Littérature scientifique sur le sujet « Punishment – France – History »

This article examines the trial and punishment of men and women involved in violence in a political context in interwar France. The law courts offered parties and leagues a staging ground to further expose the brutality of their enemy and skewer the alleged partiality of the democratic Third Republic. The investigation and punishment of such crimes encountered important obstacles, from the reluctance of witnesses to speak to the police to the practice of trial by jury, which contemporaries recognized frequently led to unsatisfactory verdicts. Acquittals, such as those of the killers at the rue Damrémont in 1925 and at Hénin-Liétard in 1934, provoked outrage in the partisan press. Yet juries brought with them to the courtroom an understanding that, in certain circumstances, extreme violence was legitimate. Analysis of the cases of those French who ‘got away with murder’ thus reveals broader attitudes to politically motivated violence in interwar France.

AbstractIn 1870, the most important journal of Allan Kardec's spiritist school, the "Revue Spirite", ascribes a superlative role to France in the intellectual world and encourages soldiers to defend their fatherland. The defeat against Prussia is interpreted as a punishment for crimes of the Premier Empire. The journal recognizes the necessity of reforms, but it does not support the Commune in 1871.

Academics have traditionally associated capital punishment most closely with authoritarian regimes. They have assumed an incompatibility between the death penalty and the presumably humane values of modern liberal democracy. However, recent scholarship on the United States by David Garland has suggested that a considerable degree of direct democratic control over a justice system actually tends to favor the retention and application of the death penalty. The reason why the United States has retained capital punishment after it has been abolished in other Western nations is not because public opinion is more supportive of the death penalty in America than in Europe or in Canada. Rather, it is because popular control over the justice system is greater in the United States than in other countries and this strengthens the influence of America's retentionist majority. However, the experience of the United States in this regard has not been unique. The same link between democratic control and retention of the death penalty can be seen in the history of the effort to abolish capital punishment in France. In 1908, a bill in the Chamber of Deputies (the lower house of the French Parliament) to abolish capital punishment was defeated, in large part because of strong opposition from the public. In 1981, majority public opinion in France still favored retention of the death penalty, but in that year, the nation's Parliament defied popular sentiment and outlawed the ultimate punishment. Historians have so far provided little insight into why abolition succeeded in 1981 when it failed in 1908. The explanation for the different outcome appears to have been the greater degree of influence public opinion exerted over the nation's justice system at the turn of the twentieth century than at its end.

The public execution of criminals was a familiar ritual of early modern European society. This article, however, examines the less frequent practice of ordering that a criminal’s house be ritually demolished following the execution. In many cases, the destroyed house was then replaced by a monument which was intended to simultaneously obliterate and perpetuate the criminal’s memory. Rare as it was, ritual house-destruction was a surprisingly widespread practice, undertaken at various times between 1520 and 1760 in France, Germany, Spain, Italy, Portugal and the Netherlands. Though punitive house-destructions had been undertaken in medieval Europe, the practice acquired new overtones in the early modern era. This article examines how and when this striking form of punishment was applied in early modern Europe and considers why authorities would order the destruction of property in order to enshrine the memory of particularly serious crimes.

Abstract This article examines the military and political impact of the battle of Agincourt in France and the way in which this defeat was remembered up until the end of the Hundred Years’ War. The English presented their victory as a sign of God’s support for Henry V and his claims in France, but the French preferred to understand their defeat as a divine punishment for their sins. This led to debate about who had incurred God’s wrath, as civilians blamed soldiers, soldiers blamed their aristocratic leaders, and partisans for the Armagnac and Burgundian factions blamed one another. But most French commentators attempted to bridge these divisions, or at least to minimize the damage by attributing the disaster to the actions of foolish young hot-heads and to cowards. This avoided the need to name and shame specific noblemen, but also meant that only the most traditional lessons were highlighted from this defeat.

In 1522, Marie Quatrelivres, accused of adultery by her husband and found guilty, was condemned to be beaten with sticks on three Fridays and afterwards enclosed in a convent. The court allotted her husband 2 years to decide if he wanted to take her back. If he did not choose to reconcile with her, she was to be enclosed for life and lose all of her property. So wrote eminent jurist Jean Papon (1505–1590) in his collection of notable cases heard before the royal courts of France. Papon described a handful of other sixteenth century adultery cases similarly decided, and then cited a contemporary and fellow eminent jurist, Nicolas Bohier, as having stated that another common punishment for adultery in France was to cut off an adulterous woman's hair, tear her clothes, and parade her in shame throughout the town or city in which she lived.

