One of the recurring themes in those books on the diplomatic prehistory of the second World War which have come to us from the former enemy countries is the plight of the professional diplomat, whose training and knowledge convinced him that the policy of his government was leading straight to disaster but whose advice was seldom solicited and never followed. The memoirs of Erich Kordt, of Herbert von Dirksen, and of Rudolf Rahn, the books of Elisabetta Cerruti, Mario Donosti, and Filippo Anfuso include abundant and circumstantial evidence of the lack of influence exercised in matters of high policy by the permanent staffs of the Foreign Offices of Germany and Italy and by their agents in the field.

Speculation about the future, particularly about the nature and character of the problems which Americans may have to face in foreign policy, is admittedly risky. It is particularly so at a time when international society is far from static and domestic policy in a score of states may at any moment directly influence and even fundamentally change the balance of power as it now exists. Nevertheless, such speculation can be justified. However effective present policy may be judged to be, few would be brash enough to assert that “we planned it that way.” Postwar American policy, in the main, has not been planned: it has consisted until very recently of a series of reactions to the diplomatic and military initiative exercised by the Soviet Union and its satellites. These reactions have created a current pattern of policy for the United States which contains more long-range commitments for this country than at any previous time in American history. Future policy obviously must operate within the limits established by these commitments. Yet these are fairly broad in character in many areas of the world and any one of a number of policies might be chosen. It is not too soon to begin to plan now for some of the problems the United States will face in the very near future.

In the second half of the seventeenth century, European philosophers began to regard the enlightenment of ignorant and prejudiced people as a means of reducing persecution and of promoting just and reasonable government. In international affairs, the first dramatic application of this doctrine occurred during the wars of the French Revolution when diplomacy, the traditional form of elite communication, was supplemented by missionary appeals to the common man on the enemy side. Since that time, the technology of communication has greatly improved; ever larger literate masses of the population participate in politics and war; the social homogeneity of the political elites in various nations has been lost, and in the West the ideas of liberty and equality have been drained of their revolutionary power.

Ever since Woodrow Wilson, in the course of his attempts to lay a new and secure basis for peace after the First World War, proclaimed the necessity for “open covenants of peace, openly arrived at,” the methods of diplomacy have been regarded as having had their part in bringing about the outbreak of the First World War, and the demand for a “new diplomacy” has been raised. Although this concept has come into frequent use only in our century, it was soon realized that its history could be raced back into the nineteenth century, but its exact provenance has never been fully established. This article will show that the term can be found even earlier than is generally assumed, namely as early as 1793. As in all such disputes about the origin of a term, it would be ridiculous to maintain that this was definitely the first time this concept made its appearance, but it seems justified to propose that the concept definitely belongs to the second part of the eighteenth century.

The mainsprings of Soviet action, expressed locally and generally, are a theme which has confounded scholars and journalists for more than three decades. A lack of adequate documentation has contributed to the dilemma of those seeking to resolve the enigma that is Russia. One obvious consequence has been to rely heavily upon the doctrinal premises in an abundant Marxist literature. This is understandable, but it is also an invitation to innumerable pitfalls because of the variety of ways in which Soviet society and Soviet policies can be conceptualized. A further danger is the loss of perspective. One cannot lightly ignore the factor of a people's historical experience, conditioned as it is, in part, by persistent geographic and economic forces. The culminating error is to overlook the frequent gaps which exist between professed aims and Soviet capacity to achieve them. Considering Soviet foreign policy as a whole, one is impressed with the fact that it has been pursued with a realistic evaluation of the consequences. Not since the early years of the revolutionary era has there been any reckless pursuit of ideological ends without a careful inventory of the available resources of power.

In international relations, two opposing schools of thought have fought each other throughout the modern age. Ever since Machiavelli published the Prince, his “realistic” views have shocked “idealist” thinkers. As a battle of the mind, fought by and large outside the political arena, the dispute between the two schools was of great concern to philosophers and moralists; but not until Woodrow Wilson set out to bring Utopia down to earth did it become a political issue of the first magnitude. For the first time, the responsible head of one of the leading powers acted as though the world were on the verge of crossing the thresh-old from sordid “power politics” to a “new era” in which the admonitions of the idealist philosophers would suddenly become the political order of the day.

