H-Diplo ESSAY 242
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H-Diplo ESSAY 242 Essay Series on Learning the Scholar’s Craft: Reflections of Historians and International Relations Scholars 9 June 2020 A Mid-Atlantic Identity1 https://hdiplo.org/to/E242 Series Editor: Diane Labrosse | Production Editor: George Fujii Essay by Robert O. Paxton, Columbia University, Emeritus smallish town in the Virginia Appalachians might seem impossibly remote from France. Even so, France was actively present in my home town in the 1930s and 1940s. Lexington is a college town. Two professors of French A were frequent dinner guests of my parents. My piano teacher and church choir director, another frequent dinner guest, had studied in Nadia Boulanger’s famous summer course at Fontainebleau. A Catalan painter, Pierre Daura, had met a Virginia girl at the École des Beaux Arts in Paris and married her. Exiled from Franco’s Spain, the Dauras made their home at St.-Cirque-la Popie in the département of the Lot. When war broke out in 1939, they resettled in the countryside near Lexington. My father, a lawyer, helped Pierre Daura with his citizenship papers. The Dauras were joined for a while by their brother-in-law, the better-known French painter Jean Hélion. I still have the copy of Hélion’s memoirs that he inscribed to my mother. The isolated local intelligentsia of my parents’ generation in American small towns valued France as an indispensable link to the cultivated outside world. That is probably less true in today’s multicultural climate. The two world wars made France still more salient for my parents’ generation and for my own as well. My father was just getting into uniform when World War I ended, but his first cousin reached France in 1918 as a volunteer in a decorated ambulance unit. It was the high point of this shy man’s life. My parents were grieved by the defeat of France in 1940 and supported President Franklin D. Roosevelt fervently in his struggle to overcome isolationism and contribute to the defeat of Adolf Hitler. My older brother was just getting into his uniform when World War II ended, but by then it was Japan that was on our minds. The D-Day landings took place just a week before my twelfth birthday. I followed the liberation of France on maps at school and at home in the evening around the radio with my parents. Listening to the news was a significant event in my household; the local weekly newspaper in Lexington was the family enterprise. Our interest in the Normandy landings became more personal when a cousin, John Paxton from Kansas City, stopped by on his way to board a troopship in New York. Almost everyone knew someone fighting in France. A small town near us, Bedford, Virginia, lost nineteen boys with the 29th Infantry Division on Omaha Beach on D-Day and the next day, the highest casualty rate in the United States in proportion to the size of the town. 1 This is an edited version of Robert Paxton’s essay that was originally published in Why France? American Historians Reflect on an Enduring Fascination, edited by Laura Lee Downs and Stéphane Gerson. Copyright © 2006 by Cornell University. It appears here, in slightly edited form, with the kind permission of the author and of the publisher, Cornell University Press. © 2020 The Authors | CC BY-NC-ND 3.0 US H-Diplo Essay 242 Dissatisfied with the local high school, my parents sent me in 1948 to the Phillips Exeter Academy in New Hampshire for my last two years of secondary school. Exeter brought Europe decisively into my universe. My teachers at Exeter, like most in their profession, took it for granted that familiarity with European history and culture defined an educated person. It was at Exeter that I began to study French. My older brother had studied Spanish, but he had come to feel that this choice had been a mistake. I recall quite clearly my mother’s assertion that French was the language that opened up the greatest Page | 2 literary and cultural riches. So the decision was made. Fortunately I had two master teachers of French in secondary school and college, Paul Everett and Francis Drake. Both swept their classes along with an infectious enthusiasm for mastering the pronunciation of u and for the fables of La Fontaine. Even today I can recite “Le renard et le corbeau.” All my French teachers (none of them French) took for granted that France was the country where intellectuals were the most appreciated. That sounded good to me. Other influences at Exeter were decisive. Henry W. Bragdon’s history courses, including History 6 (modern Europe), made me want to become a historian. Then there was Harry Francis, who had come back to graduate from Exeter after a year at the University of Grenoble. Harry had done serious climbing in the French Alps and had an easy familiarity with classical music and painting (his father was on the staff of the Cleveland Museum). He seemed to me almost impossibly sophisticated, infinitely more interesting than my other more provincial classmates. After homework at night we sometimes went out for a cup of cocoa, and I would try out my French on him. Shortly before graduation, we camped for a weekend on Mount Washington. I dreamed of someday acquiring as much European polish as Harry. The summer after my graduation from Exeter, in June 1950, my father took the whole family to Europe. London was the principal destination, as my parents wanted to commune with their English roots. It was unthinkable to miss Paris, however. We spent a week at the Hotel Lutetia without having the slightest idea about that hotel’s sinister role as Gestapo headquarters during the occupation or about the dramatic scenes of reunion that took place at the Lutetia when the survivors of the Nazi camps returned in 1945. I was so excited by my first landfall in Europe that I had been on deck for hours since dawn. Even as the Queen Elizabeth came alongside the pier at Southampton I could see that everything was strange. I was looking down at railroad wagons, trucks, cars, and houses, but none of them looked like the railroad wagons, trucks, cars, and houses that I was used to. The landscape was impossibly green. I had read Montesquieu’s Lettres persanes at Exeter (“Comment peut-on être persan?”). Now I wondered how one could be English and live amidst such total unfamiliarity. Such radical otherness was not disagreeable. It was exhilarating. It gave me a lifelong taste for exploring distant places, experiencing unfamiliar landscapes, and living abroad. Although I have now visited every continent, only once—in Antarctica—could I recapture that full shock of discovery I felt on seeing the coast of Kent in 1950. The trip also confirmed my fascination for the war I had followed from a safe distance as a schoolboy. World War II was still a palpable presence in Britain and France in the summer of 1950. Physical destruction was ubiquitous in London. Acres of the city around Saint Paul’s Cathedral lay in ruins, and most of the Christopher Wren churches that we wanted to see had been burned out. Physically Paris seemed intact but shabby. I was quite unaware of the emotional ruins that lay hidden behind that façade of normality. My decision to become a historian affirmed itself gradually through high school and college. I do not recall a single decisive moment of choosing. Many of my family’s friends were professors; my parents did not share the general American condescension for that profession. As for history, I had grown up in a family for whom the past was a vivid presence. My parents were keenly interested in their English ancestors, even though they had left in the seventeenth century, and in the early history of Virginia. Their idea of a good time was a visit to Monticello, Carter’s Grove Plantation, or Westover, the seventeenth-century estate of William Byrd. © 2020 The Authors | CC BY-NC-ND 3.0 US H-Diplo Essay 242 It was the American Civil War that engaged my family’s historical interests most actively. My father’s grandfather, a brigadier general in the Confederate Army, was killed in the battle of Chancellorsville on 3 May 1863. From where we lived we could see his substantial house on a hilltop, occupied by another family since 1865. My father in the 1940s even chased down some of the furniture that had been dispersed in 1865, and we had to endure a cripplingly uncomfortable Empire sofa. Lexington contained the tombs of Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson, and my grandmother was one of the local volunteers who showed tourists around the Lee Chapel. The town had been occupied and partly burned by Union troops Page | 3 under General David Hunter in 1864, after which a Confederate officer from Lexington led a raid that burned Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, to the ground. The Civil War was not a remote abstraction to the people of Lexington. I did not want to become a historian of these familiar matters, however. It was not (as my French friends tend to think) that there was not enough history in Virginia; the trouble was that there was too much of it. I wanted to know about other pasts. Instead of studying history in order to reinforce my original identity, I thought that the study of another history might liberate me from the American South’s provincialism and culture of victimhood and help me move out into a larger world.