Crime, Histoire & Sociétés / Crime, History & Societies

Vol. 15, n°1 | 2011 Varia

Édition électronique URL : http://journals.openedition.org/chs/1234 DOI : 10.4000/chs.1234 ISSN : 1663-4837

Éditeur Librairie Droz

Édition imprimée Date de publication : 1 mai 2011 ISBN : 978-2-600-01515-8 ISSN : 1422-0857

Référence électronique Crime, Histoire & Sociétés / Crime, History & Societies, Vol. 15, n°1 | 2011 [En ligne], mis en ligne le 01 mai 2014, consulté le 29 septembre 2020. URL : http://journals.openedition.org/chs/1234 ; DOI : https:// doi.org/10.4000/chs.1234

Ce document a été généré automatiquement le 29 septembre 2020.

© Droz 1

SOMMAIRE

Herman Diederiks Prize / Prix Herman Diederiks

Les enjeux médico-judiciaires de la folie parricide au XVIIIe siècle The Herman Diederiks prize Essay for 2010 / Lauréate du prix Herman Diederiks 2010 Julie Doyon

Communicating Order, Policing Society

Introduction Philipp Müller

Communicating Colonial Order: The Police of German South-West-Africa (c. 1894-1915) Jakob Zollmann

Keeping up appearances: Police Rhetoric, Public Trust and “Police Scandal” in London and Berlin, 1880-1914 Anja Johansen

Covering Crime, Restoring Order. The “Berlin Jack the Ripper” (1909) and the Press Policy of the Berlin Criminal Investigation Department Philipp Müller

Articles

Whigs, Tories and Scottish Legal Reform, c.1785-1832 Jim et Alan McKinlay

Comptes rendus / Reviews

Bloembergen Marieke, De geschiedenis van de politie in Nederlands-Indië. Uit zorg en angst Amsterdam (Boom), Leiden (KITLV), 2009, 408 pp., ISBN 978 9085 067078. Pieter Spierenburg

Musin Aude, Xavier Rousseaux, Frédéric Vesentini (eds), Violence, conciliation et répression. Recherches sur l’histoire du crime de l’Antiquité au XXIe siècle Louvain-la-Neuve, Presses Universitaires de Louvain, 2008, 326 pp.,ISBN 978 287463 1337. Pieter Spierenburg

Marco Bellabarba, La giustizia nell’Italia moderna. XVI-XVIII secolo Rome, Laterza, 219 pp., ISBN 978 88 420 8714 4. Marco Cicchini

Crime, Histoire & Sociétés / Crime, History & Societies, Vol. 15, n°1 | 2011 2

Benoît GARNOT (dir.), Normes juridiques et pratiques judiciaires du Moyen-Âge à l’époque contemporaine Dijon, Éditions universitaires de Dijon, « Société », 2007, 451 pp. , ISBN 978 2 915 552 713. Ludovic Maugué

Étienne Hofmann, Une erreur judiciaire oubliée : l’Affaire Wilfrid Regnault (1817-1818) Genève, Slatkine, « Travaux et recherches de l’Institut Benjamin Constant » (11), Genève, Slatkine, 2009, 628 pp. , ISBN 978 205102 108 1. Gilles Malandain

Indésirables – indesiderabili. Les camps de la France de Vichy et de l’Italie fasciste, Chroniques allemandes, Revue du Centre d’études et de recherches allemandes et autrichiennes contemporaines Université Stendhal-Grenoble 3, sous la direction de Carlo Saletti et Christian Eggers, n° 12, 2008, 274 pp., ISBN 978 82843 10167. Jean-Marc Dreyfus

Luc Keunings, Des polices si tranquilles. Une histoire de l’appareil policier belge au XIXe siècle Louvain, Presses Universitaires de Louvain, collection « Histoire, justice, sociétés », 2009, 299 pp. , ISBN 978 07546 5612 8. Arnaud-Dominique Houte

Barrie David G., Police in the Age of Improvement : Police development and the civic tradition in Scotland, 1775-1865 Cullompton, Willan, 2008, 307 pp. , ISBN 978 1 84392 266 7. Tables, biblio., index. Chris A. Williams

Colao, Floriana, Luigi Lacchè, and Claudia Storti (eds.), Processo penale e opinione pubblica in Italia tra Otto e Novecento Bologna, Il Mulino, 2008, 481 pp. , ISBN 978 8815 12 4814. Mary Gibson

James, Joy (ed.), Warfare in the American Homeland : Policing and in a Penal Democracy Durham and London, Duke University Press, 2007, 351 pp. , ISBN 978 08223 3923 6. J. Robert Lilly

Anne Logan, Feminism and Criminal Justice. A Historical Perspective Basingstoke, Palgrave Macmillan, 2008, ISBN 978 0 230 57254 6. Louise A. Jackson

Clive Emsley, Haia Shpayer-Makov (eds), Police Detectives in History, 1750-1950 Hants (England) et Burlington (USA), Ashgate, 2006, 255 pp., ISBN 07546 39487. Frédéric Chauvaud

Informations diverses

Livres reçus

Crime, Histoire & Sociétés / Crime, History & Societies, Vol. 15, n°1 | 2011 3

Herman Diederiks Prize / Prix Herman Diederiks

Crime, Histoire & Sociétés / Crime, History & Societies, Vol. 15, n°1 | 2011 4

Les enjeux médico-judiciaires de la folie parricide au XVIIIe siècle The Herman Diederiks prize Essay for 2010 / Lauréate du prix Herman Diederiks 2010

Julie Doyon

L’avocat avait plaidé la folie. Comment expliquer autrement ce crime étrange2 ? Il y a toujours de la démence dans les grands crimes3.

1 Au début du XXe siècle, le docteur en médecine (1877-1966), fondateur de la police scientifique et disciple du médecin-légiste Lacassagne (1843-1924), affirme que les progrès de l’« intelligence criminelle » et de la criminalité rusée (vol, fraude) sont le fléau majeur des sociétés contemporaines. Les crimes des fous frappent vivement l’imagination, mais ils sont socialement peu dangereux, n’étant l’œuvre que de « brutes anormales » et totalement irresponsables. Le criminologue estime que l’irresponsabilité pénale n’a pas préoccupé les « anciens criminalistes »4. La non- imputabilité des crimes aux « malades mentaux » résulte, selon lui, des progrès scientifiques et de la modernisation des codes pénaux européens5. L’excuse de la folie serait née avec l’article 64 du code napoléonien, qui en formule le principe légal : « Il n’y a ni criminel, ni délit, lorsque le criminel était en état de démence au temps de l’action »6.

2 La folie figure pourtant parmi les « faits justificatifs » qui, recevables dans le cadre de la procédure criminelle définie en 1670, anéantissent le caractère coupable d’un acte incriminé7. Insensés, furieux, déments et imbéciles sont présumés incapables de dol (volonté de nuire) parce qu’ils n’ont ni raison, ni liberté d’esprit. Leur incapacité légale entraîne l’extinction des poursuites pour les crimes ordinaires. Exempter les déments meurtriers de l’accusation de parricide suppose d’accepter l’impunité du « crime énorme ». L’exception liée à la démence de l’accusé prévaut-elle sur la « nature atroce » du parricide, qui se tire de la qualité de la victime ? Faut-il accuser et punir les insensés « comme les autres » parricides ?

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3 Parce que la légalisation de l’excuse de la folie dans le code de 1810 est couramment opposée à l’« archaïsme » de l’ancien régime punitif, la jurisprudence de la folie parricide permet d’interroger la « modernité » de la politique criminelle du parlement de (cour souveraine dont le ressort de dix millions de justiciables couvre au XVIIIe siècle plus du tiers du royaume). Les historiens et les juristes contemporains ont examiné les réponses doctrinales non les solutions pénales forgées dans la pratique des tribunaux8. En matière de folie parricide, les archives criminelles du XVIIIe siècle accréditent-elles le caractère disruptif de la législation de 1810 ?Accorder plus ou moins de valeur à l’intention du parricide (qui renvoie à la personnalité du délinquant) ou à l’acte parricide (qui forme la lésion de l’ordre paternel) : dans le secret de la justice parlementaire, à travers le diagnostic de la folie parricide, se négocie l’équilibre entre la défense de l’autorité paternelle et la rationalisation médico-judiciaire de la folie criminelle. Au XVIIIe siècle, la reconnaissance juridique de la folie relève des savoirs criminologiques qui se sécularisent9. La médicalisation de la responsabilité criminelle n’est alors pas étrangère aux savoirs et pratiques judiciaires que construit l’ancien régime punitif.

Deux axiomes juridiques contraires

4 Depuis le Moyen Âge, l’appréciation de la folie homicide revient à la « prudence des juges ». L’exception dont elle fait l’objet est au cœur du droit romain et canonique, qui formule les fondements doctrinaux de la « responsabilité » pénale, avant l’apparition du terme en 178310. À défaut de législation royale, du XVIe au XVIIIe siècle, les éléments constitutifs de l’« irresponsabilité » sont définis par les criminalistes Prosperus Farinaccius (1554-1618), André Tiraqueau (1488-1558), Josse de Damhouder (1507-1581), Claude Lebrun de La Rochette (1560 ?-1630), Antoine Despeisses (1594-1658)11. En Italie, dans le royaume de France, en terre d’Empire, une longue tradition juridique exonère le coupable « en démence » de la peine du meurtrier : les insensez et hors du sens, sont excusez de cestuy crime, mais il faut les mectre en fers ou liés en la prison ou les bien cloire es geoles, afin que eulx plus le semblable ne comectent, ou perpertrent12.

5 Intégrant le principe selon lequel l’intention et la connaissance du mal constituent le crime, l’ancien droit reconnaît l’excuse légale de la folie : « tout crime suppose la volonté de le commettre […] ; quand la volonté n’a point de part au crime, on cesse d’être criminel »13. La culpabilité individuelle (« coulpe », culpa ou « faute ») ne suffit pas. Le coupable doit être animé par la volonté de tuer (« dol » ou « intention de nuire et méfaire »), capable de reconnaître le mal et libre de se déterminer à perpétrer (ou pas) une action criminelle. Ces trois conditions font défaut aux enfants qui n’ont pas « l’âge de raison », aux « insensés », aux « furieux », aux « déments », qui « ne savent pas ce qu’ils font »14. Si le fou est coupable d’un crime, l’action criminelle ne lui est pas imputable : « celui qui est furieux ou insensé, n’a aucune volonté […] ; ainsi il ne doit pas être puni et il l’est assez par sa folie »15. Avant sa théorisation au XIXe siècle, le principe de la non-imputabilité de la folie criminelle est formulé : les « délits commis par des insensés […] ne sont point des crimes »16. La doctrine classique rationalise la responsabilité pénale par la théorie du libre-arbitre – ou la liberté de choisir entre le bien et le mal. L’ancien droit articule la responsabilité pénale à la responsabilité morale17.De quel poids pèse l’excuse de la folie quand elle déchire l’ordre familial ?

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6 À la différence de l’homicide, dont la gravité augmente ou diminue suivant les circonstances (préméditation, récidive, acharnement, cruauté, etc.), le parricide est « atroce en sa nature ». Le meurtre, l’assassinat, les « excès réels » sont d’autant plus graves qu’ils impliquent le fils contre son père, sa mère ou tout « autre proche parent, en ligne ascendante ou collatérale »18. Le lien de parenté qualifie automatiquement l’homicide et les mauvais traitements, surtout lorsque l’agresseur s’en prend à un ascendant. Autre principe : les crimes des fous, des imbéciles, des insensés, des enfants impubères sont ordinairement déqualifiés. L’acte criminel suppose le dol, c’est-à-dire l’intention de nuire ou de mal faire, dont les insensés sont jugés incapables. À laquelle de ces deux lois faut-il soumettre le fou parricide ? Il s’agit de privilégier l’atrocité de l’« événement », à l’aune de la qualité de la victime ou de considérer l’état personnel de l’agresseur au moment du crime. Le dilemme juridique est d’autant plus épineux que l’excuse de la démence est incompatible avec le crime de lèse-majesté19 : quoique dans la règle générale, les furieux et les insensés ne doivent point être punis pour raison des crimes qu’ils ont commis ; néanmoins il en est autrement en crime de Leze-Majesté, et quelquefois aussi dans le crime de parricide20. En dépit de sa « fureur » avérée, le régicide François Ravaillac est déclaré « deuëment atteint et convaincu du crime de leze Majesté divine et humaine, au premier chef ». Il est condamné à l’amende honorable, tenaillé aux mamelles, ébouillanté, son poing droit est brûlé au soufre et tranché, son corps « tiré et démembré », enfin son cadavre réduit en cendres (arrêt de la Tournelle du parlement de Paris, 27 mai 1610)21. Selon certains jurisconsultes, la folie n’excuse pas le parricide, pour lequel les insensés doivent être « poursuivis et punis comme tous autres ». Maintenir une « punition exemplaire » est une nécessité de l’ordre public face au « danger […] que ces crimes atroces font peser sur la religion et l’État »22. Le principe de souveraineté, pris dans sa rigueur absolue, prime sur la règle de l’excuse personnelle. Exempter le « fou » de la punition du parricide, au titre de son incapacité, le rattache au droit commun de l’homicide. Le punir comme s’il était « sensé » suppose, au contraire, de rapporter le crime atroce au droit spécial du crime de lèse-majesté divine et humaine.

7 La gravité inhérente au parricide doit-elle le céder devant l’exception de la démence homicide ? L’alternative touche au principe même de l’« administration de la justice criminelle », dont « la punition des crimes est la fin et le but » ultimes23.

Réprimer la folie parricide

8 Meurtrier de sa mère, Antoine Quignon est condamné à mort par les juges de Péronne (1689). Sur l’appel interjeté au parlement de Paris, à la requête de sa famille, qui argue de sa « folie furieuse » avant le meurtre maternel, les magistrats arrêtent que Quignon sera enfermé à vie « sous la garde et soins de ses parents » (1690)24. L’arrêt fait jurisprudence25. En 1699, Jeanne Petit est accusée d’avoir recouru à la magie pour affaiblir la santé de son mari. Alors que le chaudronnier sombre « dans l’ardeur et les feux de la maladie », sa femme l’aurait « tué, rompu, brisé et assassiné du taillant d’une pelle de bois »26. Les juges d’Essoyes (Champagne) concluent à l’amende honorable et à la mort par pendaison. Le 25 mai, les juges de la Tournelle décident que la veuve sera condamnée à être « menée dans la maison Salpêtrière de l’hôpital général de Paris pour y être enfermée toute sa vie comme insensée ». Le verdict du tribunal souverain s’applique indépendamment de l’extrême gravité du meurtre conjugal, rigoureusement

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puni en première instance. La peine modérée s’applique-t-elle au parricide, meurtrier de son père ou de sa mère ?

9 Transféré dans les du Palais en 1717, le manœuvre Jean Huré est accusé de double parricide. Il a « homicidé » son père et son fils « dans sa maison à coups de cognée ». Les juges de Beaulieu-sur-Loire le condamnent à la mort exemplaire du parricide (amende honorable, ablation du poing droit, roue, exposition du cadavre). Malgré l’atrocité des faits, les juges de la Tournelle arrêtent son enfermement perpétuel à Bicêtre (23 octobre 1717)27. L’incapacité personnelle de l’accusé prévaut sur l’énormité du crime : la qualité de parent criminel s’efface donc devant celle de fou28. La jurisprudence du parlement de Paris tient compte de la personnalité du criminel frappé d’incapacité mentale. Punir le crime de parricide ou juger le criminel : les juges de la Tournelle choisissent le second terme de l’alternative29.

