EXTRAORDINARY DIRECTOR

Greymouth Evening Star, 6 February 1939, Page 8

EXTRAORDINARY DIRECTOR

CLEMENCEAU AND NEWSPAPER. Only those who, like myself, lived with Clemenceau and shared day by dgy bis journalistic and political life can know to what extent he managed to ignore detail, to shove it aside and eliminate it, usually without either politness or consideration, and often with cruel brutality, writes Paul Lombard, in “Gringoire,” Paris. He never allowed regret or repentance to cloud his horizon. If he disagreed with a

friend of 40 years’ standing, the friend was forgotten as though he had never been. A man who was his secretary for 20 years came in timidly, with a quivering voice, to announce that he was leaving. “All right, goodbye,” said Clemenceau. He was the most extraordinary managing director I ever met. He knew nothing about his newspaper how it existed, what its assets were, who were the editors, and what their capability. I worked in the next room, absolutely unknown to him, and. only chance brought u.s together. Clemenceau did not believe in talent or ability. Men to him were an amorphous, oscillating mass. He cared little who his associates were. To tell the truth, nobody fought for a job at the “Homme Libre” (Free Man), which became the “Homme Enchaine” (Chained Man) when the censor got busy at it and cut out large portions, notably Clemenceau’s article, “The Whole Truth.” This appeared in blank from the first line to the last. We looked on Clemenceau as an old fellow, a man who had lived too long. We called him “the old man,” and did not allow him much further expectation of life. And yet when he left the office it was to win the war, free the occupied territory, and save our national independence. He lived by an iron discipline, 1 counted every minute, and was sure of noahing but himself.

One evening Palul Gregario said to me in a whisper: “You are to get out the paper to-morrow. I have to leave.” “Well, then, introduce me to the old man.”

“No, he won’t have it. Hates introductions.”. “Then what am I to do?” “To-morrow at six, when he opens the door and calls you, you are to go in.”

The next, day, at six, Clemenceau, who had never spoken to me or seen me before, called me by someone else’s name and greeted me as simply as if I had been a relative or an old family friend. “So you are growing a beard?” “Why, Mr President, I am somebody else.” “So you are.” And he made no further allusions to the circumstances which had put me next in line to himself. He never even asked my name, but handed me his daily article and let me question him on some delicate points. He never took notes or kept note books. He would tear out a rough scrap of newspaper, cram it into his pocket, and that night, would hand me a ball of paper. “Here, take that and read it.”

OWN ARTICLES SUPREME. Nor did he care what matter appeared in his paper as long as his own articles got front space and showed no printer’s errors. The make-up editor knew this peculiarity, and never wasted any time on flhding suitable articles to go with Clemenceau’s. This work was left to the head printer, who decided where everything was to appear. Naturally there were all sorts of complaints. When a prominent senator protested that an. important speech, of his had been left out, Clemenceau,, who hated rows, isaid the guilty editor would have to he fired. Unfortunately, the firings went on the next day and the next, and recruiting became impossible.

Clemenceau would see anybody in the office; he believed that a newspaper should he a place for free conversation. At 8 o’clock he would get up, whistle to his dog, and go home. At 2 in the morning, when the paper had been run, I would send a confidential messenger to his home with a summary of (he evening’s happening’s, for Clemenceau’s article next day. This would be slipped’ under his pillow, where he found it when he woke at 5. He would get up, read it, and write his article immediately. We sent for it at 10, and at 6 it was laid on his desk all ready. He never changed or corrected it, save for some detail of style, no matter how violent he had been in the morning. He used to say, and therein was the secret of his life, his lucid will and action, “I have spent my whole life writing the same article.”