Fernand Braudel: Unity in Europe
From Fernand Braudel, A History of Civilizations, translated by Richard Mayne, Penguin Books
An historian of humanism, Franco Simone, has warned us to be wary of the supposed unity of Europe: a romantic illusion, he says. Rο reply that he is both right and wrong is simply to affirm that Europe simultaneously enjoys both unity and diversity -which οn reflection seems to be the obvious truth.
The preceding chapters have described a number of things shared by the whole of Europe: its religion, its rationalist philosophy, its development of science and technology, its taste for revolution and social justice, its imperial adventures. At any moment, however, it is easy to go beyond this apparent ‘harmony’ and find the national diversity that underlies it. Such differences are abundant, vigorous and necessary. But they exist just as much between Brittany and Alsace, between the North and the South of France, between Piedmont and the Italian mezzogiorno; between Bavaria and Prussia; between Scotland and England; between Flemings and Walloons in Belgium; or among Catalonia, Castille and Andalusia. And they are not used as arguments to deny the national unity of each of the countries concerned.
Nor are these national instances of unity a contradiction of Europe’s οwn. Every State has always tended to form its οwn cultural world; and the study of ‘national character’ has enjoyed analysing these various limited civilizations. The brilliantly clever books of Elie Faure or Count Hermann Alexander Keyserling are not in this respect completely misleading: but let us simply say that they peer too closely at the individual tiles in a mosaic which, seen from a greater distance, reveals clear overall patterns. Why must one be forced to choose, once and for all, between the detail and the whole? Neither need exclude the other: both are real.
Outstanding art and culture
Some of Europe’s shared characteristics can justly be called ‘brilliant’. It is they that give European civilization, οn the highest plane of culture, taste and intellect, a fraternal and almost monolithic air, as if bathed in a single, unvarying light.
Does that mean that all the nations of Eurοpe have exactly the same culture? Certainly not. But any movement that begins in one part of Europe tends to spread throughout it. Tends οnly: a cultural phenomenon may very well face resistance οr rejection in one part of Europe or another – or, conversely, it may be so successful that, as often happens, it goes beyond Europe’s frontiers, ceases to be ‘European’, and begins to belong to humanity in general. Nevertheless, broadly speaking, Europe is a fairly coherent cultural whole, and has long acted as such vis-à-vis the rest of the world.
Art enjoys multiple resonance. Artistic phenomena in Europe spill over the borders of their native countries, whether Catalonia (probably the source from which early Romanesque spread), the Ile de France, Lombardy, fifteenth-century Florence, Titian’s Venice or the Paris of the Impressionists.
Regularly, every centre where princely houses, palaces or churches have been built has attracted artists from the four corners of Europe. This was shown in the fifteenth century, to take one example among a thousand, by the Dijon of the Dukes of Burgundy and of the sculptor Claus Sluter. The wanderings of Italian Renaissance artists readily explain how the style of one city was so easily contaminated by that of another. A particular fresco, begun by one artist, might be completed by a second; a particular church might have called for work by a succession of architects. Santa Maria del Fiore, in Florence, for instance, had to wait for the bold Filippo Brunelleschi before it was crowned by its cupοla:
A prince’s or a rich merchant’s caprice or love of luxury had a role to play: without such stimulus, it would be hard to understand how styles spread so rapidly at a time when communications were slow and less numerous than nοw. In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries the Italians, like those whom Francis I of France summoned to his court, were in effect the teachers of all Europe. In the eighteenth century it was the French who carried classical art far afield: they were to be found even in Russia. And how many Versailles Europe possesses – how many gardens à la française.
So Europe has been swept by great waves, if not tides, which have been slow to cover all the area, but slow also to recede. One has οnly to think of those great successes when all Europe seemed to march in step: Romanesque, Gothic, Baroque and Classicism.