10 Selon les registres d’écrous de la Conciergerie, entre 1694 et 1775, 24 % des 452 meurtriers familiaux jugés devant la Tournelle criminelle sont livrés à la mort, dont 11 % par la roue. 12 % sont enfermés à vie pour cause de folie. Tous les deux ans, en moyenne, un meurtrier familial est roué, lorsque l’autre, jugé dément, rejoint la maison de force de l’hôpital général de Paris. Au XVIIIe siècle, les juges du Parlement font plus souvent enfermer que rouer les auteurs d’homicide familial. La pratique pénale n’est ni spécifique au parricide, ni marginale ou discontinue dans le temps. Les sanctions qui n’éliminent pas physiquement les accusés dominent dans la justice d’appel du Parlement (cf. Tableau 1). Avec 48 condamnés30, l’enfermement constitue la troisième sanction prononcée en appel, à quasi parité avec la pendaison (50), devant la roue (44), les galères (27) et le bannissement (21 ; cf. Tableau 2). Le retranchement définitif est une voie non négligeable de la répression de l’homicide familial. Pour comparaison, toutes punitions confondues, la prison à perpétuité forme entre 0,8 et 1,8 % des jugements infligés par le parlement de Paris (1775-1786)31. Rare à l’échelle de l’ensemble des jugements prononcés à la fin du XVIIIe siècle, elle est systématique en cas de folie parricide (1694-1775).

11 Si l’on considère les accusés dont les actes sont expressément qualifiés de « parricide » (meurtre des père et mère, du fils ou de la fille, parfois du conjoint, plus rarement d’un « autre parent »), le ratio mort/enfermement diffère sensiblement (cf. Tableau 3). Avec 22 % des arrêts prononcés, la réclusion est seconde derrière la mort pénale, qui représente 42 % des arrêts prononcés. Infligé à onze parricides, l’enfermement est moins souvent arrêté que la roue (treize condamnés), mais plus souvent que la pendaison (cinq condamnations) ou que le bûcher (une seule).

Tableau 1. Typologie de la répression de l’homicide familial. Arrêts du parlement de Paris (1694-1775)

Typologie des arrêts* Nb % d’accusés

Procédure indéterminée ou inachevée (poursuite, information, sursis, décès) 54 12

Retranchement temporaire ou définitif (enfermement, bannissement, galères 97 22 perpétuels ou à temps)

Élimination physique 106 24

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Acquittement, élargissement, flétrissure morale (absolution, admonestation, 181 42 blâme, rémission, plus amplement informé, hors de cour)

Total 438 100

* Déduction faite de quatorze cas non renseignés. Source: A.P.P, série AB

Tableau 2. Répression de l’homicide familial. Arrêts du parlement de Paris (1694-1775)

Punitions arrêtées* Nb d’accusés %

Écartèlement 1 0

Décollation 2 0

Admonestation, blâme 5 1

Bûcher 5 1

Bannissement 21 5

Galères 27 7

Poursuite, information, sursis au jugement 35 8

Roue 44 11

Enfermement 48 12

Pendaison 50 12

Plus amplement informé, hors de cour, absolution 176 42

Total 414 100

* Déduction faite de quatorze cas non renseignés ainsi que de dix-neuf accusés décédés avant leur jugement définitif. Source: A.P.P, série AB

Tableau 3. Répression du parricide stricto sensu. Arrêts du parlement de Paris (1694-1775)

Arrêts pour parricide stricto sensu* Nb d’accusés %

Bannissement 1 2

Galères 3 6

Hors de cour, absolution, rémission 6 12

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Plus amplement informé 8 16

Enfermement perpétuel 11 22

Mort (roue, pendaison, bûcher) 21 42

Total* 50 100

* Déduction faite de six cas non renseignés. Source: A.P.P, série AB

12 Les minutes d’instruction criminelle confirment le recours systématique à l’excuse de la folie. Et ce, malgré les circonstances aggravantes du crime32 : acharnement meurtrier, qualité de la victime, aveu de l’homicide. Dans plus de 80 % des cas enregistrés dans les rôles d’écrous, les victimes des fous homicides appartiennent au cercle de la parenté dans lequel l’outrage est théoriquement le plus sévèrement réprimé (cf. Tableau 4) : père et mère (66 %), fils ou fille (9 %), conjoint (7 %).

Tableau 4. Parents victimes de la folie parricide. Registres d’écrous du parlement de Paris (1694-1775)

Typologie du lien victime-accusé (parricide stricto sensu)** Nb d’accusés %

Conjoints 3 7

Mixte* 3 7

Descendants 4 9

Collatéraux 5 11

Ascendants 31 66

Total** 46 100

* Soit deux doubles (conjoint + descendant; ascendant + descendant) et un triple parricides (conjoint + descendant + ascendant). ** Déduction faite de dix cas non renseignés. Source: A.P.P, série AB

13 Saunier à l’île de Ré, Jean Filloleau est accusé de « parricide exécrable » commis en la « personne de sa mère », qu’il a « méchamment assassinée » avant de brûler sa tête33. Interrogé par le conseiller du Parlement, l’accusé admet sans résistance qu’il a, dans la nuit du 15 novembre 1751, tué sa mère avec un fer « par vengeance » de ce qu’elle « le faisoit lier et enchaîner ». Malgré l’énormité des circonstances du matricide, les magistrats de la Tournelle optent pour la réclusion à vie de l’« insensé »34. L’excuse prévaut sur la cruauté qui « motive » le meurtre maternel. Nouvelle exception aux maximes générales du droit de punir, l’aveu n’est plus, en cas de folie, la reine des preuves35. La violence du fou parricide est perçue comme spontanée et irréfléchie. Elle

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résulte d’« accès de délire aigu » jugés incontrôlables. L’insensé n’est par définition ni conscient, ni maître de ses actes.

14 Engendrée par l’excuse de la folie, l’extinction des circonstances aggravantes du crime est, en pratique, poussée fort loin. En 1745, par sentence de la chambre criminelle du Châtelet de Paris, Bernard Joubart est convaincu de l’« assassinat prémédité » de sa femme, dont il vit séparé36. Révélés par l’information judiciaire, les faits accablent l’accusé. Avant d’aller dîner chez son épouse, il s’est procuré l’arme du crime : un pistolet de poche, trois balles et un petit paquet de poudre, achetés quatre francs et cinq sols. Le 26 janvier, sur la scène du crime où s’est « transporté » le commissaire de Courcy, le coupable avoue son « dessein de tuer sa femme », ajoutant que « tout son chagrin seroit qu’elle ne mourût pas » : [B. Joubart] dit qu’il y a quatre ans qu’avec toute douceur possible il a tout employé pour engager sa femme à retourner avec lui, que n’ayant pu y parvenir, il s’est déterminé à la tuer, que dans ce dessein, il a acheté avant-hier le pistolet de poche […], que dès ce jour sadite femme devoit passer le pas, que ce jourd’hui étant venu dîner avec elle […], il l’a sollicitée à plusieurs reprises de rentrer avec lui, qu’il a même été commander une tourte qui lui a coûté quinze sols […], qu’après avoir soupé sadite femme lui ayant dit « Joubart, nous sommes séparés, restons comme nous sommes, je ne rentreroi point avec vous tant que je vivrois » qu’à l’instant il a tiré de sa poche ledit pistolet qu’il avoit chargé de deux balles en lui disant « Chienne ce sera ton dernier jour »37.

15 L’intention homicide et la maturation du projet criminel sont patentes. Malgré ses aveux compromettants, le boulanger est jugé insensé. Il échappe à la roue pour être enfermé à perpétuité (arrêt du 4 avril 1745)38. La folie éteint donc les circonstances aggravantes de la préméditation. Entre 1694 et 1775, les magistrats se montrent singulièrement plus cléments que ceux du XIXe siècle qui, en cas d’acharnement meurtrier, arguent de la perversion morale de l’accusé plutôt que de sa folie39.

16 Absence de préméditation et absence d’excès de violence ne sont pas synonymes. Le mode opératoire des fous parricides fait la part belle aux instruments tranchants et contondants (pelle, serpette, faucille, ciseaux, couteau, pincette à feu, chenet, marteau, cognée, bâton, coutre de charrue), aux coups de pieds et de poings, à la strangulation, à l’égorgement, voire au « jet » (dans le puits, à travers la fenêtre). L’emploi des armes à feu (fusil, pistolet) est plus rare. Le cadavre de Jean Villette (soixante-quinze ans), blessé à mort par son fils, présente de sévères contusions et ecchymoses sur tout le corps (mains, visage). Sa tête est striée de cinq plaies sanglantes, longues de « deux travers de doigt ». Les veines de son cerveau sont « gorgées de sang ». Le rapport des médecins jurés du Châtelet conclut à la mort par « commotion cérébrale » : elle résulte des coups mortels infligés au vieillard par son fils, pris de fureur contre lui40. Minutes d’instruction et registres d’écrous soulignent la force physique déployée, l’acharnement meurtrier de l’agresseur, ainsi que la violence de la mort infligée à la victime.

17 Ordinairement aggravants, ces éléments ne sont pas imputés au « fol », dont la volonté est enchaînée : les parricides jugés « déments » sont enfermés, non punis de mort. Ainsi, la jurisprudence du parlement de Paris s’inspire des règles de la « science du droit romain » (D. 48, 8, 12, Ad Leg. Corneliam de sicariis et venefis ; D. 48, 9, 9, 2, De Leg. Pompeia de parricidiis). Selon l’adage romain que les jurisconsultes de l’époque moderne citent expressis verbis, il suffit que le fou soit puni par sa fureur et physiquement neutralisé. Il doit être « gardé avec plus de soin ou même enchaîné »41. En ce cas, « il

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n’échet aucune punition que de le lier, et de le renfermer »42. Laurent Dupont intègre les geôles du Palais le 24 mars 1771. Il est « violament soupçonné d’avoir […], dans un accès de fureur, […] assommé, et tué avec un coutre de charrue, ou autre instrument tranchant, ladite Marguerite Leclerc, sa Mere ». Les « proches parents » du furieux sont donc enjoints de le « faire enfermer ou garder de façon qu’il ne puisse arriver aucun accident par ses folies et fureur, à peine d’en répondre personnellement et en leurs noms »43. La « peine » du par-ricide est proportionnée au degré de « conscience » individuelle du coupable44. Au XVIIIe siècle, la jurisprudence du Parlement impute au fou parricide une « responsabilité atténuée » sanctionnée par une pénalité mitigée.

18 Adapté au cas du « crime atroce » commis en état de démence, l’enfermement perpétuel cadre la possible individualisation des peines arbitraires dans l’ancien système judiciaire45. Encore faut-il, pour excuser l’homicide atroce, constater et certifier la folie du coupable.

Savoir médical, doctrine criminelle

19 Intégrant les critères de la jurisprudence romano-canonique et les savoirs médicaux de la Renaissance, la doctrine pénale distingue la démence « absolue » de la folie passagère, précédée ou suivie d’« intervalles lucides ». L’épilepsie, la surdi-mutité, le somnambulisme relèvent des catégories « médico-judiciaires » de la démence, assimilée aux états privatifs de la raison. Suspecte d’avoir tué son enfant, Marguerite Barrois (Barois) se dit victime du « haut mal » (épilepsie) qui la « prend à tout moment », lui fait « perdre connaissance », lui donne beaucoup d’agitation. Durant l’un des accès épileptiques de l’accusée, sa petite fille est « tombée » ou « jetée » dans la carrière de Charenton46. La mère épileptique écope d’une peine de « PAI » (Plus amplement informé) avec élargissement. La présomption de folie, retenue en cas d’accès intermittents, ainsi que l’insuffisance des preuves à charge – dont témoigne l’hésitation de l’acte d’accusation – expliquent la clémence du verdict rendu le 17 juillet 171947. Démence continue ou discontinue, totale ou partielle, antérieure ou non au crime : l’identification légale de la folie est tributaire de la jurisprudence romaine et de la médecine savante. La culture médicale est au cœur de l’expertise judiciaire de l’aliénation établie dans le cadre procédural de l’appel au parlement de Paris. La rationalisation et la médicalisation de la folie criminelle coexistent donc avec l’arbitraire du pouvoir de juger.

20 « Diagnostiquer » la folie relève traditionnellement de la science et de l’expérience médicale, attentive à la « continuité notoire des actions de démence ». Les Questions médico-légales que le médecin romain Paolo Zacchias (1584-1659) publie entre 1624 et 1650 font alors autorité48. Le praticien, dont les consultations judiciaires au tribunal de la Rote sont célèbres, propose une vaste somme, comprenant la description et la classification des formes de démence49. Héritée de l’influente science romaine du droit, la dementia – au sens de « défaut d’intelligence, d’esprit » – est une altération de l’esprit (mens) formant une maladie mentale50. Doctrinaires et médecins assermentés fondent ainsi la « foiblesse d’esprit » sur les « apparences du corps », la « physionomie de l’accusé », l’incohérence de ses discours51 : la « folie se prouve ordinairement de trois manières, ou par les Discours ou par les Faits, ou par le Rapport des Médecins »52. Reconnaître le fou à ses troubles corporels (déambulation sans but, grimaces, regard égaré, gesticulations, contorsions) et discursifs (qualité, ordre des paroles, nature de

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l’élocution, cohérence des propos) est à la portée du juge instructeur. Mais examiner son état mental relève des compétences d’un « auxiliaire de justice » : le médecin53.

21 Avec la mise en place de la procédure inquisitoire, depuis la Renaissance, les médecins sont appelés au chevet de la justice criminelle. Contre la preuve médiévale par l’ordalie, ils renforcent la certitude probatoire. Leur présence conforte la rationalisation de la procédure judiciaire au XVIe siècle. Ils exécutent l’« anatomisation des cadavres » visités à l’effet de « connaître les causes de la mort violente » : accident, blessures ou homicide volontaires, noyade, suicide, poison54. En France, l’ordonnance du mois d’août 1536, l’ordonnance criminelle de 1670 et la déclaration du 5 septembre 1712 légalisent leur rôle dans la procédure inquisitoire55. Sous le règne de Louis XIV, depuis l’édit du mois de février 1692, des offices de médecins et chirurgiens du roi sont spécialement créés pour délivrer les rapports judiciaires. Ils sont « dénonciatifs » – c’est-à-dire produits par le plaignant – ou requis d’office, par le procureur royal ou fiscal. Outre la « police des corps »56, ces experts assermentés certifient l’aliénation mentale de l’accusé 57. Le rapport médical ne « lie » pas le juge instructeur : il l’éclaire et l’instruit.

22 Le recours aux médecins jurés de la cour permet d’identifier et de prouver juridiquement la démence. Avocat au Parlement, l’auteur des Principes de jurisprudence sur les visites et rapports judiciaires des Médecins, Chirurgiens, Apoticaires & Sages-Femmes (1753) considère que le rapport médical est « juste et nécessaire » pour instruire les juges sur l’état de démence de l’accusé qui a commis un acte « véritablement punissable […] dans un délire violent »58. Paraphrasant Zacchias en 1757, Muyart de Vouglans définit la folie comme une « maladie de cerveau ». À l’instar du « père de la médecine judiciaire », le jurisconsulte français voit dans le rapport des médecins le « plus sûr procédé » pour administrer la preuve légale de la folie59.La constatation judiciaire de la folie ressort du savoir-faire des médecins et chirurgiens commis d’office auprès de la cour. L’ordonnance de 1670 prescrit d’y recourir, après la visite du procès en appel (titre XXVIII, « Des faits justificatifs des accusés », art. 1). Depuis la jurisprudence romaine et canonique, nul ne conteste que la reconnaissance de la folie incombe aux médecins. Un jurisconsulte peut reconnaître le fou à ses paroles ou à ses actions, seul le médecin peut certifier la folie.