La justice pénale constitue, à partir du règne de Saint Louis, une part importante de l’activité de la Cour du roi. En effet, tandis que se développe, notamment grâce à son intervention, un véritable « État de droit » dès le milieu du XIIIe siècle, le nombre d’affaires pénales portées devant elle ne cesse de s’accroître, et leur résolution constitue bientôt un domaine où s’élabore une politique judiciaire spécifique dont il y a lieu de déterminer les objectifs, les moyens et les résultats. Les décisions prises par ce qui devient le « Parlement » tendent à s’inscrire dans le prolongement des idées du temps sur le devoir incombant à la royauté de punir les infractions et de maintenir la paix, tout en révélant une confrontation régulière des juges aux difficultés inhérentes au caractère composite de l’organisation judiciaire et à l’enchevêtrement des coutumes, privilèges et autres droits propres. L’application d’une justice conforme aux idéaux de la royauté passe de manière nécessaire et préalable par la fixation d’un cadre judiciaire et juridique respectueux des droits acquis, mais également porteur d’obligations pour les juges pénaux du royaume. La cour souveraine les contraint ainsi au respect d’un certain nombre de principes, hérités pour partie de ceux qu’elle-même définit comme les fondements du procès pénal dans le cadre de son propre « style » naissant. La manière de résoudre le trouble provoqué par l’acte délictueux devient donc essentielle : après en avoir défini les éléments nécessaires à l’imputation d’une faute punissable, la cour applique et fait appliquer des peines toujours minutieusement « arbitrées » selon l’importance du dommage et l’intention coupable manifestée. La poursuite des crimes, le règlement de juges, la résolution des litiges entre juges et justiciables, sont autant de lieux privilégiés de la défense de la « chose publique », la cour s’assurant par là que les « crimes ne demeureront pas impunis », même si la part de la miséricorde demeure toujours réservée : ils seront traités par voie de droit, c’est-à-dire selon un droit pénal royal conforme à « ce que recommande la justice
As early as the reign of St. Louis, criminal justice represents a major part of the work of the Court of the King. Indeed, from the middle of the thirteenth century, while a true “State of law” is being developed, especially through its daily activities, the number of criminal cases risen before it increases steadily. Their settlement becomes soon an area where a specific judicial policy is adopted, of which it is necessary to determine the objectives, the means and the outcome. The judicial decisions taken by what is becoming the “Parliament”, tend to fall in line with the ideas of that time about the duties of the monarchy concerning the punishment of offenses and the maintaining of peace, while revealing that the judges are confronted on a regular basis to the difficulties posed by the composite character of the judiciary, and the entanglement of customs, privileges and personal laws. Applying justice consistently with the ideals of the monarchy makes it a necessity and a prerequisit to set a judicial and legal framework, respectful for acquired rights, but also binding for criminal judges of the kingdom. The sovereign court forces them to respect a number of principles, partly inherited from those it itself defines, in its own developing procedure, as the fundamentals of the criminal trial. The way to solve the disorder caused by the criminal act becomes essential: after defining the elements necessary for the attribution of a punishable offense, the court applies and enforces penalties that are always meticulously “arbitrated” accordingly to the damage and to the guilt. Thus, the prosecution of crimes, the settlement between judges in criminal matters, or between the judges and private persons are all privileged areas for the defense of “public good”: through those, the court makes sure that “crimes do not go unpunished”, even if room is always left for mercy, and will be dealt with through law, that is through a royal criminal law in accordance with “what justice recommends”

Cette thèse de doctorat sur travaux interroge les déterminants de l’émergence d’un corpus criminologique du XVIe au XXIe siècles en explorant l’interaction entre le droit, l’exercice du pouvoir et la société. La thèse repose sur une méthode historique et interprétative dont l’objectif est de formuler neuf propositions théoriques d’exposition du rôle joué par le droit pénal et sa jurisprudence, les initiatives politiques de l’exécutif et du législateur, et enfin les us, coutumes et constructions sociétales dans la formation du corpus criminologique contemporain. Au cheminement de cette archéologie juridique, politique et sociale, nous exposons le rôle parfois déterminant joué par la formation du corpus criminologique dans la société
This PhD on career dissertation explores the deciding factors of the emergence of a criminology corpus in between the XVIth and XXIth centuries, by focusing on the interactions between the Law, executive sovereign power, and society at large. Historical and interpretative analysis allows for formulating nine theoretical propositions enlighten the potential roles played by penal law, its jurisprudence, the decisions of the sovereigns, and societal habits (social construction) in the upcoming of contemporary criminological corpus. As our legal, political and social archeology unfolds, we unveil the sometimes-decisive role played by criminology in the formation of modern societies

