Review
This spring I ran into ex-McClelland and Stewart publisher Doug Gibson at a Toronto gathering of environmentalists, one of whom was an author of his. During the ensuing conversation, the subject of Pierre Trudeau’s youthful memoirs came up, and Gibson expressed his dismay that Trudeau had permitted the writings on which they’re based to be included in the material he deposited within the National Archive of Canada at the end of his life. When we spoke the rumours were already flying-mostly out of Quebec-that Trudeau’s memoir demonstrated that in his youth he had ideas which didn’t exactly coincide with the federalist Trudeau Canadians know and either revere or loathe. In the years before the end of the Second World War, according to the rumours, the father of our constitution was a proto-fascist, anti-Semitic separatist busily plotting ways to take Quebec out of Canada and out of the anti-fascist alliance fighting Nazi Germany. Gibson was clearly bothered by these disclosures, and as the book’s publisher (he now edits his own paperback imprint at M&S, and seems happy to have left management to do what drew him to book publishing in the first place), he was confirming that they were true.
I pointed out to him that Quebecois luminaries like Lysiane Gagnon would be all too willing to do what they could to discredit Trudeau (she was “extremely shocked”), and I argued, without having seen the book, that this simply meant that Trudeau possessed the capacity to evolve. I also noted that nearly all of us have had funny ideas while we were young. I believed in the inevitability of an American invasion of Canada during the late 1960s, and I demonstrated the sincerity of my belief by buying a hunting rifle so I could defend our borders. It was a foolish belief, and I changed it when I understood the world better. What’s the problem?
But as I reran the conversation in the days that followed, I was reminded of one of the most important lessons I learned in university from Robin Blaser: that competent intellectuals can not permit themselves to blame thinkers for not knowing, say, in 1941, what was uncovered only in the decade that followed. Context, in other words, is not an optional parameter unless you’re training to be a Mullah. Equally important, it is poor intellectual method to be blaming people in the past for not agreeing with whatever now happens to be swirling around our dopey heads as received wisdom.
I think Gibson was worried that any revelations about Trudeau’s wacky post-adolescent ideas would undermine his reputation and discredit federalism. And given that our universities have by now degraded the conditions of knowledge sufficiently to make common practice of judging the past by present standards (don’t get me started on intellectual Mullahism that has become a non-denominational vice in Academia), his concern is legitimate.
The Nemni biography, now in print in William Johnson’s translation, offers a clearly sympathetic view of Trudeau as a privileged young French Canadian growing into and through his Jesuit intellectual training, which valued order and obedience over liberty. Did young Trudeau hold immoderate views? Yes, of course, particularly in terms of today’s values. But we should remember that until Trudeau himself helped to transform Quebec in the 2nd decade after World War II, the province was a closed society run by the Catholic church and a wealthy oligarchy of self-serving xenophobes. Was it a hotbed of anti-Semitic near fascists? Yes, but only in degree compared to the rest of the country. Quebec’s hostile response to conscription during both World Wars is surprising only to those who don’t understand the province’s sentimental connection to France began with de Gaulle’s notorious 1967 declaration of solidarity with Quebec separatism. In the first half of the 20th century, France was everything Quebec’s theocratic elite despised: a liberal republic, cosmopolitan and politically chaotic-hardly the ideal of censorious Jesuit dreams. Pierre Trudeau would have had to be autistic not to have picked up those views.
Yet if Trudeau was immoderate, he was not quite a fool. He read well beyond the prescribed Jesuit canon, took copious notes, and made discriminating judgements. For instance, a 1941 memoir entry, concerning the drawbacks of democracy cites “ignorance, credulity, intolerance, hatred for superiority, the cult of incompetence, an excess of equality, versatility, the passions of the crowd, the envy of individuals.” Those are the weaknesses of democracy, past and present. Then there are its virtues, the loyalty to which, without an understanding of the weaknesses, is merely sentimental faith, itself a dangerous kind of extremism we’re drowning in today.
The authors’ portrait of Trudeau is of a young man lodged securely in the values of his time and society. Even then, his intellectual energy and precision of mind prepared him-perhaps forced him-to move beyond its limitations. When he reached Harvard at the end of the war, the transformation to more cosmopolitan views was predictable, and not long in coming. In reality, the Nemni biography has provided a further texture to Trudeau’s greatness. It is a book worthy of our close attention.
