A HISTORY TEACHER MAKES HISTORY

THE man whose words and deeds are most crucial to the negotiations at Geneva is a small, enigmatic Frenchman who set out to teach history, not to help make it. Foreign Minister Georges Bidault, 54, speaks for the divided mind and flagging spirit of France. But his own mind is undivided: more than most Frenchmen, he has a passionate dislike of the Communists.

Bowler & Pince Nez. Bidault comes from central France, the son of an insurance man. He taught himself to read at six, and was educated by the Jesuits. Bidault was deeply influenced by a scholarship prize he won at the age of 15: a book on Montalembert, the 19th century political philosopher who strove to fuse Roman Catholicism with Liberalism. Bidault went on to the Sorbonne, then to teaching (history and geography) in a lycee. In his 30s Bidault looked so young that a proctor at the school once reprimanded him for smoking; he took to wearing a bowler hat and pince-nez in order to look older.

The schoolteacher lived an austere bachelor's life in a Left Bank jumble of books, unmarked exercise papers and unmade bedclothes. But Bidault was a stickler for neatness and order in personal appearance and in matters of the mind.

On the side, Bidault wrote editorials daily for the Roman Catholic L'Aube. Still remembered by some are those he wrote about Spain's civil war--an event that produced a spiritual crisis for Bidault. As a Catholic he was drawn to the Franco side, but as a republican democrat he was drawn to the Loyalist side. In what has since become a well-known--and often infuriating--Bidault habit, he held a kind of parliamentary debate within his mind, eventually summoning up a majority for a decision. The debate in the case of Spain resulted in a series of passionate anti-Franco editorials.

Official Greeter. When World War II came, he volunteered for the fighting front, but was captured by the Germans before he could do much soldiering. Luck was with him. Because he had been drafted briefly in World War I, Bidault was released by the Nazis in a general parole of World War I veterans. He made his way to Lyon, ostensibly to resume teaching. But instead, the meek-seeming little professor undertook the hazardous life of an underground patriot. He joined a Roman Catholic resistance group named Combat, soon was publicly identified as a resister and had to plunge into hiding, ultimately became known throughout the French Resistance movement for his ability to smooth over differing points of view.

In 1943 when "Max"--Jean Moulin--was caught and killed by the Nazis, Bidault was chosen to replace him as chief of the Resistance. The Gestapo marked him for torture and death, frequently came close to catching him. But it was Georges Bidault who gave the signal for Paris' rise against the occupiers in 1944, and who was there to greet General Charles de Gaulle on his triumphal return with the Franco-American Liberation forces.

Many politicians have come and gone since that day, but Georges Bidault has hung on. In the ten years--and 19 cabinets--since, he has been out of office only 33 months, has been Premier twice (for 14 months in all), Vice Premier four times, Defense Minister twice, Foreign Minister eight times. To his countrymen, to the diplomats of other governments, even to those who know him best, there is no clear answer to how Georges Bidault has done it. He has no real copains (buddies), and only a few who consider themselves friends; Bidault has barely concealed his feeling that most of his colleagues in the National Assembly are fools, knaves or both. He will eat barely enough to keep alive, and then usually at the insistence of his wife (the first woman ever admitted to the French career diplomatic service; Bidault married her in 1945). He seeks diversion only in collecting stamps which he rarely files.

Dogs & Cats. At dinner parties--where he may nibble nothing but the lemon slice on a filet--Bidault sometimes amuses himself by classifying each guest as "dog" or "cat." He insists he is "dog," but many others--including Madame Bidault--would classify Georges Bidault as "cat." He has a catlike walk, a heavy-lidded, sleepy, catlike look, and a catlike smile. In politics and diplomacy he walks fences with a cat's tread, pounces like a tiger on a succulent opportunity.

There have been times when it seemed that ambivalence was Georges Bidault's chief stock in trade. The quality is essential to political survival in France, helpful to a diplomat, but frequently maddening to those who must do business with him. Bidault speaks in images and parables, abhors the straight yes or no. A bureaucrat asks if he will accept a luncheon invitation. "If only I am hungry by then . . ." murmurs Bidault obliquely. The bureaucrat backs away, unsure whether the date is set or not. Bidault is apt to speak similarly of bigger issues--EDC, the Saar, Indo-China. Commented one American in Paris: "A harsh critic might say that Bidault is the man who has brought the double-entendre from French farce into French diplomacy."

But underneath the sly, somnolent exterior, there is more. Under the wartime threat of torture and death, he was cool and brave. Under the pressures of cold war, he has held courageously to the proposition that for France, survival lies in loyal alliance with the U.S. At the Berlin Conference, with a divided government and country behind him, he spoke out firmly and unequivocally. "He is a realist who will not let the dream of the best prevent him from grasping the good," said one who considers himself a friend. "The core of Bidault is rigidly moral and deeply religious." On such a man last week fell the bitter task of laying before the Communists France's terms of retreat in Indo-China.

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