This chapter examines the relations between French carceral practices and those implemented at different stages of the colonization process in Algeria from the invasion of 1830 to the independence. It breaks down Algerian colonial history into three eras: the military invasion, the settlers' rule, and the war of independence. It demonstrates how the implementation of carceral policies and its various trends (along the axis of reform and punishment) emerged and receded in different periods in France and Algeria, and how these practices in the metropolitan center and the colonial periphery on either side of the Mediterranean influenced one another.

This chapter examines the relations between French carceral practices and those implemented at different stages of the colonization process in Algeria from the invasion of 1830 to the independence. It breaks down Algerian colonial history into three eras: the military invasion, the settlers' rule, and the war of independence. It demonstrates how the implementation of carceral policies and its various trends (along the axis of reform and punishment) emerged and receded in different periods in France and Algeria, and how these practices in the metropolitan center and the colonial periphery on either side of the Mediterranean influenced one another.

Chapter 4 turns to Jamaican-born Claude McKay’s Jamaica-based poetry in Constab Ballads (1911) and fiction in Banana Bottom (1933). Recent scholarship has positioned McKay as an exemplary black diasporic queer, focusing largely on his U.S.-based Home to Harlem (1928) and the France-based Banjo (1929). In contrast, McKay’s Jamaica-based work has been neglected, suggesting that it is inadequately diasporic, inadequately queer, or both. Jamaica as “home” is rendered normative by its absence from discussions of McKay’s queer aesthetics and politics. I turn to Jamaican slave, emancipation, and post-emancipation histories to frame McKay’s poetry and fiction. In doing so, I demonstrate that McKay derives his models of gender and sexuality from Jamaican histories of labor and punishment. Under slavery, men and women performed the same work and received the same punishments, and thus were similarly (un)gendered, a process that extended the logics and practices of thingification generated by enslavement and commodification. Following emancipation in 1832, the colonial government attempted to distinguish men from women by how it treated work and punishment: thus, as I illustrate, queer Jamaican history is not predicated on same-sex eroticism, but in the range of embodied practices and desires made legible and illegible through slave and emancipation histories. In Constab Ballads and Banana Bottom, McKay depicts not only a range of erotic diversities, but, more importantly, a range of epistemological frames for understanding those diversities that depart from colonial modernity’s pathologizing logics. McKay goes where Fanon does not know how to, by demonstrating the place of erotic freedom within black diasporic struggles.