Brian Fawcett (Books in Canada)
-- Books in Canada
I pointed out to him that Quebecois luminaries like Lysiane Gagnon would be all too willing to do what they could to discredit Trudeau (she was “extremely shocked”), and I argued, without having seen the book, that this simply meant that Trudeau possessed the capacity to evolve. I also noted that nearly all of us have had funny ideas while we were young. I believed in the inevitability of an American invasion of Canada during the late 1960s, and I demonstrated the sincerity of my belief by buying a hunting rifle so I could defend our borders. It was a foolish belief, and I changed it when I understood the world better. What’s the problem?
But as I reran the conversation in the days that followed, I was reminded of one of the most important lessons I learned in university from Robin Blaser: that competent intellectuals can not permit themselves to blame thinkers for not knowing, say, in 1941, what was uncovered only in the decade that followed. Context, in other words, is not an optional parameter unless you’re training to be a Mullah. Equally important, it is poor intellectual method to be blaming people in the past for not agreeing with whatever now happens to be swirling around our dopey heads as received wisdom.
I think Gibson was worried that any revelations about Trudeau’s wacky post-adolescent ideas would undermine his reputation and discredit federalism. And given that our universities have by now degraded the conditions of knowledge sufficiently to make common practice of judging the past by present standards (don’t get me started on intellectual Mullahism that has become a non-denominational vice in Academia), his concern is legitimate.
The Nemni biography, now in print in William Johnson’s translation, offers a clearly sympathetic view of Trudeau as a privileged young French Canadian growing into and through his Jesuit intellectual training, which valued order and obedience over liberty. Did young Trudeau hold immoderate views? Yes, of course, particularly in terms of today’s values. But we should remember that until Trudeau himself helped to transform Quebec in the 2nd decade after World War II, the province was a closed society run by the Catholic church and a wealthy oligarchy of self-serving xenophobes. Was it a hotbed of anti-Semitic near fascists? Yes, but only in degree compared to the rest of the country. Quebec’s hostile response to conscription during both World Wars is surprising only to those who don’t understand the province’s sentimental connection to France began with de Gaulle’s notorious 1967 declaration of solidarity with Quebec separatism. In the first half of the 20th century, France was everything Quebec’s theocratic elite despised: a liberal republic, cosmopolitan and politically chaotic-hardly the ideal of censorious Jesuit dreams. Pierre Trudeau would have had to be autistic not to have picked up those views.
Yet if Trudeau was immoderate, he was not quite a fool. He read well beyond the prescribed Jesuit canon, took copious notes, and made discriminating judgements. For instance, a 1941 memoir entry, concerning the drawbacks of democracy cites “ignorance, credulity, intolerance, hatred for superiority, the cult of incompetence, an excess of equality, versatility, the passions of the crowd, the envy of individuals.” Those are the weaknesses of democracy, past and present. Then there are its virtues, the loyalty to which, without an understanding of the weaknesses, is merely sentimental faith, itself a dangerous kind of extremism we’re drowning in today.
The authors’ portrait of Trudeau is of a young man lodged securely in the values of his time and society. Even then, his intellectual energy and precision of mind prepared him-perhaps forced him-to move beyond its limitations. When he reached Harvard at the end of the war, the transformation to more cosmopolitan views was predictable, and not long in coming. In reality, the Nemni biography has provided a further texture to Trudeau’s greatness. It is a book worthy of our close attention.
Brian Fawcett (Books in Canada)
-- Books in Canada
Book Description
This book shines a light of devastating clarity on French-Canadian society in the 1930s and 1940s, when young elites were raised to be pro-fascist, and democratic and liberal were terms of criticism. The model leaders to be admired were good Catholic dictators like Mussolini, Salazar in Portugal, Franco in Spain, and especially Pétain, collaborator with the Nazis in Vichy France. There were even demonstrations against Jews who were demonstrating against what the Nazis were doing in Germany.
Trudeau, far from being the rebel that other biographers have claimed, embraced this ideology. At his elite school, Brébeuf, he was a model student, the editor of the school magazine, and admired by the staff and his fellow students. But the fascist ideas and the people he admired – even when the war was going on, as late as 1944 – included extremists so terrible that at the war’s end they were shot. And then there’s his manifesto and his plan to stage a revolution against les Anglais.
This is astonishing material – and it’s all demonstrably true – based on personal papers of Trudeau that the authors were allowed to access after his death.What they have found has astounded and distressed them, but they both agree that the truth must be published.
Translated from the forthcoming French edition by William Johnson, this explosive book is sure to hit the headlines.
