So, not that surprisingly, the French have returned the late Fran?ois Mitterrand to the presidency. The victory of the socialists and their allies-not least, the somewhat happy-somewhat clappy, New Communist party of the genially bearded Robert Hue- means that Jacques Chirac must dine for five years with the ghost of the Banquo who humiliated him when Chichi was prime minister during the 1993-1995 cohabitation which, it seems, taught him little about the subtleties of the highest office in the republic. Tony Blair's victory followed so long a period of Tory rule that, people said, there was no one left in the Labour party who had experience of high office. Jospin's triumph has come so swiftly that the French socialists have more old faces than new. Whatever pleasure the electors may have taken in the demise of Alain Jupp? (will Jupp?-hupp? henceforth be French for "too clever by half"?), can they be wholly thrilled to see the smirk of the photographically opportunistic Jack Lang and the apparat-chic mini-smile of Laurent Fabius and the no-previous-convictions jowl 'n' scowl of Henri Emmanuelli?
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the socialists have come back from the moribund not least by repeating Mitterrand's famous promise not to allow the French to be deprived of their acquis sociaux-the welfare payments and benefits which, in addition to the gift of the resources of the Cr?dit Lyonnais to the now disgraced and imprisoned Bernard Tapie, have left a craterous hole in the public purse. Like Blair and his friends, Jospin et al have not been able to take the Conservatives' place without swearing to honour most of their policies, not least over taxation. They may whack the grandes fortunes yet again, if Chirac cannot stop them, but petty punitive taxes cannot balance the budget and there are no "windfalls" to collect. As the millennium looms, the French have voted more conservatively than if they had re-elected the conservatives. Faced with the 21st century, they have decided to return to the 19th century.
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in the brief glory days of the last government, the Gaullists transferred the remains of Andr? Malraux to the Panth?on, thus deifying a charlatan genius who lied about his academic and linguistic qualifications, appointed himself a colonel in the Resistance, at something like the derni?re heure, and drew his most lasting lustre from giving France's public buildings a facelift. Up to a point, you can't help admiring Malraux (I don't forget how impressed I once was by The Voices of Silence and the idea of a "mus?e imaginaire" stocked with the mechanical reproductions whose impact on art and its sacred reputation Walter Benjamin, in my view, completely misjudged), but there is something solemnly absurd about the French zeal for heroic whitewash, of which Mitterrand's-and his socialist cronies'-resurrection is but the latest, democratic instance.
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if chirac keeps his head, and Mitterrand's posthumous counsel, he may yet contrive his personal apotheosis from the implosion of what was once his party. Should Jospin have a successful lease of office, the president will be able to indicate that it is due to his own salutary hand on the tiller; if not, he can pose as the only man who fought the good fight against socialo-communism and, thanks to the electorate's selective memory, he can still be a shoo-in for re-election in 2002. The worse or the better things are for France, the more certainly a cool, cynical president can reap the benefits. But how cool, and how cynical, is Chici?
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if you want to avoid anyone listening, you have only to speak well of your friends. All the same, I should like to puff (but not flatter) Anthony Frewin and Michael Schmidt, both of whose new books appear first in paperback and thus have not excited literary editors or the publicists who prod them. Frewin's thriller, London Blues, has a sweetly accurate period flavour. The author's memories of a vanished, pre-Docklands London and of the seedy, sagging decadence of the Macmillan era give his story a blue-black, contusive conviction. His anti-hero makes blue movies and gets mixed up, very nastily, with Stephen Ward. Frewin's use of old news is more imaginative, and erotic, than John Banville's in The Untouchable, but Banville has the small advantage of being a literary editor and so will, no doubt, win fraternal publicity and one of those many major prizes.
Michael Schmidt, who edits Poetry Nation Review and runs the Carcanet Press, has added a set of important and impressive new work to his Selected Poems, 1972-97. The sequence entitled "The Love of Strangers" is both outspoken and tactful, sure-footed and modest. Born in Mexico, with German grandparents, Schmidt is a man of composite allegiances and artistic integrity. His memory is sweetly and, as Nabokov required, cruelly accurate in its caressing of details. How Mexican of Michael to have carved out his own heart and offered it to the reader, hot!