The sixth chapter likens the Haitian Revolution to a cockfight and begins to question Toussaint Louverture’s uses of power. By January 26, 1801 Toussaint has become the dominant cock, largely due to his huge political organization in the Northern provinces. A hint of reproach echoes in the discourse of narrator Grinn Prominnin because of the unacknowledged debt owed by Toussaint to the masses of formerly enslaved people who participated in the Revolution. At this point the black rebels were often insufficiently armed or were pitted against one another. Some fought for personal interests, others on more general terms; the result was a weakened position. Their advantage lay in their sheer numbers and common determination to become free. In 1793 Toussaint tapped into this energy by declaring the goal of universal freedom and liberty for Saint-Domingue, a political and tactical move that assured the former enslaved people’s loyalty to him. Once his organization solidified, he allied himself with French forces, against the Spanish and British (on whose side other rebel leaders were fighting). By 1795, Spain was defeated, and Saint-Domingue was controlled by three sectors: the new French political commissioner (Lavaud), the freedmen (Vilatte, Beauvais, and Rigaud), and Toussaint’s army. Major contradictions—economic, political, and military—divided the masses from the leaders in the latter group; often the former enslaved people were forced to work the land for the benefit of the revolutionary generals. Meanwhile, both inside and outside of Saint-Domingue, people began to distrust the paper money issued by the revolutionary state, and its value decreased. The war in the South took form, with Toussaint positioned against Rigaud. France’s third civil commissioner, Sonthonax, arrived in 1796 and was determined to crush the British and the mulatto generals’ troops. Sonthonax named Toussaint the leading general and Rigaud an outlaw. But Toussaint had Sonthonax expelled from Saint-Domingue the following year due to their several disagreements (including the fact that Sonthonax promoted Moyse Louverture to the rank of general, passing over several other leaders in Toussaint’s army). Meanwhile, in France, the political situation was becoming more conservative, and Toussaint feared that the former colonists would return to seize their property. In a dog-eat-dog society, every class has economic, political, and ideological interests; the freedmen and newly freed slaves were at odds. Toussaint subsequently repulsed Hédouville (who was sent by France as an agent of the Directory, charged with implementing reforms) and fought a vicious war in the South against Rigaud, the dominant mulatto general, thus deepening the racial divisions in the general population. Although Rigaud took a racial approach himself, Toussaint’s demagogy encouraged this social poison to pit the masses of formerly enslaved people against the mixed-race people, a problem reflecting Haiti’s hereditary ideological disease. Toussaint’s primary interests were commerce, money and the trappings of power. So intent was Toussaint on keeping Saint-Domingue afloat economically that he imposed strictures on the formerly enslaved people through a “rural work code,” forcing them to either remain on the same plantations where they had previously toiled or face severe punishment (including death). The idea of “freedom for all” thus began to lose its meaning. England and the United States began to exert pressure on Saint-Domingue as well. Before the War of the South between Toussaint and Rigaud, blacks and mixed-race people were allied against France, but afterwards each group sought its own type of Haitian independence. The beginning of the end of Toussaint’s power came about when the rebel leader fell into the Rigaud’s trap in the afè Koray [Corail Affair]; he nevertheless continued to fight for several more years. Toussaint’s leadership style moved to demagogy, and after 1799, plots mushroomed everywhere against him. The other rebel general, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, did not play upon social tensions in the same way that Toussaint did: instead of using race as a wedge issue, he allowed a group of mixed race people to join the rebel army, which raised everyone’s spirits and frightened the enemy. Toussaint’s organization was closer to the interests of the masses than Rigaud’s. With Dessalines, he convinced several maroon groups to fight against Rigaud; Dessalines won the South soon afterwards. The war of the South helped advance the larger revolution in Saint-Domingue. Once Rigaud was defeated, Toussaint was the only serious cock in the former colony. Freedom for everyone was the main interest of his organization, and he unified the country around it; Dessalines and Pétion ultimately worked together to help repulse Leclerc’s invasion of 1802. The freedmen’s advantage was blunted before they could take advantage of others. The former slaves grew stronger as a result. Despite Toussaint’s demagogy, the revolution was holding strong; though Toussaint still occupied a position of authority, there remained many contradictions in his camp.

This chapter recognizes scholarly debates about the Enlightenment; some indict the movement for failing to live up to its ideals. Nonetheless, the Founding Fathers were traditionally understood to have been shaped by Enlightenment values. These curricula reject that understanding. They repudiate Enlightenment values, including secularism, tolerance, the social sciences, social reform, internationalism, and those values’ possible influence on the new nation. The curricula instead indict the Enlightenment as godless and reject its appreciation of reason and science as threats to the authority of the Bible. The genuine eighteenth-century Enlightenment is, for these curricula, the religious revival known as the Great Awakening. These textbooks also assert that France’s commitment to humanism warranted divine punishment in the French Revolution, and that its reprehensible politics differentiate it from American virtues. This chapter concludes with some implications of what rejecting the Enlightenment entails for modern America culture.

Chapter 6 turns to Philemon Holland’s (1552–1637) enormous Romane Historie (1600), the first full-scale translation of Livy into English, completed in the final years of the sixteenth century. This chapter examines the use to which Francis Nethersole (bap. 1587, d. 1659) put Holland’s Tudor translation at the height of the English Civil War. Nethersole’s appeal to Livy in 1648 formed part of an ever-intensifying engagement with the AUC in the mid-seventeenth century. Nethersole harnessed sections from Books 8 and 9 of the AUC to a contemporary debate among the Parliamentarians concerning the punishment of Delinquents. These selections from Holland’s Livy are located in the wider context of the intense engagement with Livy’s history in the mid-seventeenth century, from Leveller pamphlets celebrating the expulsion of kings to royalist defences of absolute monarchy. With his account of Rome’s transition from monarchy to a consular republic, Livy was readily exploited in debates concerning the government and constitution of England, serving as one of the most prominent authorities of political thought during the English Civil War.