Trudeau, far from being the rebel that other biographers have claimed, embraced this ideology. At his elite school, Brébeuf, he was a model student, the editor of the school magazine, and admired by the staff and his fellow students. But the fascist ideas and the people he admired – even when the war was going on, as late as 1944 – included extremists so terrible that at the war’s end they were shot. And then there’s his manifesto and his plan to stage a revolution against les Anglais.
This is astonishing material – and it’s all demonstrably true – based on personal papers of Trudeau that the authors were allowed to access after his death.What they have found has astounded and distressed them, but they both agree that the truth must be published.
Translated from the forthcoming French edition by William Johnson, this explosive book is sure to hit the headlines.
About the Author
Max and Monique Nemni are retired university professors who spent most of their working lives in Quebec. They were friends of Trudeau, who encouraged them to become the editors of Cité Libre and agreed to let them write his intellectual biography. The authors have both been much published in academic publications in both English and in French. They now live in Toronto.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
A February afternoon in 1995, we were driving along Highway 20 on our way to Montreal. We had left Quebec City planning to arrive at our destination an hour early. We did not want to take a chance on being late for our meeting with Pierre Trudeau. But, what with the snow-clogged roads, we arrived at the Indian restaurant on Crescent Street barely a few minutes before the appointed time. He, as usual, was punctual. We were quite nervous, and for good reason. We had come to talk about our plan to write his intellectual biography. We had known him, now, for five years. We had told him of our intention, and he had expressed an interest. He wanted to discuss it with us, and that was the reason for our encounter.
As we shared a convivial meal, we explained as best we could what we had in mind. Trudeau listened carefully and asked a few questions. It was not his private life that interested us particularly, we told him, but we wanted to focus on his ideas, his political vision, and on how they evolved from his earliest years. To what extent, when he was actually in power, was he able to apply his ideals? He listened with interest. Finally, with some concern in his voice, he asked: “And what do you expect of me?” “Not much, really,” we replied. “We might, as the occasion arises, want to ask you a few questions, have access to unpublished documents that you still keep at home, ask you to help us contact some of the people who were close to you . . .”
He kept nodding in agreement. “No problem,” he said. Then, after a silence, he added: “I presume that you will want to maintain your intellectual autonomy. I understand, and I approve. So here is what I suggest: you will show me each chapter as you go along, I will make my comments, and you do with them whatever you choose.”
We were stunned. It was all we could do not to jump up for joy. “That suits us perfectly,” we said, as calmly as possible.
The bill arrived. He wanted us to be his guests. We refused and insisted that we should be paying. “Well, then,” Trudeau said, “let’s do what I do with my pals. We will share the bill.” “That’s fine,” we said. “But that means that we pay two-thirds.” “No,” Trudeau said, speaking to Max. “We share fifty-fifty. I take half of Monique.” And so it happened. Until his death, he took half of Monique.
When we got back home, we were jubilant. We began working out our program and our timetable for the research that we were undertaking — until April.
Anne-Marie Bourdouxhe, the daughter of Trudeau’s long-time associate Gérard Pelletier, resigned as the publisher of the periodical Cité libre. Though we sat on the editorial board, we expressed not the slightest interest in replacing her, and for a simple reason. We had absolutely no experience in actually publishing a magazine. And besides, we had set out on a project that was much closer to our hearts. Weeks went by. For a variety of reasons, the board of directors was unable to agree on any of the available candidates. Beginning in March, the directors began courting us. They increased the pressure. With a referendum on the secession of Quebec just months away, they asked us how we could live with ourselves if we allowed the only French-language magazine that stood strongly against secession to die. We were unsettled. We did not know which way to turn.
After many sleepless nights, we met Trudeau in a Chinese restaurant one April evening to lay before him our dilemma: if we agreed to take on Cité libre, we must drop our projected biography. He was understanding, he shared our anxiety about the political situation in Quebec, and he came up with the suggestion that we agree to publish the magazine for a year, until the referendum was well behind us. And that was the decision that we conveyed, clearly spelled out, to the board of directors of Cité libre.
It happened, though, that no one had anticipated the extent of the trauma that the 1995 referendum would trigger, before as well as after the event, among those who voted Yes as well as among those who voted No. With no one in line to take over, we could not bring ourselves to abandon Cité libre. On the contrary, we became convinced that it must expand and be read from coast to coast, and in both official languages. That is what we carried out in 1998.