23 Pourtant, d’après les minutes d’instruction du parlement de Paris, le constat de la folie parricide n’est qu’exceptionnellement fondé sur le rapport des médecins et chirurgiens du roi. Lorsque les actes du procès laissent présumer le « dérangement d’esprit » de l’accusé, les conseillers royaux ordonnent d’informer sur la vie, les mœurs et comportements de l’accusé, « avant de faire droit »60.

L’usage des tribunaux

24 Dans la pratique de la justice d’appel, le constat de la démence repose sur les dépositions du personnel des prisons : l’information recueille les témoignages du chapelain, du concierge, des guichetiers du Palais, qui décrivent les signes moraux et comportementaux de l’« aliénation d’esprit » du prisonnier. Rares sont les traités criminels qui mentionnent cette pratique des cours d’appel, mal connue des historiens du pénal61.

25 L’information de vie, mœurs et comportements s’inspire de la procédure civile de l’interdiction des « déments », ainsi que du procès fait au cadavre du suicidé62. L’ordonnance criminelle de 1670 impose alors de faire « procéder à la vérification du

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cadavre » et informer – à la requête du procureur du roi ou du procureur fiscal – de la « vie et des mœurs du défunt, pour savoir s’il [le suicidé] étoit furieux ou malade »63. Selon la déclaration royale du 5 septembre 1712, en cas de découverte d’un corps mort dans la ville de Paris, le juge instructeur se transporte sur les lieux pour en dresser le procès-verbal, faire visiter le cadavre par les médecins et chirurgiens de la cour avant de procéder à l’information sur la vie et les mœurs du défunt64. Entre folie et comportement suicidaire, les rapprochements sont nombreux. Certains fous « frénétiques » sont jugés dangereux pour eux-mêmes et pour leurs proches.Le passif suicidaire appartient à la scène sociale des violences familiales. Dans les prisons de la Conciergerie, Madeleine Dubreuil laisse entendre que « si elle avoit un couteau elle se tueroit et qu’elle avoit tué sa nièce pour gagner le Ciel »65. L’imbrication entre l’expérience sociale de la folie et celle du suicide expliquent le recours à la procédure commune de l’information de vie, mœurs et comportements. Elle se substitue au rapport médical en cas de folie « notoire ».

26 Lorsque la folie se perçoit dès l’interrogatoire, l’avis du juge, qu’éclairent les dépositions du personnel carcéral, suffit pour en établir la preuve, sans recourir à l’expertise des médecins et chirurgiens jurés de la cour souveraine. En 1733, Charles Bourgeois est un des rares meurtriers familiaux à être « visité » par des médecins dans les geôles de la Conciergerie. Mais il présente un profil ambigu. Visiblement conscient du mal qu’il a commis, l’accusé estime avoir mérité le « dernier supplice » et, à la différence des autres parricides excusés, s’exprime avec cohérence. Dans ce cas complexe, la folie n’est pas aisément détectable. Recourir à l’« expertise » des hommes de l’art s’avère dès lors indispensable. Le rapport des médecins et chirurgiens ordinaires de la cour est requis à la demande du procureur royal. Selon le verbal des experts, Charles Bourgeois est interrogé « longuement et avec attention ». S’il paraît d’abord « conséquent » dans ses réponses, « ses autres discours » confirment qu’il est « véritablement en démence »66. Soupçonnée de feindre la folie pour échapper à la potence, Marie Bourne est pareillement visitée par les médecins et chirurgiens ordinaires du Parlement. Voici les conclusions du long rapport (plus de trois feuillets) établi le 8 janvier 1700 : Depuis ce temps ladite Bourne a si fort contrefait la folle et la personne affligée du haut mal en mâchant et avallant sa matière [fécale] provoquant souvent par ses doits enfonces dans sa bouche des crachements et vomissements de sang, que d’une folie affectée elle pouroit etre tombée par permission et punition divine dans une serieuse et reelle demence, dont il ne laisse pas de nous rester quelque soupçon de deguisement, et qu’elle n’est pas si absoluë et consommée qu’elle paroit67. Ces cas douteux mis à part, les homicides familiaux exonérés de la mort relèvent le plus souvent de la « démence manifeste » et incontestable, dont la preuve ne repose a priori pas sur l’avis médical.

27 Selon les minutes d’instruction criminelle et les registres d’écrous du Palais, les juges souverains s’exonèrent de toute certification médicale de la folie criminelle. Une telle lecture reflète-t-elle la réalité pénale ou résulte-t-elle des distorsions liées à l’exploitation des fonds de la justice d’appel68 ?

« Effets de source » et politique pénale

28 Détruits après la Révolution, les « sacs à procès », livrant les actes de la procédure instruite en première instance, font défaut69. Or, le constat médical de la folie

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criminelle – produits par les parents de l’accusé ou requis par le substitut du procureur du roi – intervient souvent à ce stade de l’instruction. Frappée de « fureur », le double parricide André Villette est, à la demande du lieutenant criminel en charge de l’enquête, « vu et visité par les médecins et chirurgiens pour connaître de la situation de son esprit ». Au terme d’une brève « conversation » dans la geôle du Grand Châtelet, les trois « experts » estiment le meurtrier « entièrement aliéné » (19 novembre 1737)70. Pour arrêter la « circonstance atténuante » de la folie parricide, les magistrats de la Tournelle peuvent donc se référer au « rapport » médical réalisé en première instance, sans que cela n’apparaisse dans les minutes du procès instruit en appel. Fondé sur les discours « extravagants » du parricide, le « diagnostic » médical de la folie ne diffère pourtant pas de celui qu’établissent les juges ou le personnel de la Conciergerie.

29 Autre « effet de sources » susceptible de biaiser l’analyse, le greffier ne transcrit, dans les registres d’écrous, que le dispositif de l’arrêt du Parlement (ie : la décision judiciaire proprement dite). Barbe Grenu est accusée d’avoir « homicidé sa fille dans le bois de Chaource [Champagne] », le 6 septembre 1742. L’abrégé de l’arrêt figurant à l’écrou indique que la mère coupable est condamnée « comme insensée » à l’enfermement perpétuel (9 septembre 1744)71. La minute de l’arrêt détaille pourtant les actes requis par les magistrats parisiens avant de statuer sur le sort de la condamnée. Le procureur général du roi ordonne ainsi qu’il soit « informé de la vie, mœurs et comportements de ladite Barbe Grenu tant par devant la Cour par les témoins estant en cette ville de Paris que par devant le juge de Chaource » où l’accusée sera « vue et visitée par les médecins et chirurgiens »72. S’il arrive aux magistrats du Parlement d’invoquer l’avis des médecins du tribunal subalterne, la reconnaissance de la folie repose, en dernier ressort, sur l’interrogatoire du conseiller royal et sur l’enquête de moralité requise par le procureur général du roi. En 1771, le matricide Edme Dupont est condamné à l’enfermement pour cause de folie « attendu les preuves résultantes tant de l’information du quinze février, que […] des interrogatoires et confrontations, lesquels constatent son état de folie et de fureur »73. Au niveau de la justice d’appel, c’est donc moins l’« expertise » médicale que les interrogatoires et l’information de mœurs qui certifient la folie parricide. Ainsi le Parlement peut-il affirmer sa compétence exclusive pour statuer sur la folie de l’accusé et arrêter son enfermement74 : « il n’y a que les cours supérieures et autres juges en dernier ressort qui puissent modérer et adoucir la peine en ordonnant qu’il [l’accusé] sera enfermé, ce qu’elles ne feront […] qu’après s’être assurées de la vérité de la folie par des enquêtes qu’elles ont à faire, tant sur les lieux que dans la Conciergerie »75.

30 Si l’excuse de la folie parricide relève de la jurisprudence des cours souveraines, elle substitue à l’« expertise médicale » le diagnostic empirique des juges et du personnel des prisons. Outre le bref interrogatoire – rarement plus d’un feuillet –, l’information fait office de « certificat de démence » pour les magistrats de la Tournelle76.

Nosographie empirique de la folie parricide

31 Déterminer et reconnaître la véracité de la folie forme un problème pénal particulièrement délicat. Avant la connaissance clinique et l’expertise psychiatrique des « maladies mentales », au XIXe siècle, les archives du parlement de Paris révèlent l’importance du diagnostic de la folie criminelle dans le cadre de la procédure d’appel. Chargés de la surveillance et des soins aux prisonniers, curés, prêtres chapelains, concierges ou guichetiers se substituent aux médecins jurés comme « spécialistes de

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l’âme » ou « thérapeutes du corps »77. Rudimentaires, les observations du personnel des geôles de l’île de la Cité s’inspirent des catégories de la nosographie médicale en distinguant la fureur, la mélancolie, la démence. Leur description de la folie est structurée par les catégories médicales de la démence et de la fureur. Entre ces deux pôles, se situent la frénésie, la mélancolie, l’imbécillité plus ou moins aggravée (idiotie, stupidité, hébétude, etc.). Le diagnostic de la folie illustre la stabilité du cadre nosologique qui établit la distinction entre les « excès » comportementaux et moraux du furieux (extravagant, frénétique, emporté, violent) et la « paralysie » intellectuelle et sensorielle du dément (imbécile, idiot, abruti, hébété).

32 « Maladie aiguë », la frénésie se caractérise par un état de « fureur » qui confine à la violence impulsive et incontrôlée78. Dans la nuit du samedi 8 au dimanche 9 juin 1763, Nicole Aubert plante une paire de ciseaux dans la gorge de sa nièce et lui sectionne entièrement la trachée artère. Puis, elle retourne l’arme contre elle et tente de se suicider. L’enquête diligentée par le commissaire Defacq trace le portrait d’une femme « extraordinaire, extravagante, folle ». L’entière altération de son esprit se signale tant par ses « discours sans ordre ni raison que par ses agitations et comportements ». Son « esprit fort fâcheux, très mal sensé, brouillé » entraîne de multiples dérangements physiologiques. Nicole Aubert pense et agit avec « frénésie ». Elle « extravague », va et vient sans but ni raison, dort et mange très peu, a le « visage fou et hagard »79. Juges, personnel des prisons, justiciables décrivent les états « psycho-pathologiques » du criminel aliéné en des termes proches de ceux de la culture médicale. Le degré de dangerosité personnelle et sociale que représente l’« aliéné » identifie divers types de folie. Ainsi, Marie Bourne est jugée si « furieuse et violente » que le concierge du Palais doit la faire enchaîner80.

33 À la différence de la fureur, qui « s’occupe de toutes sortes d’objets », l’obsession mélancolique porte sur un objet unique, généralement triste81. Les individus « sombres », « taciturnes », « mélancoliques » n’ont pas l’agitation extrême des « furieux ». Jean Hervé est le plus souvent « taciturne » et d’« esprit si sombre qu’on a toutes peines du monde à le faire parler ». Apparemment tranquille, le fou mélancolique ne présente aucun symptôme d’agitation excessive : il ne fait ordinairement pas « d’actions de folie », boit et mange normalement mais préfère la solitude à la « compagnie des autres prisonniers »82. Charles Bourgeois est ordinairement dans une telle « mélancolie et tristesse » qu’il pleure pendant trois semaines sans parler à personne ; « d’autres fois », il agit « comme un furieux », hurle et invective tout le monde83. Caractéristique des « crises » de mélancolie, la violence suicidaire ou parricide surgit brusquement.

34 « Je suis de bois, je suis de bois » répète Jeanne Lebeau « avec des yeux hagards », selon l’information qui décrit sa « parfaite imbécillité »84. Les individus dont la « faiblesse d’esprit » altère l’ensemble des facultés appartiennent à la catégorie des déments « imbéciles », « stupides » ou « idiots ». Leur faculté de raisonner est entièrement abolie. Ils sont jugés « absolument fous », « totalement imbéciles », ont « entièrement perdu l’esprit »85. Leur aliénation d’esprit est physiquement décelable. Ils ont l’œil « hébété », le visage « hagard », ils parlent « avec un air de dément » : ils présentent toutes les « marques de la folie ». Incapables d’autonomie, ils sont littéralement « stupides ». L’« uxoricide » Mathieu Cambre lève « les yeux au ciel » de sorte qu’on lui voit le « blanc, sa vue ne paroissant point trop assurée »86. Avec le « regard roulant » et divagant, le défaut de la parole sensée et des discours articulés, déjà constaté lors de

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l’interrogatoire, est le symptôme par excellence de l’imbécillité. François Prieur – qui a pendu sa mère à la crémaillère de la cheminée – « parle continuellement dans la journée ». Mais « ses discours n’ont aucune suite, ni sens »87. La capacité de produire un langage cohérent distingue l’adulte du petit enfant et de la « bête brute ». « Hébété », « égaré », « aliéné », « l’air stupide » et « comme beste » : dans l’information judiciaire, le « diagnostic » de la folie se fonde sur l’aptitude aux paroles sensées ou l’autonomie dans l’accomplissement des fonctions vitales (boire, manger, dormir, déféquer et uriner).

35 La démence « imbécile » est anthropologiquement liée à l’enfance et à la bestialité. « Faisant toutes ses nécessités sous lui comme un enfant » et « n’ayant aucune suite dans ses discours », Jean Filloleau semble « parfaitement imbécile »88. « Innocente comme un enfant », Louise Picot « fait ses ordures sous elle tous les jours »89. À son arrivée dans la prison du Palais, Gilbert Dupré veut coucher à même le sol et refuse de s’alimenter pendant trois jours. Il faut le sustenter de force, en lui pinçant le nez et en lui tenant la bouche pour qu’il prenne son bouillon90. Transféré à l’infirmerie pour soigner les blessures que son enchaînement a occasionnées, il « laisse tout aller sous lui », se fait « torcher comme un enfant », s’enduit les cuisses et le visage de « son ordure » (excréments) et se promène, « les fers aux mains », dans une nudité « sauvage ». Par sa déraison, le dément se rapproche non seulement du petit enfant, mais aussi de l’animal. La nuit, « lorsqu’il [Gilbert Dupré] se prend à hurler et beugler comme un veau », le préposé à l’infirmerie doit allumer une chandelle pour apaiser la frayeur des autres malades91.

36 « Fureur », « démence », « extravagance », « dérèglement » ou « obstacle perpétuel à la raison », « agitation continuelle de l’esprit », « emportement violent » ou faiblesse et « paralysie de l’esprit »92 : la pratique pénale se réfère aux indicateurs stéréotypés de la démence selon la jurisprudence romaine et la médecine savante. L’expérience et la science de l’homme de l’art contribuent à la « déresponsabilisation » pénale du dément parricide. La réception par la société judiciaire des critères médicaux de classification du furieux, du mélancolique, du dément témoigne de la médicalisation de la folie criminelle au XVIIIe siècle93. L’action d’excuser légalement la folie homicide repose sur la sécularisation des savoirs et des pratiques du champ médico-judiciaire en formation. À la folie médiévale, comme manifestation du divin, succèdent les discours savants sur la folie comme « maladie de l’esprit qui se communique aux organes du corps »94. De l’âge théologique à l’âge de la raison, la folie est devenue un objet de rationalisation juridique et médicale. Ainsi « désenchantée », la folie criminelle bénéficie de l’excuse légale de la démence, y compris dans le cas du crime atroce de parricide.L’imbrication des savoirs médicaux et des pratiques pénales permet la déresponsabilisation partielle de la folie parricide, dès la fin du XVIIe siècle.