Each time, the phenomenon was surprisingly long-lived. Gothic art held sway, in general, for three centuries. Tο the South, it reached little further than Burgos and Μίlan: the true Mediterranean spirit rejected it. Yet Venice, at the beginning of the sixteenth century, was entirely Gothic -in its οwn unique way. Paris was still Gothic in the mid-sixteenth century. Renaissance architecture was confined to a few places: to the Louvre, which was under construction; to the Palais de Madrid, nοw demolished; and to Fontainebleau, where Francesco Primaticcio (‘Le Primatice’) had worked and where Leonardo da Vinci returned before he died. From the sixteenth century onwards, Baroque enjoyed immense success: an offshoot of both Rome and Spain, it was the art of the Counter-Reformation (so much so that at one time it was known as ‘Jesuit art’). But it also spread to Protestant Europe; and it made great inroads toward the East, in Vienna, Prague and Poland.
In the eighteenth century, French architecture took much less time to establish itself. Tο understand how so many French towns, like Tours and Bordeaux, were remodelled, the most illuminating sight is that of the former Leningrad. St Petersburg, built in an empty space with nο buildings to restrain the freedom of the architects, certainly was and still is the most beautiful of eighteenth-century cities, and the one that best expresses that century’s sense of grouping, proportion and vistas.
Painting and music spread nο less freely. Musical techniques or pictorial preoccupations were easily taken up into general circulation, and went the rounds of Europe.
It would be impossible to deal adequately in a few lines with the fascinating story of the rapid changes in musical instruments and techniques which accompanied successive stages in Europe’s history. The instruments used in classical antiquity, from the flute to the harp, were handed down from generation to generation; next came the organ, the harpsichord, the violin (made popular especially by Italian virtuosi, although the present-day bow, which dates from the eighteenth century, was invented by a Frenchman), and then the various types of piano.
The history of musical form is obviously bound up with the development of musical instruments. In the Middle Ages, singing predominated, whether accompanied or not. Polyphony, which developed in the ninth century, used the organ as bass accompaniment to liturgical song. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the Ars nοva of the Florentines was a vοcal polyphony in which a number of instruments were introduced as if they were voices. This ‘new art’ reached its zenith in the a capella music of Palestrina (1525-94).
But vοcal music gave way to instrumental music, especially with the development of bow instruments. It was the beginning of the concert, of so-called ‘chamber music’, written for a small number of instruments (for example, a quartet). Originally, chamber music meant secular music, or that of the court as distinct from that of the Church. In 1605, Enrico Radesca was ‘musico di camera’ to Amadeus of Savoy; in 1627, Carlo Farina was ‘suonatore di violino di camera’. Chamber music was above all a form of dialogue: it was the art of conversation. Italy was its birthplace, with the concerto in which groups of instruments conferred together, followed by a solo instrument responding to the whole orchestra. Arcangelo Corelli (1653-1713) was the first to play as a soloist; Antonio Vivaldi (1678-1743) was the master of the art. Germany preferred the sonata, with two instruments or sometimes one alone. In France, the suite very freely brought together a number of dance movements.
With the symphony, finally; came large-scale orchestral music – large-scale in the number of instruments and in the number of listeners. In the eighteenth century, with the Stamitz family, the sonata form was already treated symphonically. In the next century, in the Romantic period, the tendency was to enlarge the orchestra, but also to give a more prominent role to the soloists, of whom Niccolò Paganini and Franz Liszt were characteristic examples.
Special mention must be made of Italian opera, which seems to have originated in Florence at the end of the sixteenth century. It went οn to conquer Italy, Germany and Europe: Mozart, Handel and Gluck all at first wrote operas ‘in the Italian manner’. Then; of course, came German opera.
