coat, the President of France is a beloved symbol of republican pomp. He wields no executive power; he cannot initiate or veto legislation. But he can—if the situation demands and permits—counsel, guide and admonish. During France’s periodic Cabinet crises, when he must direct the dancelike ritual from which new governments emerge, he seems a heartening symbol of stability. Premiers come and go, but the President remains (for a seven-year term, at least).

Last week a dozen or more stout French hearts were beating a little faster at the thought of becoming Président de la République. An almost inaudible, all but invisible campaign was going on. Between Dec. 16 and Jan. 16, the members of the Council of the Republic (Senate) and National Assembly will meet at Versailles to choose a President to succeed the incumbent, adroit Vincent Auriol.

Cool Head, Ready Smile. It is deemed highly improper for a man to announce openly that he wants to be President. There are no campaign speeches, no posters, no sound trucks. The approved method of campaigning is for a candidate to move through the legislative corridors, shaking innumerable hands, and murmuring that he would not dream of aspiring to the presidency. In 1920, the late great Georges Clemenceau said of the new President, Paul Deschanel, elected that year: “He has a beautiful future behind him.”

To which the 78-year-old Tiger added: “Life has taught me that there are two things that one can perfectly well do without—the prostate gland and the presidency of the republic.” Actually, Clemenceau was irked because he himself had not been elected. He did not quite realize that he was too big for the job, therefore too controversial. The President is usually thought of not as a man of importance but as a man of distinction.

The President must be just the right blend: a pleasing, unblemished personality who will keep a cool head and a ready smile in France’s sea of troubles. He must, of course, be dedicated to the republican principle, in good health, intelligent and tactful, not too young or too old, with an exemplary family. “He must be a good enough shot to avoid any diplomatic incidents when he takes visiting royalty out hunting,” one wag specified, “and he shouldn’t be named Leroy. The crowds can’t very well shout what sounds like ‘Vive le roi!’ as he goes by.” He should also be gregarious: “We can’t have a bear who likes to lock himself up in his toilet alone and smoke his pipe.”

Clouds of Tickets. It is considered obligatory that he attend the Paris Automobile Salon, the Arc de Triomphe stakes at the Longchamp track, and the Final Cup Matches of France’s champion soccer teams—but he must show no least hint of preference for one car, one horse, one team. If he chooses, he can be a mere figurehead, living his fastuous life in the Elysée Palace, receiving foreign envoys, rubber-stamping appointments. But he can also—as Poincaré did before World War I—agitate behind the scenes for this or that policy. He must, however, be careful. Since Marshal Patrice MacMahon exercised his technical right to dissolve the lower house of Parliament in 1877, no President has dared to do the same, and no career military man has ever again been elected President.

Leading candidates to succeed Auriol are the present Premier, Joseph Laniel; four former Premiers, Henri Queuille, Antoine Pinay, Defense Minister René Pleven, Foreign Minister Georges Bidault; and onetime Foreign Minister Yvon Delbos, an active resistance fighter in World War II. The best known of the group outside France, Bidault is not conceded much chance. He is a good Catholic in a country where anticlericalism is strong (most legislators prefer a nominal but nonpracticing Catholic), and he is also committed to the European unity idea, which repels or alarms many French chauvinists. A dark-horse winner is possible. One of these is Senator André Cornu, Under Secretary of State for Fine Arts, who hands out clouds of free tickets to the government theaters and opera. Several aging candidates have made themselves more eligible in recent months—by getting married.