them. They are the intellectual property of their users, and as such have caused endless conflicts. They can be the object of propaganda, of tendentious wrangling, of rigid censorship, even of wars. In reality, where several variants exist, one cannot speak of correct or incorrect forms. One can only indicate the variant which is appropriate to a particular time, place, or usage. Equally, when referring to events over large areas of time and space, the historian is often forced to make a choice between equally inappropriate alternatives.
Yet historians must always be sensitive to the implications. One easily forgets that ‘Spain’, ‘France’, ‘England’, ‘Germany’, ‘Poland’, or ‘Russia’ are relatively recent labels which can easily be used anachronistically. It is clearly wrong to talk of ‘France’ instead of ‘Gaul’ in the Roman period, as it is dubious to speak of ‘Russia’ prior to the state in Muscovy. Writing in English, one automatically writes of the ‘English Channel’, ignoring that ‘La Manche’ is at least half French. Writing in Polish, one automatically writes ‘Lipsk’ for Leipzig, without laying claim to the Polishness of Saxony, just as in German one says ‘Danzig’ for Gdansk, or ‘Breslau’ for Wroclaw, without necessarily implying the exclusive Germanity of Pomerania or Silesia. One forgets that official language, which presents place-names in forms preferred by the bureaucracy of the ruling state, does not always concur with the practice of the inhabitants. Above all, one forgets that different people have every reason to think of place-names in different ways, and that no one has the right to dictate exclusive forms. One man’s Deny is another man’s Londonderry . This person’s Antwerpen is the other person’s Anvers . For them, it was East Galicia or Eastern Little Poland; for others, it is ‘Western Ukraine’. For the ancients, it was the Borysthenes: for the moderns, it is the Dnipr, the Dnepr, or the Dnieper. For them, it is Oxford , or even Niu-Jin: for us, forever Rhydychen .
‘European History’ has always been an ambiguous concept. Indeed, both ‘Europe’ and ‘History’ are ambiguous. Europe may just refer to that Peninsula whose landward boundary for long stayed undefined—in which case historians must decide for themselves where the arbitrary bounds of their studies will lie. But ‘European’ can equally apply to the peoples and cultures which originated on the Peninsula—in which case the historian will be struggling with the world-wide problems of ‘European Civilization’. History may refer to the past in general; or else, in distinction to prehistory, it may be confined to that part of the past for which a full range of sources are extant. With prehistory, one is dealing with the evidence of myth, of language, and above all of archaeology. With history in the narrower sense, one is also dealing with literary records, with documents, and above all with the work of earlier historians. In either case, whether one is beckoned by the ends of prehistory or the beginning of history proper, one is brought to the terminus of Europa’s ride, to the island of Crete.
1628 BC, Cnossos, Crete . Standing on the high northern terrace of the palace, the courtiers of Minos looked out to the distant sea over the shimmering groves of olive and cypress. They were the servants of the great Priest-King, masters of the Cretan thalassokratia the world’s first ‘seaborne empire’. Supported by the trade of their far-ranging ships, they lived a life of comfort, of ritual, and of administrative order. Their quarters were supplied with running water, with drainage, and with flushed sewers. Their walls were covered with frescos—griffins, dolphins, and flowers, painted onto luminous settings of deep blue and gold. Their spacious courtyards were regularly turned into arenas for the ceremonial sport of bull-leaping. Their underground storehouses were
Yet historians must always be sensitive to the implications. One easily forgets that ‘Spain’, ‘France’, ‘England’, ‘Germany’, ‘Poland’, or ‘Russia’ are relatively recent labels which can easily be used anachronistically. It is clearly wrong to talk of ‘France’ instead of ‘Gaul’ in the Roman period, as it is dubious to speak of ‘Russia’ prior to the state in Muscovy. Writing in English, one automatically writes of the ‘English Channel’, ignoring that ‘La Manche’ is at least half French. Writing in Polish, one automatically writes ‘Lipsk’ for Leipzig, without laying claim to the Polishness of Saxony, just as in German one says ‘Danzig’ for Gdansk, or ‘Breslau’ for Wroclaw, without necessarily implying the exclusive Germanity of Pomerania or Silesia. One forgets that official language, which presents place-names in forms preferred by the bureaucracy of the ruling state, does not always concur with the practice of the inhabitants. Above all, one forgets that different people have every reason to think of place-names in different ways, and that no one has the right to dictate exclusive forms. One man’s Deny is another man’s Londonderry . This person’s Antwerpen is the other person’s Anvers . For them, it was East Galicia or Eastern Little Poland; for others, it is ‘Western Ukraine’. For the ancients, it was the Borysthenes: for the moderns, it is the Dnipr, the Dnepr, or the Dnieper. For them, it is Oxford , or even Niu-Jin: for us, forever Rhydychen .
‘European History’ has always been an ambiguous concept. Indeed, both ‘Europe’ and ‘History’ are ambiguous. Europe may just refer to that Peninsula whose landward boundary for long stayed undefined—in which case historians must decide for themselves where the arbitrary bounds of their studies will lie. But ‘European’ can equally apply to the peoples and cultures which originated on the Peninsula—in which case the historian will be struggling with the world-wide problems of ‘European Civilization’. History may refer to the past in general; or else, in distinction to prehistory, it may be confined to that part of the past for which a full range of sources are extant. With prehistory, one is dealing with the evidence of myth, of language, and above all of archaeology. With history in the narrower sense, one is also dealing with literary records, with documents, and above all with the work of earlier historians. In either case, whether one is beckoned by the ends of prehistory or the beginning of history proper, one is brought to the terminus of Europa’s ride, to the island of Crete.
1628 BC, Cnossos, Crete . Standing on the high northern terrace of the palace, the courtiers of Minos looked out to the distant sea over the shimmering groves of olive and cypress. They were the servants of the great Priest-King, masters of the Cretan thalassokratia the world’s first ‘seaborne empire’. Supported by the trade of their far-ranging ships, they lived a life of comfort, of ritual, and of administrative order. Their quarters were supplied with running water, with drainage, and with flushed sewers. Their walls were covered with frescos—griffins, dolphins, and flowers, painted onto luminous settings of deep blue and gold. Their spacious courtyards were regularly turned into arenas for the ceremonial sport of bull-leaping. Their underground storehouses were
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