In the general election of June 1951, the French Communist Party lost almost 10 per cent of the votes it had obtained in 1946 and, thanks to an electoral system that was designed to reduce its parliamentary representation, almost half of its deputies. These results should not be interpreted as a serious defeat for a party that still holds the allegiance of one-quarter of the French people. Its loss of votes, particularly among peasant and middle-class elements, did not affect its major strongholds in industrial areas and in some agricultural regions. Communism in France remains a major political force in a position to threaten both political stability and capacity for effective military defense. The presence of a strong Communist Party, and to a lesser extent of a Gaullist Party that is in part its by-product, prevents the coalition government from adopting a forceful and constructive policy and giving the French people a sense of effective leadership.

One of the factors in world politics which social scientists are beginning to subject to systematic analysis is that of elite behavior in international relations. While hypotheses about elite behavior appear to be not only essential to, but also implicit in, any formulation of foreign policy, it still requires to be demonstrated whether research of this order has any operational utility. Clearly, many students in this field have not articulated their assumptions about the conduct of elite groups in foreign affairs; it is often doubted that hypotheses based upon intensive investigation of the doctrine of elites and their cultural matrices have any bearing on the analyses usually pursued in the study of international relations.

On April 12, 1945, the day of President Roosevelt's death and eighteen days before the Russians took Berlin, American forces crossed the Elbe near Magdeburg, some fifty miles from the German capital. A second bridgehead was established across the Elbe on the 13th. On the following day, a German counterattack forced U.S. units to withdraw from their northern bridgehead, while retaining the one in the south. These elements were ordered to hold in place, and other units arriving at the Elbe were turned toward objectives south and north along the west bank of the river. On May 5, a week before the Russians entered Prague, the Third U.S. Army had advance spearheads inside the Czechoslovak frontiers and, on the day the war ended, General Patton was in a position to send aid to the Czechoslovak capital. Despite the pleas of Czechoslovak leaders in Prague and London, these units were not sent forward.

The French elections of June 1951 and the serious difficulties experienced by the victorious constitutional parties in the formation of a government call attention once more to the problems of a parliamentary system in a multiparty state, and underline the urgency of a redefinition of the roles of parties and government within a constitutional democracy. These developments also draw attention to the basic constitutional problems which affect the political stability of France, and thereby weaken the Western community. With an occasional glance at parallel Italian developments, this article will first analyze the new electoral law and the election returns before proceeding to a discussion of the constitutional issues that contribute to the deepening crisis of the Fourth Republic.

The war in Indo-China, sinister, bloody, and seemingly endless, presents as curious a farrago of paradoxes and incongruities as any in recent military history. For one thing, its character has changed from a colonial to a civil war. It has changed from a war fought for the restitution of French sovereignty by a professional, traditionally colonial army to a war in which the same army is still fighting, but now side by side with native troops for the avowed purpose of securing the former colony's independence against the threat of Communist imperialism. Thus, in a sense, it has also become an international war, with Indo-China one of the areas ignited by the friction between the free and the Communist worlds. Indeed, it may be argued that the French forces in Indo-China are fighting the flank action of another and greater conflict, the main line of resistance of which lies somewhere between the 38th Parallel and the Yalu River in Korea.

Foreign policy, the very existence of which Soviet leaders admitted only hesitatingly during the green years of the Revolution—although they availed themselves of it as an indispensable tool from the moment they gained power—has become a primary weapon in safeguarding the interests of the “Socialist Fatherland” and propagating the struggle against “world capitalism.”

The Soviet-Yugoslav dispute and the subsequent defection of the Yugoslav Communist Party from the ranks of the Cominform early in 1948 took the world by surprise. This surprise was in itself indicative of our belief that Stalinist control was to be taken for granted at least in the areas where the local Communist parties had come to power through direct or indirect help from the Soviet Union and particularly from the Red Army. Even when no such help had been given, the ideological affinities of Communist states and their need of alliances to preserve the Communist power structures would lead, it was believed, to a tightening of relations with the Soviet Union and to Soviet predominance. In other words, we tended to accept without question the premises of Stalinism.

An eminent French historian once wrote: “Consider the revolutions of the Renaissance: in them you will find all the passions, all the spirit, and all the language of the French Revolution.” With some reservations, one might also say that if one considers the Great French Revolution, one can find in it the passions, the spirit, and the language of the Russian Revolution. This is true to such an extent that it is absolutely necessary for the student of recent Russian history to view it every now and then through the French prism. (The student of the French Revolution, too, may gain new insights if occasionally he analyzes his subject in the light of the Russian experience.) Historical analogy by itself is, of course, only one of the many angles from which he ought to approach his subject; and it may be downright misleading if he merely contents himself with assembling the points of formal resemblance between historical situations. “History is concrete”; and this means, among other things, that every event or situation is unique, regardless of its possible similarity to other events and situations. In drawing any analogy, it is therefore important to know where the analogy ends. I hope that I shall not offend badly against this rule; and I would like to acknowledge my great debt to the eminent French historians whose works on the French Revolution have helped me to gain new insights into the Russian Revolution.