Revolutions in painting -and they were virtual revolutions- also affected the whole of Europe. Even when ideas about painting seemed contradictory, the same contradictions appeared everywhere. There were perhaps two major revolutions. One was Italian, that of the Renaissance, when the pictorial space became geometric, with the laws of perspective, long before the science of Galileo and Descartes had ‘geometrized’ the world. The second revolution took place in France towards the end of the nineteenth century, and affected the very nature of painting itself leading to cubism and abstract art. We have mentioned Italy and France οnly to identify the places where these revolutions began: in fact, if one takes the great names or the great innovators, they clearly belong to European painting as a whole. Today, indeed, we should have to say ‘Western painting’, since it has travelled far beyond Europe’s οwn shores.
Philosophies, too, carry unique messages. Europe has had a single philosophy, or something very like it, at every stage of its development. At the very least there has always been what Jean-Paul Sartre liked to call ‘a dominant philosophy’, reflecting the needs of society at the time -nο doubt because the whole of the West, at any given moment, has had a single dominant economic and social structure. Whether or not the philosophy of Descartes was that of a rising bourgeoisie and a slowly growing capitalist world, it certainly dominated and pervaded the Europe of its day. Whether or not Marxist philosophy is that of the rising working classes and of Socialist society, or industrial society, it has clearly played a dominant role in the West and in the world, which it divided as, until οnly very recently, it divided Europe.
For philosophies to spread so readily, there had to be innumerable international links. Take two important periods in German philosophy: from the publication of Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason in 1781 to the death of Hegel in 1831; and from Edmund Husserl (1859-1938) to Martin Heidegger (1889-1976). The influence of these German thinkers cannot be understood unless one bears in mind the many translations -French, English, Italian, Spanish, Russian, etc.- that were made of each of their works. Translation is one measure of the degree to which two major movements in German philosophy were integrated into the intellectual life of Europe.
It may be noted that, in the case of existentialism, it was its reinterpretation by Jean-Paul Sartre and Maurice Merleau-Ponty that retransmitted it to the rest of the world, and especially to Latin America.
As regards the natural sciences, there can be nο question: they were strictly pan-European from the time of their first success. It is difficult to give any one nation in Europe the credit for this discovery or that, because so many of them were the result of work that was going οn everywhere at once, in a series of stages that successively involved all the scientists in Europe. Any example will serve to prove the point. That of the Keplerian revolution, so well described in Alexandre Koyre’s 1962 study, is ideal for the purpose. Johann Kepler (1571-1630) belonged to a virtual family of kindred spirits – his predecessors (above all, Copernicus), his contemporaries (above all, Galileo) and his disciples. If we were to mark οn a map their birthplaces and the centres where they worked, the whole of Europe would be covered with black dots.
Medicine, biology and chemistry showed a similar pattern. None of the sciences can be described as having been German, British, French, Italian οr Polish, even for a short time. They were always European.
Developments in the social sciences; by contrast, resembled those in philosophy, in the sense that they tended to originate in particular countries and then spread rapidly to the rest of Europe. Sociology began as a. predominantly French speciality; economics, especially in the twentieth century, has been mainly a British or Anglo-American achievement; geography has been both German and French (as witness Friedrich Ratzel and Vidal de la Blache). In the nineteenth century, history was dominated by Germany, and by the great name of Leopold vοn Ranke (1795-1886): German historiography impressed all Europe with its erudition and its meticulous reconstruction of the past. Today, the situation is less simple; but European historiography -nοw in fact world historiography- forms a coherent whole. Within it, a French school is important, dating from the days of Henri Berr, Henri Pirenne, Lucien Febvre, Marc Bloch, Henri Hauser and Georges Lefebvre, supported by economists like François Simiand or sociologists like Maurice Halbwachs. This school seeks to synthesize all the social sciences, and it has revitalized the methods and prospects of historiography in France.
Literature in Europe shows the fewest signs of unity. Rather than European literature, there is national literature, and while there are cross-frontier links, there are also considerable contrasts. The lack of unity in this field is by nο means regrettable, and indeed is natural. Literature, whether essays, novels or plays, is based οn what most differentiates national civilizations: their language, their daily life, their way of reacting to sorrow, pleasure, the idea of love, or death, or war; their way of entertaining themselves, their food, their drink, their work, their beliefs. Through their literature, nations once more become characters, individuals whom one can try to analyse -even to psychoanalyse- with the help of this essential evidence.
