I have tried to lift France out of the mud. But she will return

The towering figure of Charles de Gaulle, soldier, statesman, and savior of a wounded nation, once lamented: “I have tried to lift France out of the mud. But she will return to her errors and vomitings. I cannot prevent the French from being French.” These words, tinged with both sorrow and pride, reveal the heart of a man who bore the weight of his country upon his shoulders — and knew, in the end, that no leader, no matter how great, can change the nature of his people. In this single confession lies the eternal struggle of every leader, every reformer, every dreamer who seeks to guide humanity toward the light, yet finds that the human spirit, stubborn and proud, often returns to its old ways.

To understand these words, one must see the world through de Gaulle’s eyes. He spoke as a man who had led France through fire — through the humiliation of occupation and the long night of the Second World War. When others surrendered, he stood unbroken. When his country lay shattered, he refused despair. From exile, he rallied the Free French, proclaiming that France was not dead so long as one Frenchman still fought for her honor. He became the voice of resistance, the embodiment of national dignity. And when victory came, he sought to rebuild not merely the state, but the soul of France — to raise her from the “mud,” as he called it, into the light of unity and purpose. Yet in the years that followed, he saw with pain that the old divisions, the rivalries, and the indifference that had once weakened the nation began to return. Hence his lament — a cry not of bitterness, but of weary understanding.

For de Gaulle, this was not a rejection of France, but an acceptance of her paradoxical nature. He loved his country as one loves a difficult but beloved child — passionately, yet without illusion. He knew that greatness and folly walk hand in hand in the French soul, as they do in all nations. France, the cradle of liberty and revolution, of art and reason, was also the land of arrogance, division, and vanity. To try to cleanse her of her faults entirely would be to destroy her very character. “I cannot prevent the French from being French,” he said — meaning that identity, with all its flaws, is both the burden and the glory of a people. A nation may err, but it must err in its own way; it must live by the rhythm of its own spirit.

History offers many mirrors to this truth. Winston Churchill, who stood beside de Gaulle during the war, faced the same agony with his own people. Having led Britain to victory, he was swiftly cast out by those who no longer wished to hear his voice in peace. “They had the lion’s roar,” he said, “but I was the lion’s roar.” Like de Gaulle, Churchill understood that a nation’s memory is short, its gratitude fleeting. The leader who carries his people through crisis may find, once peace returns, that they no longer need or understand him. This is the fate of those who strive to “lift their people out of the mud” — that when the danger is gone, the old comforts and vices return, and the reformer becomes an inconvenience.

Yet in this tragic wisdom there is also greatness. For de Gaulle’s lament is not defeatist; it is human. He recognized that a leader’s duty is not to perfect the world, but to serve it despite its imperfection. The wise do not despair when people falter; they build knowing that what is built will one day decay, and yet they build again. This is the eternal labor of civilization — to lift, to fall, and to rise again. The mud will always be there, but so will the hand that reaches down to lift. De Gaulle’s greatness lay not in changing the nature of France, but in loving her enough to lift her even when he knew she would stumble again.

This truth applies beyond nations, into the realm of our own souls. Each of us is both the leader and the citizen of our inner world. We, too, try to raise ourselves from the mud — to rise above our past mistakes, our habits, our pride. Yet how often do we return to our own “errors and vomitings,” repeating what we once swore to abandon? Like de Gaulle with France, we find that our nature resists perfection. But wisdom is not in despairing of this resistance; it is in persisting despite it. To strive for virtue, knowing that failure will come, is the noblest act of all.

So, my listener of the future, remember Charles de Gaulle’s words not as bitterness, but as a testament to enduring love. Whether you lead a people, a family, or only yourself, know that perfection is not the goal — perseverance is. Lift those around you, even knowing they may fall again. Guide them, even when they resist guidance. Love them, even when they stray. For the measure of a leader, as of a soul, is not that he changes what is human, but that he elevates it — again and again, out of the mud, into the light.

And when your own efforts meet the same futility de Gaulle knew — when you find that people, or even life itself, return to their errors — do not despair. Say as he did, with weary wisdom and enduring pride: “I have tried to lift them.” For in the trying lies all greatness; in the lifting lies all honor. And though the mud of the world may cling to our feet, it is by striving to rise from it that we prove the divine in ourselves.