37 Les pratiques pénales de la justice parlementaire soulignent l’interaction, non l’opposition, des pratiques judiciaires, des savoirs juridiques et médicaux, ainsi que de la sensibilité sociale à la folie « dangereuse »95. Entre 1694 et 1775, le traitement pénal des fous criminels conduit à leur enfermement sur décision judiciaire. La reconnaissance médicale de l’aliénation mentale et la procédure judiciaire de l’enfermement s’imbriquent dans le traitement pénal de la folie parricide. La jurisprudence parlementaire est un maillon de l’« obscur travail d’identification de l’ homo demens »96. La mise en lumière de la subjectivité de l’accusé permet de rationaliser la violence incompréhensible du « crime atroce ». Dès les années 1680, la pratique

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pénale du parlement de Paris adapte la peine du parricide au cas singulier de la démence, fait prévaloir le châtiment modéré sur la pénalité sanglante, protège les droits de l’accusé et ceux de sa famille, enfin prévient le danger social de la récidive par l’emprisonnement à vie du fou parricide. Au XVIIIe siècle, ce principe d’atténuation de la folie parricide semble « national » et européen comme le montrent les usages pénaux en Languedoc, en Bourgogne, en Angleterre, dans la principauté prussienne de Neuchâtel et dans la République de Genève97. Respectueuse de la tradition pénale, la jurisprudence du parlement de Paris se montre « éclairée ». Savante et médicalisée, la lecture judiciaire de la folie fait écho à la définition qu’en donne Voltaire en 1764 : Nous appelons folie cette maladie des organes du cerveau qui empêche un homme nécessairement de penser et d’agir comme les autres. Ne pouvant gérer son bien, on l’interdit ; ne pouvant avoir des idées convenables à la société, on l’en exclut ; s’il est dangereux, on l’enferme ; s’il est furieux, on le lie98.

38 Au delà de la rupture de révolutionnaire, la « jurisprudence éclairée » de la folie parricide témoigne d’un remarquable continuum entre les pratiques élaborées dans l’arbitraire du pouvoir de juger et la « modernité » des codes ultérieurs. Entre l’« ancien régime » pénal et le « nouveau », la rupture conceptuelle et pratique est moins radicale qu’il n’y paraît99. « Sortir de l’arbitraire » – qui correspond à une somme d’expériences de la justice, de pratiques du droit et d’interprétations des lois – s’avère terriblement ardu. Avant sa rationalisation scientifique au XIXe siècle, la détection de la folie parricide repose, dans le cadre de la justice d’appel, sur les témoignages du personnel judiciaire de la Conciergerie. Les procédures conservées dans les archives du parlement de Paris révèlent l’imbrication des pratiques et des savoirs médico-judiciaires que mobilisent le juge, le prêtre chapelain, le concierge et les guichetiers des prisons. Les critères retenus pour classer et identifier la folie donnent à lire la formation d’une science empirique du crime et du criminel. L’ancienne jurisprudence ne se contente pas d’annoncer la théorie de la responsabilité pénale que légalise le code napoléonien de 1810100. L’article 64 reconduit les principes de l’ancien droit dont il est la traduction fidèle. Au point que l’interprétation restrictive que donnent les juges à la notion de « démence » suscite la critique des milieux médicaux.

39 Entre 1821 et 1865, les juges d’instruction d’Ille-et-Vilaine et de Seine-et-Oise fondent encore leur diagnostic de la folie sur l’interrogatoire, sur l’enquête auprès de témoins de « moralité » et de témoins « spécialisés », tels que les concierges, les guichetiers, les gardiens des prisons101. Les magistrats tentent ainsi de pallier l’intrusion des experts « aliénistes », qui contestent la théorie juridique de la responsabilité pénale, qui empiètent sur les pouvoirs du juge pénal et qui disposent, avec les débats publics, d’une tribune pour influencer le jury. Dans la seconde moitié du XIXe siècle, alors que l’aliénisme se constitue en champ disciplinaire, la notion d’irresponsabilité, élargie aux formes d’aliénation « consciente », soulève la polémique. Sous l’influence de la « psychiatrisation » de la délinquance, le sujet criminel cristallise le débat pénal102. Le savoir psychiatrique introduit alors une dissociation de plus en plus nette entre les conceptions médicale et judiciaire de l’aliénation mentale103. Une dissociation qu’ignore l’ancien régime pénal. Entièrement maîtres de leurs jugements dans le cadre de la procédure inquisitoire et secrète, les juges souverains du XVIIIe siècle n’ont rien à redouter de la médecine du crime. L’expertise médicale et le diagnostic judiciaire de la folie définissent un cadre nosographique d’une grande stabilité, fondé sur le socle du droit romano-canonique, de la médecine savante et de la doctrine classique.

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NOTES

2. Maupassant (1885, p. 231). 3. Voltaire (1785, p. 215). 4. Locard (s.d. [après 1909], p. 248). E. Locard a pourtant consacré sa thèse de médecine au XVIIe siècle médico-judiciaire (1902). Malgré de belles pages sur l’« expertise » pénale de la démence, l’ouvrage conserve une vision positiviste du progrès médical [Chapitre VII : « Responsabilité criminelle et folie », pp. 160-179]. 5. Kraft-Elbing (1875, pp. 6-12 [Chapitre premier : « Conditions et développement de la responsabilité »] ; Mairet (1907, p. 2). 6. Code pénal [1810], livre II, art. 64 [« Des personnes punissables, excusables ou responsables pour crimes et pour délits »] : c’est la seule mention légale de l’irresponsabilité pour cause de folie contenue dans le code. Cf. Lascoumes, Poncela, Lenoël (1989, p. 267, p. 374). Voir aussi les travaux de Laurence Guignard (2006). 7. Code criminel de l’empereur Charles V, vulgairement appelé La Caroline : contenant les loix qui sont suivies dans les Jurisdictions criminelles de l’Empire : Et à l’usage des Conseils de Guerre des Troupes Suisses, Paris, Claude Simon, 1734, p. 249, p. 289, art. CL, art. CLXXIX [désormais : La Caroline] ; voir aussi l’ordonnance criminelle du mois d’août 1670, titre XXVIII, art. 1 : « Des faits justificatifs des accusés ». 8. Perspective essentielle sur la responsabilité pénale des déments au XVIIe siècle dans E. Locard (1902). L’ouvrage de référence demeure la thèse d’André Laingui (1970, pp. 173-204 [l. II, ch. I : « La démence et les états voisins de la démence »] ; utile résumé dans Histoire du droit pénal, t. I, Le Droit pénal, s.l., 1979, pp. 23-113 ; pour la responsabilité en droit romain et canonique : Mommsen (1907, pp. 74-120) ; Gaudemet (1961, pp. 51-81) ; Trimaille (1994, pp. 303-310) ; Lapalus (2004) ; Lauwaert (1999). 9. Sur l’émergence de l’expertise médico-judiciaire comme savoir naturaliste sur le crime, voir les travaux de Michel Porret (2008). 10. Digeste, 48, 8, 12 ; Digeste, 18, 14. Selon le décret de Gratien, la responsabilité pénale du dément est exclue : DG, c. 15, qu. 1. Le droit canonique invoque surtout la célèbre décrétale de Clément V qui soustrait les furieux, les enfants et les somnambules de la responsabilité de l’homicide : Si furiosus (Clém., V, 4, 1). Cf. Laingui (1970, pp. 177-178, n. 25 et 27).

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11. Farinaccius (1609, Part. I, t. I, p. 95b, p. 161a) ; Tiraqueau (1986, pp. 45-65, causes 2 à 6 [« Démence et états voisins de la démence »]) ; J. de Damhouder (1555, p. 177 [désormais : Enrichidion]) ;Lebrun de La Rochette (1619, p. 131 [désormais : Procès criminel] ;1673, p. 650a [désormais : Les Œuvres]). 12. Damhouder (1555, p. 177). 13. Jousse (1763, p. XXXVII, p. 492, Titre XXVIII, I, 4°[désormais : Nouveau commentaire]). 14. Jousse (1771, p. 10, n. 14, p. 634, n. 31 [désormais : Traité de la justice criminelle]). 15. Jousse(1763, Nouveau commentaire, p. 492, Tit. XXVIII, I, 4°). 16. Jousse (1771, Traité de la justice criminelle, t. I, p. 10, Part. IV, tit. XXVIII, n. 14). 17. Parent (2001, n° 35, p. 195). 18. Soulatges(1762, pp. 8-9 [désormais : Traité des crimes]). 19. de La Roche-Flavin (1720 [désormais : Arrests notables]) ; Denisart (1766-1771, 5 vol. [Désormais : Décisions nouvelles]). 20. Jousse (1771, Traité de la justice criminelle, t. I, p. V [Préface], n.s.). 21. Sur la folie de Ravaillac, voir les témoignages que cite le docteur Emmanuel Régis (1902, p. 20). Pour l’arrêt du parlement de Paris : Arrest de la Cour de Parlement, contre le tres-meschant parricide François Ravaillac, Lyon, Barthelemy Ancelin, 1610, pp. 3-5. 22. Muyart de Vouglans (1757, p. 76, n.s. [Désormais : Institutes]). 23. Jousse (1771, Traité de la justice criminelle, p. I [Préface]). 24. Rousseaud de la Combe (1762, p. 81). 25. Selon André Laingui, le plus ancien arrêt de ce type date du 9 juillet 1543. Il émane du sénat de Milan auquel se réfère le jurisconsulte italien Julius Clarus (1525-1575). En se fondant sur les traités de jurisprudence de La Roche Flavin, de Ferrière et de Denisart, l’historien du droit signale un arrêt similaire, rendu en 1683 par le parlement de Paris : Laingui (1970, p. 179). 26. Archives de la Préfecture de Police [désormais : A.P.P.], A B 78, 19 avril 1699, Jeanne Petit ve Fébure, fol. 150 r°-v° [homicide conjugal]. 27. A.P.P., AB 91, 12 juillet 1717, Jean Huré, fol. 46 r°-v° [parricide]. 28. Foucault (1973, p. 279). 29. Reprise par L. Guignard, l’hypothèse foucaldienne du « basculement » d’une justice objective quipunit les faits criminels (Ancien Régime) à une justice subjective quijuge les individus (XIXe siècle) est donc à nuancer : « L’irresponsabilité pénale dans la première moitié du XIXe siècle, entre classicisme et défense sociale » (2005, pp. 1-6). 30. Soit 59 cas de parricides « déments » au total. Le chiffre tient compte des 11 accusés dont les procès figurent dans les minutes d’instruction de la Tournelle et du Châtelet mais dont les noms sont absents des registres d’écrous de la Conciergerie. Avec 59 « déments » sur 452 homicides familiaux, 13 % des parricides accusés sont jugés fous entre 1694 et 1775. C’est singulièrement plus qu’au XIXe siècle. Malgré le développement de l’aliénisme, l’état mental des accusés n’est pris en considération que dans 5 % des 771 cas de parricides jugés entre 1825 et 1914 : Lapalus (2004, p. 303). 31. Lecuir (1974, t. XXI, pp. 484-485). 32. Soit 37 procès conservés. Dans deux tiers des cas, les registres d’écrous mentionnent leur transfert dans les geôles du Palais avec leur identité, leur provenance, le premier jugement, le chef d’accusation et la condamnation définitive. 33. A.P.P., AB 109, 29 janvier 1752, Jean Fillolleau, fol. 179 v° [parricide]. 34. Archives Nationales [désormais : A.N.], X2B 1307, Jean Filloleau, interrogatoire, 27 mars 1752, fol. 1 [parricide]. 35. Trimaille (1994, p. 304). 36. A.N., Y 10105, Bernard Joubart, sentence criminelle Châtelet de Paris, 1 er avril 1745, fol. 1 [meurtre conjugal], n.s.

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37. A.N., Y 10105, Bernard Joubart, procès-verbal du commissaire de Courcy, 26 janvier 1745, fol. 1-4 [meurtre conjugal], n.s. 38. A.P.P., AB 114, 5 avril 1745, Bernard Joubart, fol. 195 v° [meurtre conjugal]. 39. Une situation qui s’explique, selon Lapalus, par la rivalité professionnelle opposant magistrats et médecins chargés de l’expertise mentale des accusés. Les membres du corps judiciaire sont peu enclins à faire intervenir ces derniers dans les prétoires. Ils ordonnent donc rarement l’expertise mentale de l’accusé (70 cas sur 771, soit moins de 5 %) : Lapalus (2004, pp. 303-305). Sur ce point, voir aussi Guignard (2001, pp. 57-81). 40. A.N., Y 10060, André Villette, rapport des médecins et chirurgiens, 18 novembre 1737 [double parricide]. 41. Les Cinquante livres du Digeste ou des Pandectes de l’empereur Justinien, MM. Hulot et Berthelot (trad.), Metz/Paris, Behmer et Lamort/Rondonneau, 1805, réimpr. Aalen, Scientia Verlag, 1979, p. 354, p. 356. 42. Lange (1694, p. 17). L’excuse de la folie parricide est aussi reconnue par Lebrun de La Rochette, Le Procès criminel (1619, p. 131 ; del Manzano(1728, pp. 131 sq. [Liber Sextus]) ; Rousseaud de La Combe, Traité des matières criminelles (1762, p. 81) ;Jousse (1771, t. IV, p. 12, n° 28). 43. A.P.P., AB 120, 24 mars 1771, Laurent Dupont, fol. 157r°-v° [parricide de sa mère], n.s. 44. Mommsen (1907, p. 74). 45. Il faut donc reprendre la chronologie de Guignard (2005, pp. 4-6), qui estime que la « responsabilité atténuée » et les pénalités individualisées ne caractérisent pas la jurisprudence de la folie criminelle avant le XIXe siècle. 46. A.N., X2B 1288, Marguerite Barrois, interrogatoire, 17 juin 1719, fol. 1 [soupçon d’homicide de sa fille]. 47. A.P.P., AB 92, 7 mars 1719, Marguerite Barrois, fol. 46 r° [soupçon d’homicide de sa fille]. 48. Zacchiae (1651). Au sujet de la folie criminelle, les doctrinaires du XVIIIe siècle (Daniel Jousse, Muyart de Vouglans, etc.) se réfèrent à J. Clarus, P. Farinaccius et P. Zacchias. Cf. Vallon, Pénil- Perrin (1912). Voir Pastore, Rossi (éd., 2008, passim). 49. Évoquant la folie dans les crimes familiaux, le fondateur de la médecine légale lyonnaise Alexandre Lacassagne (1843-1924) se réfère encore à Zacchias (1906, pp. 451-455). 50. Mommsen (1907, p. 88) ; Foucault (1972, pp. 229-267). 51. MePrévost(1753, pp. 263-265 [désormais : Principes de jurisprudence]. Au XIXe siècle, la médecine judiciaire insiste toujours sur les signes « annonciateurs » de la pathologie mentale : la « démence s’annonce par les paroles, les actions et la situation, ou les différents mouvements du corps » : Belloc (1811, p. 257). Élève de Philippe Pinel (1745-1826), dont il poursuit les études sur l’aliénation mentale à la tête de l’hôpital de la Salpêtrière puis de Charenton, Jean-Étienne Esquirol (1772-1840), l’un des fondateurs de la médecine aliéniste, définit aussi la folie ou l’« aliénation mentale [comme] une affection cérébrale ordinairement chronique, sans fièvre, caractérisée par les désordres de la sensibilité de l’intelligence, de la volonté » : Des Maladies mentales considérées sous les rapports médical, hygiénique et médico-légal (1838, p. 5, n.s.). 52. Muyart de Vouglans (1757, p. 79, n.s.). 53. Sur la problématique des compétences extra-judiciaires mobilisées dans le champ civil et pénal : Dolan (dir., 2005) ; dans le même volume, sur le rôle « expertal » du médecin dans la procédure inquisitoire d’Ancien Régime : Porret (2005). 54. Pothier (1821, p. 564, n.s.). 55. Ordonnance de Valence pour la Bretagne du mois d’août 1536, chap. 2 ; ordonnance criminelle du mois d’août 1670, tit. V, art. 1-3 : Bornier (1693, pp. 54-56, pp. 119-120). Dans l’Empire, le Code criminel de Charles V (1532) légifère également sur le recours à l’expertise médico-judiciaire (art. CXLIX, « De la visite du corps mort avant qu’on l’enterre ») : La Caroline, pp. 246-247. 56. Porret (2005, p. 728).