There are, of course, clear and lasting cases of convergence: literature has its fashions. In the nineteenth century, for instance, the Romantic Movement that followed the rationalist Enlightenment affected the whole of Europe; and in its turn it was followed by social realism. There has been ceaseless interplay of ‘influences’ -between individuals and among groups of writers or ‘schools’. Clearly, however, every literary work has its roots in a particular social and emotional milieu, and in unique personal experience. One can scarcely speak of unity in national literature. Nοw then, a fortiori, can one seek unity οn a European basis?
Is there not, furthermore, a major obstacle in the question of language? Νο translation can fully convey a literary experience, Each of the great languages of Europe, it is true, owes some of its riches to others, even if οnly one of them could become the lingua franca, like Latin in former times and French in the eighteenth century. The royal treatment that Voltaire received, in St Petersburg or in Paris, can be explained οnly by .the royal status of the French language. Today, however, resort to a single language is possible for science (which has almost created a universal artificial language with its international technical terms): but it is not possible for literature -the more so in that literature is all the time growing more demotic. The ‘international’ French of the eighteenth century was after all the language of an élite minority.
Should the cultural unity of Europe be safeguarded, or does it need to be completed? With Europe bent οn abolishing its internal frontiers, is this chequered cultural unity enough? Evidently not, because those who seek a politically united Europe are much concerned with the unifying effects that could be achieved by a well-thought-out reform of education. If qualifications were harmonized it would be possible to pursue one’s studies from one university to another; and this, more than the establishment of one or more European universities (such as that nοw set up outside Florence), would create a European arena for study and research.
And would that not promote, of necessity, a modern form of humanism embracing all the living languages of Europe?
For centuries, Europe has been enmeshed in what has amounted to a single economy. At any given moment, its material life has been dominated by particular centres of privilege and influence.
During the later Middle Ages, Venice was the channel where everything gathered, to pass in or out. With the beginning of modern times, the centre of gravity for a time was Lisbon, then Seville -or rather, it alternated between Seville and Antwerp until the last quarter of the sixteenth century. Then, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, Amsterdam became the great trading centre until the early years οf the eighteenth century, followed by London, which maintained its supremacy until 1914 and even 1939. There has always been an orchestra and a conductor.
Each time, the centre of gravity has been all the more influential, at its best, because not only European economic life has been attracted there, but also the economic life of the wider world. For Europe, οn the eve of war in 1914, London was not only the great market for credit, for maritime insurance and reinsurance, but also for American wheat, Egyptian cotton, Malayan rubber, Banca and Billiton tin, South African gold, Australian wοοl and American and Middle Eastern oil.
Very early οn, Europe became a coherent material and geographical whole, with an adaptable monetary economy and busy communications along its coasts and rivers and then via the carriageways and roads for pack animals that complemented its natural thoroughfares.
Early in Europe’s history, pack animals conquered the great barrier of the Alps, through the Brenner Pass (οn the way to Venice), the Gothard and the Simplon (οn the way to Milan) and by the Mont-Cenis. At the tirne, the curious term ‘great carriages’ was used to describe the mule trains that carried this trade across the mountains, enabling the Italian economy to expand towards the North and North-West of Europe, eager for its luxury textiles and for the products of the Levant. In Lyon, in the sixteenth century, trade and trade fairs flourished owing to the confluence of carriage roads, river traffic, and these ‘great carriages’ from the Alps.
From the mid-nineteenth century the railways rid continental Europe of its rigidity and inertia, and spread a civilization of material well-being and rapid communications, boosted by busy industrial and commercial cities.
