The significance of the Locarno treaties remains one of the central issues of the interwar period. Did they mark, as Austen Chamberlain claimed, ‘the real dividing line between the years of war and the years of peace’ or were they, at best, a truce masking the incompatible ambitions of France and Germany and, at worst, a first act of appeasement by which France and Britain obtained security for the Rhineland at the expense of Poland and Czechoslovakia? A different approach is offered by economic history: from this perspective the significant events are seen as the defeat of the French occupation of the Ruhr and the acceptance of the Dawes Plan in July 1924. France had to abandon its attempt to break the power of German industry and had to accept the British and American view that European peace required German economic recovery. The Locarno treaties may be seen simply as the best arrangements that France could make for its security following this decisive defeat.

A century ago Friedrich Engels reflected that if a European league for barricade-building was established, Barcelona would emerge in top position. The same deep rebellious traditions of the Catalan capital prompted the English hispanophile Gerald Brenan to describe Barcelona as ‘the most revolutionary city in Europe’. The 1930s confirmed this reputation: during the years assessed in this article barricades were thrown up in the working-class districts of Barcelona on at least eight different occasions. What is interesting, however, is that although the local authorities and business groups were understandably perturbed by the threat of social mobilisation, the proven capacity of the security forces to contain the challenge of the barricades meant that the danger of urban insurrection was not the greatest continuing worry of the ‘law-and-order’ lobby. Instead, the dominant concern of the self-proclaimed ‘lovers of order’ in Barcelona was the wave of armed illegality (atracaments) which rocked the city throughout the 1930s.1

The problems of decolonisation in post-Second World War France have attracted renewed attention in recent years. A new generation of historians and political scientists has focused on why it was so difficult for the country's political and intellectual élites to accept the end of empire. This attention to the subjectivity of policy and opinion-makers has added a novel dimension to understanding how and why the end of the colonial era occurred with such difficulty and bloodshed for the French. This new orientation has largely displaced the old ‘Gaullist’ explanation for the failing of France's post-war regime, the Fourth Republic, in colonial policy. The older notion, articulated by General Charles de Gaulle himself during his twelve-year exile from political power between 1946 and 1958, blamed the unstable parliamentary coalitions and governing political parties of the era for the series of crises and disasters in colonial policy faced by a deeply fractured legislative regime. The rapid rise and fall of governments, the turnover of ministers, the constant governmental disputes on a range of questions, it was alleged, was the cause of inconsistent and weak policies incapable of meeting the succession of crises. The newer research, however, has demonstrated that the institutional problems of the Fourth Republic were not the key issue and that the essential problem lay with an inability of élites to recognise, accept and adapt to decolonisation worldwide. It has been shown that, far from having inconsistent or weak policies, the governing cadres of the Fourth Republic shared fundamentally similar concepts and goals in their determination to maintain the integrity of the French Empire. Yet this same historiography has focused on the political parties, pressure groups and shifting political landscape of French colonial policy while largely overlooking an important, though less obvious, player.

Although the industrialised West has seen since the 1970s a very marked leaning to the right both in government and in popular politics, the experience of the British Conservative Party has been unique. The party can trace a continuous existence to the reconstruction of the King's government by William Pitt the Younger in 1784, and is probably the oldest political organisation in the world: far older, indeed, than most sovereign states. In two centuries of life it has transformed itself from the party of monarchy, aristocracy and the Established Church into a highly successful practitioner of mass politics. It has been in government, either as the sole party of government or as the dominant partner in coalition, for seventy years in the last hundred, and thirty-two years in the last fifty. This remarkable political achievement can be explained at many levels; the purpose of this article is to explore just one of them. By bringing together the explanatory insights of political scientists working on electoral sociology with the records of the party in government and opposition, it is possible to discern how the Conservatives used the opportunities of government to cultivate the society which tended, and increasingly tends, to give them victory at the ballot box. This cultivation of the political environment was not exactly social engineering – a project which contemporary Conservatives emphatically reject – but in tune with the biological metaphor of the title of this paper it could be called ‘social gardening’. The first part of the article examines very briefly how political scientists have come to understand the functioning of the British electoral process since the Second World War. The second part explores the process of adaptation which has enabled the Conservative Party to dominate British politics since the war.