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57. Voir ce qu’en dit le juriste Pothier (1778, pp. 464-466). 58. MePrévost (1753, pp. 258-259). 59. Muyart de Vouglans (1757, p. 79, n.s.). 60. Jousse (1763, pp. 493-494). 61. Selon Laingui, le rapport des médecins et chirurgiens nommés d’office prouve juridiquement la folie. Mais le juriste fonde son propos sur les seules sources doctrinales ou législatives : Laingui (1970, pp. 188-191). 62. Sur l’interdiction civile des « fous » et la procédure judiciaire qui l’établit, à Genève, voir Barras (1989). La preuve du suicide repose sur la visite du cadavre par les médecins et chirurgiens et l’information de vie, et mœurs, faite au juge et communiquée à la partie publique. Selon la Déclaration du 5 septembre 1712, « pour la Ville de Paris & lieux circonvoisins », l’instruction à laquelle donne lieu la découverte d’un corps mort se compose la visite des médecins ainsi que l’information de vie et mœurs du défunt. Sur ce point : Muyart de Vouglans (1767, Part. I : Instruction suivant l’Ordonnance de 1670 et les Déclarations rendues en conséquence, p. 491 [désormais : Instruction criminelle]). 63. Cf. le commentaire du titre XXII de l’ordonnance criminelle de 1670 (« De la manière de faire procez au cadavre, ou à la mémoire d’un défunt »), art. 1-2 : Bornier(1693, t. II, pp. 245-246). 64. Muyart de Vouglans (1767, p. 491). 65. A.N., X2B 1309, Madeleine Dubreuil, information, 18 juin 1760, fol. 2 [homicide de sa nièce]. 66. A.N., X 2B 1300, Charles Bourgeois, procès-verbal de visite des médecins et chirurgiens, s.d., 1733, fol. 1 [homicide conjugal]. 67. A.N., X 2B 1283, Marie Bourne, procès-verbal de visite des médecins et chirurgiens,8 janvier 1700, fol. 3. 68. Garnot (1989). 69. Hildesheimer ( 2004, p. 53). 70. A.N., Y 10060, André Villette, rapport des médecins et chirurgiens, 19 novembre 1737, [double parricide]. 71. A.P.P., AB 105, 24 novembre 1742, Barbe Grenu, fol. 192 v° [homicide de sa fille]. 72. A.N., X2B 995, Barbe Grenu, minute d’arrêt, 9 septembre 1744 [homicide de sa fille], n.s. 73. A.P.P., AB 120, 24 mars 1771, Edme Dupont, fol. 153 r°-v° [parricide de sa mère], n.s. 74. Jousse (1763, pp. 493-494) ; Denisart (1766) , t. I, p. 380, V° « Démence » ; t. II, p. 170, V° « Furieux ». 75. Muyart de Vouglans (1757, p. 78). 76. Jousse (1771, t. I, p. 634). 77. Les geôliers des prisons doivent en effet veiller à l’état de santé des accusés (ordonnance de 1670, titre XIII, art. 21). 78. Encyclopédie, X-2, pp. 632-634, V° « Démence » ; t. XIV-2, pp. 842-844, V° « Folie » ; t. XV-2, pp. 536-543, V° « Fureur ». 79. A.N., Y 9649B, Nicole Aubert, information, 9 juin 1763, fol. 2-3, 5-6 [homicide de sa nièce]. 80. A.N., X2B 1283, Marie Bourne, information, 11 janvier 1700, fol. 3. 81. Encyclopédie, XIV-2, p. 844a, V° « Folie ». 82. A.N., X2B 1289, Jean Hervé, information, 15 octobre 1717, fol. 1-3 [parricide]. 83. A.N., X2B 1300, Charles Bourgeois, information, 25 septembre 1733, fol. 1 [homicide conjugal]. 84. A.N., X2B 1313, Jeanne Lebeau, information, 11 août 1772, fol. 1-3 [incendie et fratricide]. 85. Voir, par exemple : A.N., X 2B 1303, François Prieur dit La Venelle, information, 19 janvier 1737, fol. 2 [parricide de sa mère] ; X2B 1313, Jeanne Lebeau, information, 11 août 1772, fol. 3 [incendie et fratricide] ; X2B 1285, Gilbert Dupré, information, 3 décembre 1707, fol. 2 [homicide de son oncle]. 86. A.N., X2B 1302, Mathieu Cambre, interrogatoire, 22 juin 1736, fol. 1 [meurtre conjugal].

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87. A.N., X2B 1303, François Prieur dit La Venelle, information, 19 janvier 1737, fol. 2 [parricide de sa mère]. 88. A.N., X2B 1307, Jean Filloleau, information, 16 mars 1752, fol. 1 [parricide]. 89. A.N., X2B 1286, Louise Picot, information, 21 janvier 1710, fol. 3 [homicide], n.s. 90. A.N., X2B 1285, Gilbert Dupré, information, 3 décembre 1707, fol. 1 [homicide de son oncle], n.s. 91. A.N., X2B 1285, Gilbert Dupré, information, 3 décembre 1707, fol. 2 [homicide de son oncle], n.s. 92. de Ferrière (1768, t. I, p. 500, p. 709b, p. 732a-b, V° « Démence », « Folie, extravagance », « Fureur ») ; Brisson, Nouveau dictionnaire civil et canonique de droit et de praticque, Paris, Michel Brunet, 1697, p. 313b, V° « Démence » ; Encyclopédie, t. X-2, p. 632b, V° « Démence ». 93. De même, la procédure d’interdiction pratiquée à Genève, au XVIII e siècle, est entièrement déterminée par les conceptions médicales de la folie : Barras (1989, p. 22). 94. Encyclopédie, t. XIV-2, p. 842b, V° « Folie ». 95. Foucault (1961 ; 1972) estime au contraire que l’expérience de la folie, à l’âge classique, est duale. Le philosophe oppose les théories juridico-médicales – reconnaissant le fou comme sujet de droit et de soins – et les pratiques sociales fondées – sur le « renfermement des fous » dangereux. 96. Swain (1997, p. 13). 97. Le jurisconsulte montpelliérain Antoine Despeisses cite des arrêts du parlement de Toulouse (1582) et de Dijon (1566) condamnant deux parricides jugés « furieux » à l’enfermement perpétuel : Les Œuvres, p. 639a [Part. I, titre XI : « De l’absolution des accusez », n.7]. Sur la jurisprudence bourguignonne et européenne au XVIIIe siècle : Ulrich (1972, t. L, n° 5, p. 408, pp. 417-418) ; Mc Lynn (1984, pp. 40-41) ; Henry (1984, pp. 34-36) ; Porret (1995, pp. 128-131). 98. Voltaire (1967, V° « Folie », p. 205). 99. Lascoumes (1989). Voir aussi le stimulant article de Sbriccoli (1997). 100. Renneville(1997, t. I, p. 240). Les aliénistes ne parviennent pas à faire admettre aux juges la catégorie clinique de la monomanie homicide que théorise alors Jean-Étienne Esquirol (1999, pp. 53-54) ; Lapalus (2004, pp. 101-152). 101. Guignard (2001, p. 66). 102. Trimaille (1994, pp. 308-310). 103. Renneville(1997, t. I, p. 249).

RÉSUMÉS

Perpétré par un dément, le meurtre dans la parenté est-il excusable, comme les autres homicides ou doit-il être atrocement puni, comme les autres parricides ? Contrairement aux idées reçues, la reconnaissance de l’irresponsabilité pénale en cas de folie ne naît pas avec l’article 64 du Code pénal de 1810. Reposant sur les minutes d’instruction criminelle du parlement de Paris, cet article montre que la répression du crime rare et atroce de parricide est un creuset de la modernité punitive au XVIIIe siècle. Folie, fureur, démence, imbécilité, mélancolie : à travers le diagnostic de la folie parricide, se négocie l’équilibre entre la défense de l’autorité paternelle et la rationalisation médico-judiciaire de l’irresponsabilité pénale. Enquête sur la vie, les mœurs, le comportement des accusés, enfermement perpétuel des coupables : les cas de folie parricide sont

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exemplaires des stratégies de mitigation pénale qui se construisent dans l’arbitraire du pouvoir judiciaire au XVIIIe siècle.

Should the familial murder committed by a mentally ill person be excusable as the ordinary manslaughters, or should it be punished as the other parricides? The recognition of penal irresponsibility in case of madness is not born with the 1810’s Penal Code (article 64). Based on the criminal sources of the parliament of Paris, this paper intends to prove that judicial “modernity” can emerge from the XVIIIth century’s repression of the rare and atrocious crime of parricide. Madness, fury, insanity, idiocy, melancholy: the diagnosis of the parricidal madness deals with the medical rationalization of the penal irresponsibility. Its punishment is also to be linked to the defense of the paternal authority. Through the procedure of investigation into the defendants’ “vie, mœurs et comportements” and through their perpetual confinement, this paper explores the reasons why penal mitigation has been extended to the case of parricidal madness in the XVIIIth century’s arbitrary power of justice.

AUTEUR

JULIE DOYON Agrégée d’histoire et PRAG à l’Université de Paris-13-Nord, Julie Doyon est rattachée au laboratoire du CRESC (Centre de Recherches Espaces, Sociétés, Culture). En thèse sous la direction de Robert Muchembled, elle s’intéresse à la jurisprudence du parricide dans le ressort du parlement de Paris au XVIIIe siècle. Ses recherches portent sur les interactions entre le modèle familial du pouvoir, les normes sociales et la régulation juridique des violences dans la parenté à l’époque moderne. Elle a notamment publié : Le père dénaturé au siècle des Lumières, Autorité, pouvoir et conflits familiaux, Sylvie Perrier (dir.), Annales de Démographie historique, 2009-2, n° 118, pp. 175-201 ; De la clandestinité à la fausseté : la fraude matrimoniale à Paris, Dix-Huitième siècle, 2007, n° 39, pp. 415-430 ; À l’ombre du Père ? L’autorité maternelle dans la première moitié du XVIIIe siècle, Clio, Histoire, Femme et Société, 2005, n° 21, pp. 162-173.

Université de Paris-13-Nord LSHS - Bureau E 312 99, avenue Jean-Baptiste Clément F-93430 Villetaneuse [email protected]

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Philipp Müller (dir.) Communicating Order, Policing Society

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Introduction

Philipp Müller

1 Police practice operates in a setting of communications: interrogations have to be minuted; reports require drafting and submission; names need to be listed; and statistical calculations must be updated. Police authorities are keen to learn and implement new technologies and means of communication in order to improve and facilitate the internal communication of their administrative apparatus. Additionally, the police require the means to promote their institutional performance. Put simply, policing society is inextricably interlinked with various acts of communication1. Against this backdrop, the contributions of this issue focus on the different efforts of police to effectively communicate with «the policed», thereby ensuring peace, order and, ultimately, the execution of power.

2 Jakob Zollmann explores in his study to what extent and under which circumstances German colonial police forces succeeded in effectively carrying out their policing tasks. As his analysis compellingly shows, the space for manoeuvring was rather limited for the colonial police, and the impact of their actions mediated and diverted in many ways. In contrast to the sweeping notions of state power formulated in the offices of the Imperial metropolis, the practice of policing in the colonies could not but rely on native Africans and their help and support, given the required specific local knowledge and understanding of the difficult Nama/Damara-language. In the end, the mission of German colonial police, deployed to ‘normalise’ statehood in the German colonies, proved illusionary.

3 Policing in the metropolises of the British and German Empires is at the centre of the study by Anja Johansen. Johansen compares the different procedures put in place in London and Berlin to deal with complaints concerning police malpractice, an under- investigated field in police history. Remarkably, the London Metropolitan police managed to fashion itself as a responsive and disciplined institutional body, a body that was committed to the public and acted in accordance with the law, even if the alleged «gentle Bobby»2 performed less gently than generally perceived by the wider urban populace. In comparison, the Berlin police forces, lacking such differentiated and sophisticated approach towards police malpractice, antagonised the general public and prompted criticism of all parties across the political spectrum. Broadly speaking, the

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Schutzmannschaft persistently defended any use of violence to enforce law and order and thus the authority cemented the notion of the bully and aggressive Schutzmann. As a result, any attempt of the authority to effectively deal with police malpractice was tarnished beforehand. However, it is also worth noting that, in contrast to its English counterpart, the policing practice of the Schutzmannschaft generally lacked the notion of proportional use of coercive means in the course of law enforcement.

4 As Berlin’s police forces embarked on the public investigation of crimes, the position of the authority significantly differed. Philipp Müller presents an in depth analysis of the «Berlin ‘Jack the Ripper’» Case, investigating the press policy of the Criminal Investigation Department and its repercussions in the public arena of Imperial Berlin. Similarly to the original Jack the Ripper case, the Berlin police never caught the perpetrator. However, Scotland Yard’s restrictive attitude towards the press prompted London’s journalists to fabricate the famous Jack the Ripper legend, whereas the proactive and inclusive press policy of the Criminal investigation department succeeded in silencing the ultimate failure of the public manhunt. The failure of police and public efforts notwithstanding, the public police investigations went with a new encounter between the police forces and «the policed» as amply illustrated by the «Berlin ‘Jack the Ripper’» case. The police and «the many» jointly attempted to rectify the wrong done by the perpetrator; concomitantly, they negotiated about their say and performance in the transforming public sphere of Imperial Berlin.

5 Whereas the authors of these three studies differently weigh the comparative as well as transnational dimensions of police history, they all share one particular focus: the history of German police in the Imperial period. The years from 1871 until 1914 witnessed significant political and social change, and, certainly, the transformation of German society did not come to a halt at the gates of German police authorities. During the Imperial period German police forces were confronted with diverse challenges, challenges that came in different forms and urged the police authorities to change in one or the other way. The German unification itself had already legally constrained the political powers of Prussian political and military elites, thereby curtailing the reach of their political machinations in the newly established political entity3. About ten years later, the Preußische Oberverwaltungsgericht stipulated that the police had not say in aesthetic question; its main task being defined the safeguarding of public security and safety; the Kreuzbergurteil undermined the encompassing and comprehensive remit underpinned by the concept of Polizey4. Although the notorious institutional affiliation of the army and police5 – in addition to the military fabric of German police – remained a persistent feature6, the cooperation as well as the institutional ties of army and police weakened7. The colonial experiment is a case in point: in South West Africa a civilian governor commanded the military and headed the police inspectorate - an unprecedented institution that prompted much debate among the contemporaries in the metropolis8. Furthermore, for the police forces, the ambition to transform the recently carved out colonial possessions into a territory of Empire produced a situation coloniale that did not lack its own imminent challenges. Finally, during the Imperial period the German society itself was subject to change. In the course of economic transition and urban agglomeration, emerging cities and new urban centres went with unheard forms of sociability and produced novel tasks and required new roles for the police9. Last but not least, the transforming media landscape in Germany press went with the establishing of a wider urban public. Consequently, police practice became subject to public scrutiny, resulting in severe public criticism for this authority10. Put

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succinctly, politics changed gear and society transformed: the police was urged to respond to these social and political changes, on top of having to consider how the police could contribute to these developments. It is this context that is worth-while to probe, namely the interdependent interlocking of the communicating order and the policing of society.