Meanwhile, our relationship with Trudeau had settled into a friendship. We spoke often on the phone, we used the familiar “tu” with each other, we met regularly until his death in 2000. During the five years that we published the review that he and Pelletier had founded, he gave us his unfailing moral support amid all the inevitable controversies. He listened sympathetically when, now and then, we expressed our dismay at being unable to work on his intellectual biography. And he would come back with the same answer: “What you are doing at Cité libre is very important. No one else can do it. As for the other project, there is no rush.” But there is a rush, we would counter. He would only laugh.
Time would tell that there was in fact a rush. Still, we do not regret our decision. But, since he left us, we have often wondered what this book would have been like if we had written it while he was alive. Would we have had access to the wealth of documents that have now been made available to us? And, if so, how would we have reacted to the discoveries that we have now come upon? Would we have had the courage to discuss them with him? And how would he have reacted? We cannot know for sure.
As we shared a convivial meal, we explained as best we could what we had in mind. Trudeau listened carefully and asked a few questions. It was not his private life that interested us particularly, we told him, but we wanted to focus on his ideas, his political vision, and on how they evolved from his earliest years. To what extent, when he was actually in power, was he able to apply his ideals? He listened with interest. Finally, with some concern in his voice, he asked: “And what do you expect of me?” “Not much, really,” we replied. “We might, as the occasion arises, want to ask you a few questions, have access to unpublished documents that you still keep at home, ask you to help us contact some of the people who were close to you . . .”
He kept nodding in agreement. “No problem,” he said. Then, after a silence, he added: “I presume that you will want to maintain your intellectual autonomy. I understand, and I approve. So here is what I suggest: you will show me each chapter as you go along, I will make my comments, and you do with them whatever you choose.”
We were stunned. It was all we could do not to jump up for joy. “That suits us perfectly,” we said, as calmly as possible.
The bill arrived. He wanted us to be his guests. We refused and insisted that we should be paying. “Well, then,” Trudeau said, “let’s do what I do with my pals. We will share the bill.” “That’s fine,” we said. “But that means that we pay two-thirds.” “No,” Trudeau said, speaking to Max. “We share fifty-fifty. I take half of Monique.” And so it happened. Until his death, he took half of Monique.
When we got back home, we were jubilant. We began working out our program and our timetable for the research that we were undertaking — until April.
Anne-Marie Bourdouxhe, the daughter of Trudeau’s long-time associate Gérard Pelletier, resigned as the publisher of the periodical Cité libre. Though we sat on the editorial board, we expressed not the slightest interest in replacing her, and for a simple reason. We had absolutely no experience in actually publishing a magazine. And besides, we had set out on a project that was much closer to our hearts. Weeks went by. For a variety of reasons, the board of directors was unable to agree on any of the available candidates. Beginning in March, the directors began courting us. They increased the pressure. With a referendum on the secession of Quebec just months away, they asked us how we could live with ourselves if we allowed the only French-language magazine that stood strongly against secession to die. We were unsettled. We did not know which way to turn.
After many sleepless nights, we met Trudeau in a Chinese restaurant one April evening to lay before him our dilemma: if we agreed to take on Cité libre, we must drop our projected biography. He was understanding, he shared our anxiety about the political situation in Quebec, and he came up with the suggestion that we agree to publish the magazine for a year, until the referendum was well behind us. And that was the decision that we conveyed, clearly spelled out, to the board of directors of Cité libre.
It happened, though, that no one had anticipated the extent of the trauma that the 1995 referendum would trigger, before as well as after the event, among those who voted Yes as well as among those who voted No. With no one in line to take over, we could not bring ourselves to abandon Cité libre. On the contrary, we became convinced that it must expand and be read from coast to coast, and in both official languages. That is what we carried out in 1998.
Meanwhile, our relationship with Trudeau had settled into a friendship. We spoke often on the phone, we used the familiar “tu” with each other, we met regularly until his death in 2000. During the five years that we published the review that he and Pelletier had founded, he gave us his unfailing moral support amid all the inevitable controversies. He listened sympathetically when, now and then, we expressed our dismay at being unable to work on his intellectual biography. And he would come back with the same answer: “What you are doing at Cité libre is very important. No one else can do it. As for the other project, there is no rush.” But there is a rush, we would counter. He would only laugh.
Time would tell that there was in fact a rush. Still, we do not regret our decision. But, since he left us, we have often wondered what this book would have been like if we had written it while he was alive. Would we have had access to the wealth of documents that have now been made available to us? And, if so, how would we have reacted to the discoveries that we have now come upon? Would we have had the courage to discuss them with him? And how would he have reacted? We cannot know for sure.