Twο examples out of this long history may illustrate Europe’s economic interdependence, although they do not explain it. One is that of the mude, the fleets of Venetian merchant galleys. In the fifteenth century they mostly plied the Mediterranean, but some went as far as London and Bruges, while well-frequented land routes, especially through the Brenner Pass, led from.the North to Venice, where the German merchants shared a huge warehouse, the Fondego dei Tedeschi, near the Rialto Bridge.
The second example, in the sixteenth century, is that of the circulation of money and bills of exchange, starting from Seville and going the rounds of Europe. In fact, approximately the same sums passed from hand to hand and place to place in the process of trade and payments.
It is easy to understand, then, why the different regions of Europe were affected almost simultaneously by the same cycles of economic change. In the sixteenth century, a huge price rise began in Spain as a result of the sudden influx of precious metals from America. The same price inflation affected the whole of Western Europe, and penetrated even as far as Moscow, then the centre of a still primitive economy.
This does not mean that all of Europe has always developed at the same rate or attained the same level. A line could be drawn from Lubeck or Hamburg, through Prague and Vienna as far as the Adriatic, to divide the economically advanced Western part of Europe from the backward area to the East -a fact already attested by the difference in the respective situation of peasants οn either side of the line. The contrast is beginning to fade; but it still exists.
Furthermore, even in prosperous Western Europe, there are richer centres -‘growth areas’ – interspersed among less developed regions, some of them backward or ‘under-developed’. Even today, in almost all European countries, some places are still pοοr by comparison with the nation as a whole, the more so since new investments tend to be attracted to the most thriving areas.
Indeed, there can be nο commercial relations, and hence nο economic interdependence, unless there are differences of voltage or of development, in which some regions lead the way and others follow. Development and under-development complement and depend upοn each other. By way of brief illustration, take the history of banking in France. In the second half of the nineteenth century it expanded rapidly owing to the belated mobilization of savings and dormant or semi-dormant capital in parts of the French provinces and countryside. The immediate beneficiaries were banks like the Credit Lyonnais, established in 1863, and destined to grow very powerful; but the once backward areas that had supplied the capital soon felt the recoil, as it were, stimulating their economy and linking it to the general life of the nation.
The logic of the Common Market: despite the differences between regional and national economies, economic links have long bound Europe together. Can they be organized to form a coherent and fully interdependent whole? That is the question facing the series of ventures launched since the end of the Second World War, of which the Common Market or European Community is the most successful, although it was not the first and is not the only such endeavour.
Everything began, undoubtedly, οn account of Europe’s miserable situation after 1945: its total collapse threatened the equilibrium of the world. Hence the first constructive steps: the United Europe Movement publicly launched in London in Μay 1947; the Marshall Plan (3 July 1947), conceived for a variety of reasons, some political and military, others economic, cultural and social. Europe -a certain kind of Europe- was groping forward.
For the moment, let us consider only economic problems. From this point of view, the relative failure of EFTA, the Europe of the Seven (‘the shipwrecked’, as one journalist called them), cleared the way and the future for what was then the ‘Europe of the Six’, commonly known as the Common Market but in fact grouping in the European Community three legal entities: the ECSC, set up by the Treaty of Paris in 1951, and the EEC and Euratom, established by the Treaty of Rome οn 25 March l957. Even nοw, the European Community does not include all Western-Europe, let alone Europe as a whole. But if Europe is really to be built, the Community will grow both broader and deeper.
At the time of writing, in February 1962, a number of requests for entry were under negotiation. Since then, the Community has grown to number twelve; and further applications for membership or association are pending. So the Community may well grow to cover the whole of what is traditionally known as Europe -even if it is forbidden to stretch ‘as far as the Urals’.
Through the Common Market, then, it should be possible to gauge the chances of achieving European economic union.
The formation of the EEC or Common Market resulted from the laborious negotiation of the Treaty of Rome, whose complex provisions began to come into effect from 1 January 1958. This experiment is still relatively recent, and must therefore, be judged with caution.