In a previous article we attempted to examine the intricate net in which geography and the study of international relations are interwoven. The basic problem with which we dealt was the partitioning of the space available to men. Our conclusion was that this partitioned, differentiated space is organized: by studying its organization, geography can describe and analyze a network of relations in space which is both useful and at times indispensable to an understanding of international relations.

The analysis of any human concept is infinitely and inevitably complicated by the mental processes of the original user and the investigator. Dedication to objectivity by the analyst can usually prevent only the more obvious, and not always the most important, psycho-cultural pressures which condition or determine both the content and the method of the analysis, to say nothing of its purpose and material. In turn, the concept under examination, even though it is necessarily rendered an object isolate for intensive review, remains and must be treated as essentially a living precipitate of the entire environment in which it was born and nourished.

In February 1948 few people in Czechoslovakia could size up the full implications of the Communist coup. The bulk of non-Communist public opinion was, to say the least, bewildered by the rapidity of events and confused about the real issues involved. Its attitude reflected this state of mind. The political parties to which it traditionally owed allegiance collapsed overnight. Their duly elected leaders were immediately muzzled. President Benes, on whom in the final analysis the total burden of stopping the Communist onslaught rested, and from whom the nation would normally expect its cue, gave none, unless his passive acceptance of the fait accompli with which he was presented were to be construed as a sign for the people to do likewise.

Ten years ago Harcourt, Brace and Company published America's Strategy in World Politics. It was written by Nicholas John Spykman, Professor of International Relations at Yale University from 1928 until his death in 1943, and first director of the Institute of International Studies at Yale. Critics recognized that the book was important, but agreed on little else. One reviewer hailed it as “brilliant, incisive, provocative, well-reasoned, well-written, and altogether admirable as an analysis of American foreign policy from a point of view all too long neglected in the United States.” On the other hand, a second reviewer bitterly asked, “What were those eminent scholars at Yale thinking about when they let such an idea loose [that the United States might need German and Japanese power after the war]? … Such guessing and surmising is not objective political science, it is not anything but the expression of mental discomfort that the learned gentleman feels in a world that, despite his own cold-blooded cult of political realism, does not appear to be moving in the direction suggested by his own wishful thinking.” And there was more, much more, both pro and con. Despite a laudatory, front-page review, complete with picture, in the New York Times Book Review, Professor Spykman probably, if the score were totaled, did no better than break even.

There seems little doubt that the defense and strengthening of the “free world” in our time depends largely upon American leadership. Confidence that America will continue to play this role in world affairs is weakened by the memory of America's political isolation following World War I, and by certain currents of American opinion noted by observers since World War II.1 Barbara Ward warns the peoples of the West that “we shall certainly fail unless our effort is at once sustained, calm and supremely positive.”

The idea of “policy science” is not a new one. In fact, it is organic to the Western tradition. Its first, incomparable formulation is found in Plato's Republic; policy, the Platonic Socrates says, can be reasonable and sound only if it is based upon the fullness of scientific insight and knowledge. According to the Platonic conception, it is not even enough to apply scientific knowledge, gathered by specialists, to practical policy problems which the rulers are to decide. Rather, the rulers themselves must acquire all the scientific knowledge needed to frame reasonable policy. The duality of the “expert adviser” and of the “decision-maker” who merely listens to him is implicitly rejected in the Republic. The ruler himself must be the knower. For the decisive thing is not knowledge in the abstract, knowledge as something impersonally available and ready to be picked up; it is knowledge conceived as the quality of a soul. According to the Platonic (and Aristotelian) view, knowledge is not an alien material “contained” in the mind, but the “form,” the ideal essence of the mind itself, so that a mind that knows belongs to a different species than the mind that lacks knowledge. In acquiring knowledge, the mind becomes essentially transformed, it acquires a new form; this is the original meaning of the term “information.” In its Platonic sense, then, the idea of “policy science” refers to the soul of the ruler, which must be the highest species of soul.