6 «Communicating order, policing society» was the theme of the 20th Colloquium for Police History co-jointly organised with and staged at the German Historical Institute London in July 2009. On this occasion Dr Anja Johansen and Dr Jakob Zollmann presented and discussed their studies with various experts of modern police history in Great Britain and Germany. I owe many thanks to Professor Andreas Gestrich, Director of the German Historical Institute London, for his cooperation and support of the conference. I also owe many thanks to Professor Clive Emsley and Professor Alf Lüdtke for their advice while designing and organising the 20th colloquium. For their financial support of the conference, I would like to thank the German Historical Institute London, the Deutsche Gesellschaft für Polizeigeschichte e.V., and the German History Society.

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Lüdtke, A., Müller, Ph. (eds.), MedienAneignung in historischer Perspektive, Sozialwissenschaftliche Information/SOWI 35, 2005, 4.

Lüdtke, A., Becker, P., (eds.), Akten, Eingaben, Schaufenster. Die DDR und ihre Texte., Erkundungen zu Herrschaft und Alltag, Berlin, 1997.

Lüdtke, A., The permanence of internal war. The Prussian state and its opponents, 1870-71, in S. Förster, J. Nagler (eds.), On the Road to Total War. The American Civil War and the German Wars of Unification 1861-1871, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press 1997, pp. 377-392.

Lüdtke, A., (ed.), Sicherheit und Wohlfahrt. Polizei, Gesellschaft und Herrschaft im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, Frankfurt a.M., Campus, 1992.

Lüdtke, A., Police and state in Prussia 1815-1850, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1989.

Lüdtke, A., «Gemeinwohl», Polizei und «Festungspraxis», Göttingen, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1982.

Müller, Ph., «But we will always have to individualise». Police Supervision of released prisoners, its ‘Crisis’ and Reform in Prussia (1880-1914), Crime, Histoire & Sociétés / Crime, History & Societies, 2010, 14, pp. 55-83.

Müller, Ph., Auf der Suche nach dem Täter: Die öffentliche Dramatisierung von Verbrechen im Berlin des Kaiserreichs, Frankfurt, Campus, 2005.

Reinke, H. (ed.), «Nur für die Sicherheit da…?» Zur Geschichte der Polizei im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, Frankfurt, Campus, 1993.

Reinke, H., «Armed as if for a war». The state, the military and the professionalization of the Prussian Police in Imperial Germany, in Emsley, C., Weinberger, B., (eds.), Policing in western Europe 1850-1940. Politics, professionalization and public order, New York, Greenwood, 1991, pp. 55-73.

Roth, A., Kriminalitätsbekämpfung in deutschen Großstädten 1850-1914. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des strafrechtlichen Ermittlungsverfahrens, Berlin, Erich Verlag, 1997.

Habermas, R., Von Anselm von Feuerbach zu Jack the Ripper. Recht und Kriminalität im 19. Jahrhundert. Ein Literaturbericht, Rechtsgeschichte 2003, 3, pp. 128-261.

Schwerhoff, G., Historische Kriminalitätsforschung, Frankfurt a.M., Campus Verlag, 2011.

Schwerhoff, G., Aktenkundig und Gerichtsnotorisch. Einführung in die Historische Kriminalitätsforschung, Tübingen, 1999.

Spencer, E. G., Police military relations in Prussia 1848-1914, Journal of Social History, 1985, 19, pp. 305-317.

Spencer, E.G., Police and the Social Order in German Cities, DeKalb, Northern Illinois University Press, 1992.

Spencer, E. G., Policing Popular Amusements in German Cities. The Case of Prussia’s Rhine Province, 1815-1914, Journal of Urban History, 1990, 16, pp. 366-385.

NOTES

1. Cf. Becker (2004); Caplan (2001); Habermas (2003); Lüdtke, Becker (1997); Lüdtke, Müller (2005); Schwerhoff (1999, 2011). 2. Emsley (1992, 2005). 3. Lüdtke (1997). 4. Foucault (1981); Lüdtke (1982, 1989); Reinke (1993).

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5. Funk (1986); Reinke (1991); cf. Lüdtke (1992); Reinke (1993). 6. Lüdtke (1982, 1989); Emsley (1999). 7. Funk (1986); Spencer (1985, 1992); Johansen (2005). 8. Cf. article by Jakob Zollmann in this issue of Crime, Histoire et Sociétés / Crime, History & Societies. 9. Spencer (1990); Jessen (1991); Lindenberger (1992); Reinke (1991); Fraunholz (2000); Müller (2010). 10. Roth (1997); Müller (2005); Johansen (2009).

AUTHOR

PHILIPP MÜLLER [email protected]

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Communicating Colonial Order: The Police of German South-West-Africa (c. 1894-1915)

Jakob Zollmann

Introduction

1 At the end of the 19th century, colonial administrators began to introduce the policing duties and practices (for example regulating, punishing, informing and recording) that had evolved in Europe over the course of centuries to their colonial territories. These duties and practices were accepted as being necessary police functions in the maintenance of law and order within a (colonial) state, especially in those territories whose communities of settlers were growing. Furthermore, the accompanying division of colonial forces into military and police wings was not just a mere formality: it signalled the more rooted, stabilised, and indeed more ‘normalised’ status of colonial power. It was in this context that Britain organized the Gold Coast Armed Police in 18652. The German colonial empire was no exception to these developments.

2 Germany did not acquire colonies before 1884/5, and these acquisitions in Africa and the South Seas were at first barely touched by their new ‘masters’. Historians talk of a “‘paper occupation’ of Africa” during the course of the Berlin Africa Conference3, and indeed a few engagements by one or two navy vessels off the coastline were all the German government initially afforded with regard to their new overseas possessions. Chancellor Otto v. Bismarck was reluctant when it came to the expensive deployment of troops in Germany’s African territories, which (according to his plans) should not have been “colonies” proper, but instead protectorates (Schutzgebiete): territories administered privately by “British style” chartered companies4. His plans proved futile however, and so did hopes for Africans willingly accepting German “protection” – increasing ‘riots’ led to the deployment of more troops. Even with these increases, the numbers of men employed were still to remain small: in 1890, for instance, only 190 German troopers and 1530 Africans were deployed in German East Africa [now

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Tansania]. In 1893, only 220 men were deployed to German South-West-Africa [GSWA, now Namibia], in an effort to subdue the Ovaherero and Nama. Perhaps unsurprisingly given the number of troops deployed, it would ultimately be political machinations, rather than German military might, that would lead to the signing of “protection treaties” by African leaders like Samuel Maharero of Okahandja, or Hendrik Witbooi of Gibeon5.

3 It would only be in 1894, a full ten years after the tradesman Adolf Lüderitz had originally requested protection from the German Empire for his ‘possessions’ along the coastline of south western Africa, that some invalid German troopers as well as a few Africans would be seconded as policemen to the colonial capital Windhoek, as well as in the towns of Swakopmund and Keetmanshoop. Assigned to act as clerks for the local administration, they were tasked with helping control the growing ‘urban population’ of settlers and Africans as well as the farm areas.

4 Establishing a colonial (police) force was merely one aspect of German colonial policy however. The aims of the German colonial mission were manifold: apart from economic objectives, colonial missions claimed to be civilizing missions, bringing order into chaos6. Colonial possessions «were meant to, at least in some respects, evolve into something resembling a state»7. Irrespective of any discussion about colonies being used as “laboratories”8, the intention to establish a state-like order according to European patterns, including taxes, military, police, prisons, schools and infrastructure, was unmistakable. The question of how to reach these objectives remained open for contemporaries however: the resulting “colonial perplexity” of Europeans in Africa is to be emphasised9.

5 By examining German efforts to regulate, control and communicate colonial order, the following analysis of attempts to police GSWA exemplifies this “colonial perplexity”. The first part of this analysis, focusing on regulation and personnel, outlines: 1) how the legal and administrative framework of colonial policing was organized in GSWA; 2) how contemporaries dealt with, and how researchers have assessed, the effectiveness and/or impotence of German colonial rule; and 3) why the involvement of African personnel was indispensable for German colonial rule. The second part of this analysis puts an emphasis on colonial policing practices, exemplified by: 1) police patrols and 2) the interaction between police and the African population after the “native regulations” were enacted in 1907. In the third part of this study, the focus shall be on the languages used to communicate between Africans and German policemen in GSWA, in order to analyse: 1) the inadequacy of interpreters for colonial purposes; and 2) how German officials could be turned into African language students.

6 Over the last decades, such questions on the policing of German Africa have been, by and large, neglected in German historiography. Whereas considerable research on the policing of the British Empire has been undertaken, no comparable literature is available for the German colonies. The gaps that were left by the few authors who have worked in that field since the 1960s – the most notable of these being Helmut Bley, Karin Hausen, Horst Gründer and Trutz v. Trotha – have increasingly been filled by the recent boom in the field of colonial history in German academia (and beyond). During the last ten years, numerous books and articles have contributed to a better understanding of German colonialism ‘on the ground’; in addition, German colonial fantasies, desires, failures and limitations have also been under heightened scrutiny in recent times, and it is upon this base that this article will build.

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Regulating colonial policing

The administrative framework and police personnel in GSWA

7 When Europeans began to colonise the African continent, they had little to no concept of how to achieve this objective. Knowledge about the areas to be colonized was lacking. Besides knowledge, infrastructural and financial means were also lacking, as well as personnel and the appropriate equipment with which to enter the unknown territories. Colonial administrators were forced to resort to policies of ‘trial and error’ in order to implement their self-imposed benchmark of (rudimentary) statehood. The development of German colonial law, starting in 1886, was certainly no exception to this ‘trial and error’ approach10.

8 The legal arrangements of colonial rule were necessary in order to meet the requirements of international and German constitutional law. Budgets had to be approved; officials were to be sent to the colonies; civil and penal jurisdictions had to be stipulated, as well as other competences. The Colonial Law (Schutzgebietsgesetz), passed by the parliament in 1886, was to form the legal foundation for an ever-growing realm of ordinances and some formal laws until 1918. The Colonial Law declared the Emperor to be the bearer of the state authority (Schutzgewalt) on behalf of the Reich. The definition of Schutzgewalt became highly contested by legal scholars in Imperial Germany, but generally it was accepted to mean the authority to govern the overseas territories. The Emperor was also entitled to delegate his power to the chancellor, who thereby became the “colonial minister”. European contemporaries saw the development of a colonial administration as a stepping-stone towards the goal of establishing a ‘state’ inside a territory that was defined – according to international law – as terra nullius. The situation discovered in the colonies was – from a contemporary point of view – in need of a ‘cultural’ reconfiguration11. German legal provisions therefore had to be implemented in the colonies. The administration in Berlin ruled the colonies by ordinances, with the express desire of keeping parliament and its laws out of administering the colonies as far as possible12. More and more ordinances – specifically meant to meet the requirements of ruling a colony – were passed, starting with provisions against the sale of alcohol and weapons. The initial ‘trial and error’ policy of early colonial rule was replaced by a more stringent (legal) grip on colonial assets after 1900. The number of regulations continued to grow constantly, finally filling more than 13 volumes13.

9 The Kaiserliche berittene Landespolizei für Deutsch-Südwestafrika (Imperial mounted police force in GSWA) was a police institution militarily organized and trained, but administered by the civil administration. Its members were civil servants rather than soldiers. The head of the police inspectorate in Windhoek, however, was a Major or Lieutenant-Colonel delegated to serve in the civil colonial administration, and under the colonial governor. Given that questions relating to the subordination of military personnel under civil rule were of utmost importance to German contemporaries, it is remarkable that in German colonies (except for the naval base Tsingtao) the civilian governor headed not only the administration (Gouvernement), but was also superior to the commander of the military (Schutztruppe), as well as to the head of the police inspectorate (Inspektion der Landespolizei)14.

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10 After several previous attempts with civil policing, a police force in GSWA, distinct from the military, was formally founded in 1905. Based on plans made in 1903, and being founded during the wars against Ovaherero and Nama, this new police force was initially not to play a role in GWSA. As in previous years, the military continued to execute most of the police work; it would not be until 1907, following the formal introduction of the Emperor’s organisational ordinance, that the business of recruiting and actual police work would begin. The missions and duties of the colonial police force were to be similar to its law enforcing counterparts in Germany: securing public order, protecting the public’s welfare, and penalising perpetrators. In addition to these tasks, colonial police officers had to execute the so-called “native regulations” of 1907, which regulated the carrying of official passes by Africans, as well as their obligation to work and to be registered with the local administration; stipulations similar to those found in the neighbouring Cape Colony and Transvaal.

11 As stated above, the police inspectorate was a division within the governorate (Gouvernement) of GSWA, which was in turn subordinate to the Imperial Colonial Office (Reichskolonialamt) in Berlin. The police force was to comprise around 500 former non- commissioned officers (the military imprint of police officers was common in Imperial Germany, and in this case it was required that the prospective police officers had served in the colonial forces or German army for at least six years) and 370 African “police servants” (Polizeidiener). These policemen would be deployed in up to 110 police stations within, and at the fringes of, an established “police zone”. This “police zone” was an area within GSWA (around 60% of the territory, excluding the northern periphery of the colony as well as parts of the Kalahari and Namib desert) where European settlers were allowed to own land. With the German parliament passing cutbacks in colonial budgets, the intended expansion of colonial police capacity would be hindered: of the 720 German police sergeants planned for 1907, barely 450 could be actually budgeted for in 1913 (next to approximately 1,900 soldiers).

12 Despite continuous pressure on its budget, the above force would have to police the roughly 14,000 European settlers, mostly of German origin, that lived within GSWA by 1913. The precise number of Africans within the “police zone” of GSWA is hard to estimate. There are no exact population figures available from before the German wars against Ovaherero and Nama (1904-07), which, according to assessment of some researchers, annihilated more than 50% of the respective populations15. Also contemporary figures from after the war are unreliable – the 1908 estimate of Vice- governor Oskar Hintrager, who claimed that “the entire coloured population” of Africans within the “police zone” stood at 59,214 people, being a pertinent example16. After all, who would have counted the population in this barren, often desert-like territory, larger in size than Germany? This figure can only be treated as an approximate value at best, and owes much more to a colonial fantasy of omnipotence than any real systematic study. Nevertheless, GSWA was still the largest settler community of all German overseas possessions; despite this fact, the economic expectations of most individual settlers, as well as the demographic hopes of policy makers and colonial enthusiasts, would be disappointed.

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Effectiveness and/or impotence of German colonial rule in GSWA

13 The above quoted numbers can only serve to question the effectiveness of colonial rule, which was – especially outside the very small colonial ‘towns’ – represented most of all by military personnel or policemen ‘on the beat’. Any comparison between what was intended and what was executed emphasizes the deficits and limits of colonial rule, and also often the impotence and inability to rule the areas meant to be colonized. It was in this context that Jeffrey Herbst pointed to the “schizophrenic nature of colonial power in Africa”: despite their brute force, colonial coercive powers were regularly unable to enforce colonial rule ‘always and everywhere’ within their colonial territories17.