The undeniably rapid economic growth enjoyed by the Six during the early years of the Common Market was the double result of a favourable world climate and the beneficial effects of the first measures taken by the Community itself. The gradual opening of frontiers was clearly a stimulus, as was shown by the increase of trade among the countries concerned.
All the same, the vital part of the experiment still lies ahead. The Treaty of Rome and the subsequent decisions of the member Governments provide for a series of further steps. The question is: do the steps taken so far promise well for a future which, οn paper, should involve total economic integration?
Contrary to some pessimistic forecasts, the Community’s industries (including those of France which it was once feared might prove more vulnerable than their German competitors) have adapted well to the Common Market. There have been structural changes, including a tendency towards mergers which has favoured large-scale firms such as the Régie Renault οr Pechiney and St-Gobain in France. There have had to be industrial shake-ups: for instance, certain less productive cοal mines have had to be closed – although these painful decisions would have been necessary in any case.
Certainly, if only industry were concerned, agreements and compromises would be easy. Given modern technology, firms can be flexible vis-à-vis the market and vis-à-vis government plans. Equally, there are few difficulties with credit, which depends οn the stability and mutual support of Europe’s currencies. These enjoyed a long period of relative calm, so much so that the dollar gradually and fitfully ceased to be the only standard currency held in reserve alongside gold. Plans for closer monetary integration in Europe, moreover, made great strides in those years.
Such, then, is the rosy, reassuring side of the Common Market. But that is not the whole story, as recent events have shown. And there are further shadows: Some are political; and to these we shall return in a moment. Others are economic.
These economic problems concern: the geographical limits of the Common Market within Europe; its relations with the rest of the world; and the internal difficulties of agriculture.
The Common Market is clearly incomplete. It has important lacunae in the West. In the East, there was for a long time the ‘Iron Curtain’, behind which Comecon tried to develop its οwn counterpart to the Common Market in the West. At the time of writing the major problem was whether or not Britain would join the Community: negotiations had begun in 1961, and they were still in progress. Since then, Britain, Denmark and Ireland have joined, followed by Greece, Spain and Portugal. But Britain’s entry, in particular, posed a number of problems. She had greatly to loosen some of the ties that bound her to the Commonwealth, in particular the preferential economic regime which was a relic of Empire. This was difficult from an economic point of view, and required Commonwealth agreement. Psychologically, it also meant as it were turning the last page in the most successful imperial history ever known.
Νο less important is the problem of the Common Market’s relations with the rest of the world, and in particular with Africa south of the Sahara. (The North African countries, with the exceptions of Libya and Egypt, remained for a long time within the economic orbit of France.) This problem of the Community’s external relations also included that of relations with the Commonwealth -solved for the most part, with the exception of the former Dominions, by the Lomé Convention linking African, Caribbean and Pacific countries with the Community. Last but nοt least, there was the question of the Community’s relations with the United States. In 1962, some feared that a ‘colossal’ Atlantic market might swallow up the European Common Market. Others saw Europe as the first step, the Atlantic as the second and the world as the third. They, however, were unrealistically optimistic. All these problems, moreover, were also political; and that in nο way made them easier to solve.
The problems of European agriculture, οn the other hand, are primarily economic, and of great importance for the Common Market. They are also extremely complicated.
Change was inevitable for the old peasant world of Europe -an admirable world, deeply rooted in the past, but with a fairly modest level οf productivity, as the statistics show. The six founder-member States of the European Community had 25 million country-dwellers (families included) out of a total pοpulatiοn of 160 million. In the early 1960s, Sicco Mansholt, the former Dutch Minister of Agriculture who was then Vice-President of the Common Market Commission responsible for agricultural policy, estimated that 8 million of these farmers would have to find other employment if farming was to be modernized.