14 As is true with colonial historiography in general, “a new generation of historians of colonial Namibia” also tend to question the “colonial hegemony”18. Indeed, questions on the weakness of the colonial state have been repeatedly posed, especially when looking at the colonial spaces: where and when was the colonial state actually present19? Considering the huge territories to be colonized, territories in which the colonial state was barely present, and particularly in view of the meagre colonial budgets and strategies of those who were being colonized, some historians have characterized colonial rule as a form of “weak” or “embryo government”. This “impotent”20 colonial state has also been characterized (in its German version of GSWA) as a “pre-fascist” institution however21, which attempted the “total” surveillance of its colonised subjects, and was thus a forerunner to the practices of Nazi rule. The alleged “extreme nature of German colonial repression in Namibia”22 is referenced by the ideology and brutality of the German officials, as well as by the fatal results for both those Africans who rebelled, and more generally those who came into contact with the colonial state23.

15 Even when taking the undisputed brutality of the colonial state into account (the specificity or “extreme nature” of the German case has not yet been proven24), one still cannot ignore the fact that colonial officials were unsuccessful in their attempts to establish “peace and (public) order” in large tracts of their colonial territories. As L. Gann and Peter Duignan stated decades ago: “A totalitarian state requires a coercive state machine much more extensive and elaborate than that available to any colonial power in Africa.”25 Colonial power was specifically located – and limited – to a few places: colonial towns, police stations, and military outposts. The colonial state can thus be seen to have consisted of little more than a loosely connected “‘rag rug’ of islands of colonial power”26, their connection to each other coming in the form of weekly or monthly patrols.

16 The colonial state at least attempted to be ‘on the spot’. The demonstration of colonial presence was as much a problem as it was a task for colonial officials. The head of the Windhoek district stated in 1908 that his policemen’s “main tasks consist of riding patrols, in order to remind the natives of the presence of armed forces and to provide protection to the surrounding farmers”27. It was clear to the supervisor just to what extent his policemen were able to exert influence over the “natives”; as Richard Roberts has remarked, “Colonial officials were usually keenly aware of the weakness of their own authority”28.

17 Until well into the 20th century, European powers only insufficiently managed to secure ‘their’ colonial stakes. It is therefore correct to characterize – according to the self- imposed benchmark of European statehood – colonial governments, and their rule, as

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“weak” – a limitation that did not preclude the use of brutality however29. The example of the German police force in GSWA supports this assumption. For 25 years (1890-1915), public security forces attempted to bring the territory under German control; for 25 years, pretence and reality diverged. As the above-quoted general assessment of colonial “embryo” or “weak government”30 shows, this was in no way a German particularity. The British colonial administrators in Africa constituted little more than a “thin white line”, and the same is true for their German counterparts31. The Governor of GSWA, Theodor Leutwein, remarked that “the nominally existing German rule in the colony was not noticeable until 1891”32. Even the German colonial encyclopaedia stated that “only since 1907 one can speak of actual German rule” in GSWA33.

18 Nevertheless, pretence and reality would diverge later on. Some contemporaries of the post Herero- and Nama-Wars characterized GSWA as, according to European patterns, “completely pacified”, and in a “state of order”34. The police files of the authorities in Windhoek suggest otherwise. The administration attempted to provide ‘safety’ for European settlers only inside the “police zone”; even there, however, “rustlers” and “robbers” continued to cause trouble. Many regulations were stipulated by the administration, but their enforcement was often impossible. Policemen regularly reported to their superiors about these challenges, declaring for example that tax collections in African settlements (cerft) were “unenforceable”35. Beyond the “police zone”, in the so-called Caprivi-strip or in Ovamboland, the colonial state admittedly did not even exert any control over the territory, which nominally belonged to GSWA36.

African colonial personnel

19 Colonial administrators in Windhoek were familiar with their “weakness” in the field. In order to achieve their aim of creating a state according to European patterns, and to satisfy the necessity of ensuring order and security for any settlers, these colonial administrators required adequate and sufficient security personnel. With the urgent need for forces familiar with the colony’s territory, and considering the limited funds available, the colonial administration resorted early on to recruiting Africans. As the inspector of the colonial police, Heinrich Bethe, would later state, their involvement in the formation and up-keep of the colonial state would be “indispensable”37.

20 Without African policemen, police-work in the colony would have been impossible; without the assistance and cooperation of African personnel, the colony could not have functioned in the way it did. Irrespective of whether or not one wants to call their practice “collaboration”, it needs to be emphasized that in GSWA the administrators were just as dependent on their African workers, interpreters and “servants” as their French or British counterparts38. African policemen were crucial in coping with the every-day police-work in the colony, a fact that was recognized by contemporaries: after all, local Africans knew the colony’s terrain. They also spoke the languages of the colony’s inhabitants, and were much cheaper than German servicemen. To characterize – or denigrate – these African colonial personnel as “collaborators” may suit an attitude of enmity, as it can be described in the context of European occupation regimes. To use such terminology in the context of late 19th to early 20 th century colonial regimes, however, is to ignore the variety of motives that African men had to join the colonial forces39.

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21 The early colonial state of GSWA could, and did, count on the cooperation of African men in joining the police and military services. The payment these men received was often better than what farm workers or servants of tradesmen could expect, and they also benefitted from the high social esteem of uniformed men amongst the African communities. Such was their motivation that these men were employed in gunfights; after skirmishes with smugglers, the chief of the border-posts along the Orange River stated in 1897 that he could, “with regard to the native policemen, report only favorably”40. He was not alone in this: the 1898 annual report of Angelo Golinelli, the border-post chief’s superior and head of the southern district (a man who would also go on to become a high-ranking official in the Imperial colonial office), spoke highly of the 38 men in his “native police-corps”. Most of these “brave men” of Namaland had served him for more than two years already41.

22 After the wars against the Ovaherero and Nama (1904-07), “native policemen” were called “police servants”, with the ranks of “police sergeant” and “constable” being reserved for Germans. Technically, this distinction was an indicator that the importance of the “police servants”, who had no authority towards Europeans, was intended to be curtailed. The situation on the ground, however, remained unchanged. The colonial state was unable to renounce their work: “police servants” still being allowed to carry weapons and ride horses. It was even possible to assign “police servants” to independent patrols against “robbers”, without the command of a German policeman42, since “whites” were considered unable to track “native criminals” as African personnel could do43. In addition to employing “police servants”, the colonial administration also deemed it necessary to enlist other Africans for more short-term uses, such as specific patrols. These temporary recruits were paid, or rewarded ‘in kind’, once a specific wanted “criminal” had been apprehended44.

23 One final example, relating to the German Colonial Office’s 1914 ban on independent “native patrols” in German-East-Africa and the Cameroons, underlines many of the issues explored in both this and the previous section. Upon learning of the ban, the then governor of GSWA, Theodor Seitz, urged the colonial secretary to continue to approve the independent deployment of “police servants” in his territory. At the same time, Seitz warned his regional administrators that Berlin wished to curb the use of independent “native patrols”45. Such actions indicate that, based on their everyday experience, colonial officials presumed the indispensability of African personnel in maintaining colonial rule, and that it would prove too difficult to succeed without them. This example also points, once again, to a general problem experienced by colonial administrators. The regulations and ordinances originating in Berlin or Windhoek were often “unenforceable” in the huge swathes of colonial territory; this ‘unenforceability’ being due to a combination of a lack of resources, funds, personnel and knowledge – as well as due to the indignation of Africans who were simply assumed to be the passive receivers of orders. The African population’s notion of colonial (police) power was also often shaped by such limitations, limitations that could barely be overlooked by either coloniser or colonised. The inalienability of African (police) personnel proved to contemporaries the limited power of the colonial state.

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Colonial policing practices

Impoverishment, and the “problem” of “robbers” and police patrols

24 The targeting of “robbers” and “rustlers” by police patrols, as well as by other measures, certainly point to the most pressing security issue for the administration in GSWA. The cause of such criminal behaviour, however, was largely unrecognized by both colonial administrators and settlers: the impoverishment of the African population through war and expropriations. Cattle and other valuables were lost or confiscated, and other means of income were often insufficient to make a living46. Such conscious acceptance of the pauperisation of the majority of Africans in GSWA was a grave burden on the colony’s security situation: colonial police work proved this fact on a daily basis.

25 In sections of the territory that would later become GSWA, the stealing of cattle had been a constant feature of 19th century economic and political life47. Despite the advent of the colonial administration in the 1880’s and 1890’s, this facet of local life would continue largely unchecked, as Governor Leutwein deplored in 190148. Indeed, even after the wars of 1904-07, the intended European standards of “peace and order” still did not prevail everywhere. The colonial state was forced to constantly send patrols across (at least) the “police zone”, in order to “remind” Africans of its presence.

26 In part the colonial state helped create the problems it was unable to solve. After the wars, many Africans were forced to work on farms: the governor granting few exceptions to a general prohibition on Africans keeping their own cattle. The farm work upon which they were thus forced to rely was often inadequately paid, with forms of payment in kind still proving insufficient to sustain the livelihood of a worker and his family. Some colonial administrators were aware of this situation. An official 3 deplored the meagre daily ration of a farm worker: “one can of maize, barely /4 pound, is not enough for a native who works all day long, in particular as he does not receive meat, milk or fat”49. Understandably, workers were forced to supplement their food by various means: by ‘poaching’, theft, the poisoning of livestock, scavenging for carrion, or by gathering. As the historian H. Bley has stated, “[t]he Africans were always ready to escape into the bush [...] since they might as well starve there as in European employ”50. An official remarked that “most of the theft of livestock is committed by keepers of the stock”51. A connection between the poor living conditions endured by workers, including their brutal treatment by farmers, and their subsequent engaging in “criminal behaviour” like cattle theft, or the formation of “robber gangs”, was thus comprehensible.

27 Once a cattle theft or other form of “banditry” was reported to the nearest police station, patrols of up to ten men or more would attempt to follow the tracks. If the police were unable to track larger groups of “bandits”, or could not dare to engage them point-blank, the military was called in for assistance. As a result, heavy criticism of the police and their perceived ‘inefficiency’ was rampant in the colonial press52. With the police seemingly unfit to solve the problem, 1912 saw the governor of GSWA decide to further militarise the fight against such criminal behaviour: in future, cases of “banditry” were to be referred directly to the nearest military authorities by the local civil administration53. Not all local administrators would follow this requirement though, as some were hesitant to take responsibility for having engaged the military54;

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nevertheless, the brutal actions of the police and their German and African volunteers, as well as the military, are still evident in the colonial police files regarding patrols against such “robbers”.

28 These acts of brutality can, in some way, be understood. Similar to the behaviour that Alf Lüdtke describes the Prussian authorities displayed towards their subjects during the “Vormärz” (the eve of the 1848 German revolution), the colonial state and its authorities considered themselves to be permanently besieged by insurgency and revolt. As a result, the colonial authorities regarded brute force against (potential) insurgents as both ‘necessary’ and ‘justifiable’55. Similar to practices in Germany during strikes and other forms of civil unrest, the colonial military remained the last resort for the governorate to ensure internal peace56. The distinction between military and police tasks in GSWA was far less clear; a situation similar to those found in British colonial institutions of the time57. This problem was reflected in the German colonial military law of 1896, which referred the maintenance “of public order and security” (i.e. police tasks) to the military58. Since colonial police and military forces were fulfilling similar functions in maintaining internal security, the colonial administrators of GSWA began to discuss a potential merger of the two security institutions in 1909; an initiative largely intended as a cost cutting measure. However, no decision on the creation of a “Gendarmerie” would be reached until 1915.

29 The fear of “banditry” and riots thus remained a constant feature of the colonial administration. The slightest ‘sign’ of “insubordination” had to be recorded. Even correspondence of Africans could be controlled59; another example which displays how precarious colonial administrators considered the status quo of “public order and security” in GSWA.

Police and the “native regulations”

30 With violence and the pauperisation of the African population, the relation between Africans and GSWA’s settler society, including its police force, is to be considered here. Accounts by the affected individuals, i.e. the colony’s African population, are almost none existent: sources of African origin have barely found their way into (colonial) archives, and the historiographical tool of oral history is barely available after the passage of 100 years60. Those individual accounts that did find their way into the sources, however, suggest that fear of the police prevailed. Indeed, the view held by senior police officials that the “main task” of GSWA’s policemen was “to control and oversee the natives”61 became a defining aspect of the relations between the colony’s police force and its African population.

31 Shortly after the state of war in GSWA ended on March 31, 1907, three so-called “native regulations” were issued. Regarding the ‘control of Africans’, the ‘carrying of (official) passes’ and also the ‘labour contracts’ between Africans and Europeans, the purpose of these regulations was, according to some scholarship, the “total control” of African societies62. The use of such terminology in a colonial context evokes a comparison with the totalitarianism of later regimes. Although some historians certainly describe a path “from Africa to Auschwitz”63, others, also with a view on the colonial “weakness” ‘in the field’, state “that the significance of colonialism for the phenomenon of National Socialist tyranny [does] not deserve such heavy emphasis”64. Indeed, such

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‘comparisons’ (if not equations) serve more to conceal, rather than analyse, the actual power and assertiveness of the colonial state before World War I.

32 This statement is not meant to dispute the fact that these regulations deeply affected the every-day life of Africans in GSWA however. They limited both freedom of movement and choices of employment. By almost prohibiting the ownership of cattle, they hindered the economic development of Africans and also served to destroy a cultural foundation of the Ovaherero. The colonial state also pretended to be able to control their entering into voluntary labour contracts with Europeans, as well as the movement of Africans. Section 9 of the “control regulation” stipulated that Africans had to live in specific, and police supervised, “native compounds” (Werften). Governor Friedrich v. Lindequist would set out the principles regarding the execution of this regulation, emphasising that “any interference in internal affairs and disputes, in domestic family- and civil law shall be avoided, unless the natives themselves ask for a decision”65. Giving advice to the effect that local problems should be left to the “natives” was common practise among the colonial administrators of all empires. This principle of “non-interference” was not only based on convenience and practicability, but also on the confession that “officials did not fully control or understand the conflicts and contests that took place within their colonial empires”66.

33 The implementation and control of these three “native regulations” was, mainly, left to policemen. They experienced problems in executing the (few) rights that Africans did have under these new regulations, often finding them to be unenforceable. Unsurprisingly, conflict, fear and punishment came to dominate the relations between Africans and police personnel, known as “opolisei” in Otjiherero67. As a Herero-woman from Karibib would complain in a letter: “At our place the police are very vicious”68. In view of this hostile perception, the head of the regional administration of Omaruru gave a frank assessment of the relations between Africans and policemen: “Most often the native learns about the police only as a punishing authority, and therefore he does not properly trust it”69. In GSWA, the African population’s negative stance towards Germans was largely informed by their experience of the wars (1904-1907), as well as the brutal treatment continually meted out to them by their employers. As banditry and other forms of unruliness proved, many Africans did not readily accept the German claim to power. Colonial administrators were thus all too well aware of the fragility of their ruling structure, and consequently permanently feared potential uprisings. Provocations were to be avoided. All colonial officials were, by internal rules, obliged to have a “good relationship” with Africans. Indeed, it was considered a “prerequisite that the native [be] treated benevolently and with self-restraint”, and that “attacks and unjustified roughness, which are often based only on ignorance of the language and customs of the natives, [should] be avoided at all costs”70. The following chapter will examine the attempts at resolving this ignorance, as well as the wider questions of communication and language that leading colonial officials correctly ascertained to be central to the upholding of colonial rule.