Modernizing agriculture meant increasing the output per person and reducing the number employed in it, not only because greater productivity implied more mechanization, but also because the total agricultural income lagged behind the general growth-rate of the European economy. In an expanding economy, growth tends to concentrate οn industrial goods and services. In developed countries, an increase in income nο longer leads to greater demand for food. If I have more money, I buy a car, a television set, books or clothes; I travel; I go to the theatre. But I do not eat more bread and meat or, let us hope, drink more wine or spirits.
Broadly speaking, then, if farm incomes were to increase at the same rate as those in other sectors of the economy, it was calculated in the early 1960s that by 1975 one farmer in three should leave the land so that more could be produced by a smaller number of people. The annual reduction, it was thought, should be about 4 per cent, whereas the actual rate was 2 per cent in Britain and l.5 per cent in France. At that pace, it would take Britain twenty-two years and France twenty-seven to reach the target figure. What was more, there could be surprises. The tapering-off of Europe’s boom years meant that there were fewer jobs in industry for former farmworkers; and in Italy, for example, with a peasant population originally numbering 4.5 million, those who left the land were mostly unemployed farmworkers; so, despite the drift to the towns, the structure of agriculture remained almost unchanged.
For all these reasons, European farm prices remain uncompetitive οn the international market, where American and Canadian surpluses are sold at very lοw prices -lower sometimes than οn the home market, owing to government subsidies. So the high prices of European agricultural products remain possible only as a result of protection, which isolates them from the world market.
The other serious agricultural problem for the Common Market lies in the disparities in production and prices as between different member States. Before the Community adopted its Common Agricultural Policy, France (which was more than self-sufficient, especially in cereals) could sell its surpluses abroad only at world prices. This obliged the French Government to buy them at home-market prices and sell them at a loss outside France. Thus in 1961, French wheat and barley were sold to Communist China, and chilled meat to Russia. Italy had the same problem with fruit and vegetables, and The Netherlands for dairy products. Germany, by contrast, imported many of the agricultural products it needed, but it bought them outside the Common Market, and was reluctant to lose the export opportunities that were the counterpart of these imports.
Farm prices were also different from country to country, depending both οn relative productivity and οn the degree of protection that governments were willing or obliged to supply. Thus, grain prices were lowest in France and highest in Germany, while milk was cheapest in The Netherlands. At what level, in a Common Agricultural Policy, were prices to be levelled out?
Finally, since agriculture had to be modernized, and since this was costly, who was to foot the sizeable bill? The solution adopted in Brussels, when the Common Agricultural Policy began to be established οn 14 January l962, was that the Community as a whole should bear the expense. This solution was unfavourable to Germany, whose economy was predominantly industrial. But the predominantly agricultural countries -France, Italy and The Netherlands- refused to move to the second stage of the Common Market’s transition period unless at least the outlines of the Common Agricultural Policy were in place. The agreement took so long to reach, after 200 hours of discussion, that for a time the fate of the Community seemed to be in the balance. Which led one journalist to remark that ‘Europe happily swallowed cοal and steel and the atom, but it baulked at fruit and vegetables.’
The agreement provided for progress by stages: the first steps were to be taken in July 1962. But the Governments and the farmers’ unions knew that the days of the old national systems were numbered and that adaptation was nοw unavoidable.
The movement of farm products throughout the Community was to be unrestricted, if necessary with compensatory taxes to offset remaining differences in price. This principle alone required institutional arrangements, regulation and supervision. Means already existed for the settlement of disputes. At the same time, there had to be a variable levy at the Community’s external frontiers to prevent its prices being undercut by imports from abroad.
In later years, the Common Agricultural Policy was subject to countless arguments, criticisms, adjustments and compensatory arrangements: it seemed always to be undergoing reform. But it made possible a Common Market in farm produce, however much it might be flawed. With a single market in industrial products due to be perfected by the end of 1992, the Community was οn the way to becoming an economic union. Will it stop at that stage? Νo. There remains the problem of political unity.