Languages used between Africans and German policemen

34 Colonial encounters were not first and foremost a matter of physical violence – colonial military means were simply too weak for this. Negotiations regarding the balances of

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power were far more common, often with both sides harbouring fundamental misconceptions of the other: in the context of GSWA, pertinent examples being provided by the ‘negotiations’ relating to the “protection treaties” of the 1880s, as well as the subsequent ‘signing’ of these agreements by “crosses”. Although sign language and interpreters necessarily represented the first elements of such encounters, other kinds of non-verbal communication could also be employed. Either by theatrical poses in splendid uniforms or the presentation of European (arms) technology in intimidating ways, the message of ‘white supremacy’ and colonial order could be communicated by a number of means71.

35 These means would reach their limits in colonial everyday life. Even after 1900, when the power to exert control over people and land in GSWA was passing more and more to the Germans, language(s) remained a ‘front’ that could still be used by Africans to defend and promote their own interests. Indeed, languages remained a place of retreat for African societies, a place not easily conquerable by colonisers. To try to contain this ‘space’, the colonial authorities of GSWA employed two methods, the first of which being to school African interpreters in German. Known as “German for Africans”, this step was to remain controversial among colonizers, some of whom fearing that ‘civilization’ might have some kind of ‘distorting influence’ on Africans72. The second method, aimed at reducing the colonial state’s linguistic dependency on Africans, was to encourage German colonists to learn an African language. Although some colonists did indeed try to do this, both their undertaking and their methods have been paid little attention by researchers. As a result, the following chapter can only serve as a cursory approach to the topic.

The inadequacy of interpreters for colonial purposes and the necessity of African language skills

36 Decades before a German administration was established in the area, the missionary Carl Hugo Hahn warned his brethren about the use of interpreters. Demanding that other missionaries learnt African languages, Hahn spoke of African languages as a “giant” that was “to be mastered”73. Although mastering the “giants” was never a prerequisite for employment in the German colonial service, officials in both Berlin and GSWA recognized the advantages that in-depth language knowledge, and thus the information and decisions that could be arrived at as a result of it, had to offer. The German Colonial Society (Deutsche Kolonialgesellschaft – DKG) was convinced that “all reasoning argues against the constant employment of often evil-minded and, more often [...,] unreliable mediators”, desiring instead for colonial officials to be able to communicate directly as soon as possible74. Having expressed a similar view a few years earlier75, Colonial Director Paul Kayser even intended to offer rewards to those who learnt “native languages”. Indeed, the DKG explicitly pointed to the experience of the head of administration in GSWA, Curt v. Francois, who had stated that officials could only ensure they weren’t being tricked by “native chiefs” through a good command of their language76.

37 When asked for his opinion on the language skills of his officials in 1896, the head of the Windhoek district, v. Lindequist, stated that “the learning of native languages is very important for public servants and officers”. He welcomed good knowledge of the “Dutch dialect”, i.e. Cape-Dutch (a language also used for correspondence), and claimed

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that most of his officials had already learnt to write and speak in this language77. Its usefulness, in comparison to the difficult Nama/Damara-language, was clear – as Lindequist’s colleague in Keetmanshoop, Gustav Duft, emphasized: “there is barely a werft in Namaland where one is not able to communicate in [Cape-] Dutch”78.

38 Irrespective of such flattering assessment: The denser the colonial administration became, the more the lacking foreign language skills of both Europeans and Africans became evident. The linguistic ignorance of colonial officials was compounded by the fact that most of their translators were judged to have inadequate knowledge of the language they were translating. This issue became a hindrance of growing importance79 and the colonial language problems did not go unnoticed in the parliament, or in the higher echelons of the colonial administration. Pointing to the lack of language skills, in 1906 the representative Schwarze demanded: “that […] [colonial] officials […] must learn the native language. It is a major shortcoming of our [colonial] officials that they are unable to communicate directly with the people, but instead rely on interpreters”80. By this point, it had been over ten years since Colonial Director Paul Kayser and others had first emphasised the importance of language skills for colonial officials, a period of time that had seen the situation barely improve. As can be seen from an internal memorandum of 1911, future progress on this matter would continue to be slow. The author of the memorandum, Vice-governor of GSWA Oskar Hintrager, disapproved of the lacking language skills of his German and African colonial personnel. He considered the lack of qualified interpreters a serious setback for the “orderly [running of the] native judicial system”, asserting that the “words of the official as well as of the natives are often disfigured by the interpreter”. Demanding that this be remedied by increasing the German language instruction that African children received in missionary schools, Hintrager also expected that German officials in GSWA “pay particular attention to the learning of native languages”81.

39 Despite Hintrager’s unambiguous words, Governor Theodor Seitz would also find himself dissatisfied with the handling of the “native judicial system” two years later. After having read some “criminal files”, Seitz had learnt, “with regret”, that the “interrogations of natives [by German policemen]… have been executed in a mostly insufficient manner”. This had even happened in cases involving the death penalty. Similarly to Hintrager, the Governor deemed the inadequacy of interpreters to be the main difficulty for the administration of the “native judicial system”. Seitz condemned the common practice of, on a “case-by-case basis”, calling in “a native” (usually an African policeman) whose language skills had never been examined to serve as an interpreter: “no official can hold responsible office of a native-judge without being able to communicate flawlessly with the native”82.

40 According to these sources, communication problems prevailed in the interactions between the colonial officials of GSWA and the local African populace. There was also, however, a recognizable policy that demanded colonial officials learn the local African languages, indicating a preference for language learning by officials over a continued reliance on African interpreters. This preference was based on several insights. Most of the administrators had, at some point, experienced insufficiently skilled interpreters; many of them arbitrarily summoned individuals. Colonial administrators were aware of the uncertainty resulting from such practices, and also knew that a ‘just native policy’ (as propagated by the colonial administration) would not be achieved in this way. Moreover, it seemed to be only a matter of time until a tragic occurrence, for instance a

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misjudgement based on incorrect translations, would become known to the wider public – something that may have led to deleterious debates in parliament. Governor Seitz’s hints at the use of inadequate translations in cases where the death penalty could have been imposed alluded to this risk: this language policy was therefore also an expression of self-protection.

41 In addition to this, the strategic advantage offered by language knowledge must also be taken into consideration. Similar to the situation in British colonies, where the early 19th century policy of encouraging the native population to learn English had already been abandoned, the administration of GSWA was faced with the question of whether the spread of the German language was useful or detrimental to colonial purposes. Seemingly, there was a lot to be said in favour of avoiding any such potential ‘risks’. The acknowledgement and appreciation of local elites, on the basis of their good command of German, could have awakened “unfulfillable wishes” among them83. Furthermore, the dependency on these elites as middlemen between colonial administrators and ‘ordinary’ Africans was to be avoided, similar to concerns in French Africa84. There was thus no other option but to develop the competencies of German officials in African languages.

German officials as African language students

42 Admonitions to learn African languages reached policemen and other German colonial officials from both Windhoek and Berlin. Demanding that his officials acquire language skills was a principle of Colonial Secretary Wilhelm Solf, who had earned a doctorate in oriental languages before studying law. During a visit to GSWA in 1912, Solf encountered problems as a result of misunderstandings between himself and his African servant, commenting: “A true South-westerner would have punched his face. I only concluded that the people here figure that the natives speak German”. Solf expected better from his officials. As Paul Kayser had done twenty years before, in April 1913 he reminded colonial officials to consider “the acquiring of native languages to be among [their] duties”. The governor in Windhoek responded that “until now[,] only very few officials [from the governorate] undertook the efforts to learn a native language”85. Contrary to the officials in the governorate86, policemen working in the stations and regional offices across GSWA were more open to learning African languages. This is comprehensible; in their offices and ‘on the beat’, direct contact and thus communication with the African populace was a daily necessity. Indeed, policemen were well aware that having at least some language skills was an indisputable advantage. Sergeant Rüdiger, after returning from a patrol in Kaokoveld, indicated one of the possible benefits of learning a local language: “the Ovatjimba are much more trusting if they encounter someone who speaks their language”87. Furthermore, and contrary to the situation in colonial settlements like Windhoek, missionaries capable of translating were generally unavailable either during patrols or in most of the police stations in the farm areas. Understandably then, section 24 of the “central internal regulation for policemen” stipulated that the “learning of the natives’ language is very desirable. By exchanging their ideas with each other, police officials will teach one another”88. The learning of African languages was, however, never a formal requirement for policemen. Material support for those policemen making efforts to learn a local language, in the form of either courses or teaching materials, was largely not forthcoming. Rather than supply these things, it was assumed by their

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superiors that policemen would simply recognize the necessity of African language skills. At least in some instances, this assumption would prove correct.

43 After the 1911 reminder of Vice-governor Hintrager that “officials [should] pay particular attention to the learning of native languages”, the heads of GSWA’s regional administrations were obliged to report on the capabilities of their staff. From examining these reports, it becomes clear that some policemen had indeed learnt a degree of their local African language, knowledge that could be useful in communicating colonial order. Berengar v. Zastrow, head of the Grootfontein district, stated that his policemen had attained sufficient knowledge of Otjiherero to be able to “know the commonly used words”. Whereas some taunted the Nama/ Damara population for their “animal-like” clicking language89, the head of Gibeon district named four policemen who “study the native [Nama/Damara] language”, and pointed to the challenges of learning it without a teacher. His colleague from Bethanien reported that his “constable knows a few words of Namaqua”, but was forced to quit a language course run by a local missionary due to time constraints. In addition, six policemen from Karibib had also tried to learn the Otjiherero or Nama/Damara language. The head of Maltahöhe-district, Seydel, would in contrast paint a somewhat less positive picture, commenting: “The few policemen in this district have neither sufficient talent nor time to learn the Namaqua-language.” The general busyness of policeman was also noted by several other regional administrators, who claimed that, “due to a lack of time nobody was able yet to learn a native language”90.

44 During their three-month leave to Germany, officials bound for the northern part of GSWA were requested by the Colonial Office to study one of the Ovambo-languages at the Seminar für Orientalische Sprachen in Berlin. This move was supported by the governorate of GSWA, in particular for policemen on duty in Okaukuejo, Outjo, Namutoni and the diamond fields near Lüderitzbucht, where hundreds of Ovambo migrant workers lived. The policemen themselves also responded with some enthusiasm – 1910 saw 16 policemen indicate their availability for courses during their leave91. This interest would continue, even to the point where the head of the Lüderitzbucht district requested, in 1914, that the governorate finance a missionary- run Oshivambo course, for which “up to now 12 officials have already registered”92. The results of such courses, or indeed those of other more informal ways of learning, are difficult to assess however. In the early 20th century, the European analysis and didactical preparation of African languages was still rudimentary. The adequate translation of many terms remained “a difficult business, especially since the Bantu languages [among them Otjiherero and Oshivambo] were not nearly so simple as some claimed”93.

45 Nevertheless, through the examination of sources compiled by policemen, it can be assumed that communication with the African population was still possible. An example of such communication is detailed by the inspection officer Hildebrand, head of the police depot Waterberg, who explained in 1909 that: “From time to time, the natives, passing Waterberg, are turning to the police office or to me in order to receive news from family members”94. It was thus possible for Africans to contact policemen directly, and for both sides to find the means to tolerably understand each other – at least in some cases. According to Hans Rafalski, first assistant to the police inspector in Windhoek, policemen were indeed able to just about communicate in the native languages95. Furthermore, numerous communication exchanges are detailed in the

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reports of patrolling policemen, and contain statements such as: “according to the woman…”; (Weib) “… as has been confirmed to me by the woman”; (Weib) and “The man told me…”96. Although discourse is evident, the sources leave open the question as to what language was actually used in them: whether during such encounters German prevailed over Otjiherero, Nama/Damara or Oshivambo respectively, or indeed whether both sides used Cape-Dutch as their preferred means of communication97.

46 Cape-Dutch was not only spoken by the Boer population of GSWA; it served as the lingua franca in Nama- and Hereroland. Even if knowledge of the Otjiherero, Nama/Damara or Oshivambo languages remained limited among policemen, many of them were able to speak Cape-Dutch, which was easier to learn for Germans. Vice-governor Hintrager spoke the language well98 (he had fought with the Boers in the South African War), and over the years several policemen achieved similar levels of fluency. Indeed, in the southern-most district of Warmbad, knowledge of Cape-Dutch was considered a “necessity” for policemen. Wider concerns could still temper its usage however: although the head of this district believed that all his policemen could “speak the language well”, he feared for the “Germanness” of the colony and so preemptively ordered his officials to communicate “with the Boers in German”99.

47 Along with Cape-Dutch and other African languages, English also formed part of the linguistic landscape of non-German languages that characterized GSWA; similarly to Cape-Dutch, it had also been widespread in the area since pre-colonial times. Despite their reservations about the influence of English, the German administration had to take into account the economic and political dominance of the Cape Colony in southern Africa. As a result, English remained of importance in GSWA, and certainly also for its policemen. Due to their close proximity to the border with British-ruled Walvis Bay, 11 police sergeants stationed in Swakopmund requested English lessons in 1907 – a request supported by their superior Hugo Blumhagen100. They were not alone: policemen in other areas of GSWA, such as Windhoek and Bethanien in the colony’s south, would also receive tuition in English101.

48 Life in GSWA, with its mixture of cultures and languages (and where rudimentary knowledge of at least some of these was a distinct advantage), therefore tended towards the multilingual. As a result of this however, concerns arose in both Germany and the colony regarding the “purity” of the German language there. Relating to more general anxieties about the “Germanness” of Germans in GSWA, colonial enthusiasts recognised an alleged “passive racial defilement” (“kaffrization”) of a number of settlers: “similar to the English phrase ‘gone native’, evoke[ing] hapless German men, sexually and symbolically contaminated by native women and culture” – including the language102. Such discourses though, as well as the symbolic meaning of the German language in the colonies, have already been repeatedly analysed by historians103. When considering the fact that some contemporaries feared for the “purity” of German culture and language in the colony, one should however not ignore that the learning of African languages by officials – and in particular policemen – was actively promoted by the German colonial administration.

49 Nevertheless, German colonial officials only enjoyed modest success in their attempts to learn African languages, due in part to both the reluctance of individuals and a lack of material support. Indeed, the level of proficiency that these men gained in the various languages, with or without the aid of formal training, remains as yet unknown. What is noteworthy, however, is that – according to their superiors – around ten

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percent of colonial policemen occupied themselves with learning Nama, Otjiherero, Oshindonga, Oshikuanjama and/or Cape-Dutch. Despite these efforts though, the Cape- Dutch and German language skills of GSWA’s African population remained predominantly important in facilitating communication between colonizers and the colonized; thus, despite all the criticism, African interpreters would still remain indispensable for colonial purposes.

Conclusion

50 Looking at the short history of the colonial police force of GSWA (1894-1915), it can be concluded that its creation (as a body distinct from the army) was most of all a symbol of ‘normalisation’. GSWA was, after all, intended to become a settler colony, similar to British South Africa; as a result, the growing number of settlers in the colony could not be policed by the military, given the custom in Imperial Germany to only use soldiers for police tasks during riots or other emergencies104. This ‘normalisation’ would not go as smoothly as desired however, being hampered by both organisational and financial difficulties, as well as by the unruliness of both the local African populace and the settlers themselves. Such difficulties also led German contemporaries to constantly question the efficiency of the police force in GSWA, especially given the dissatisfying relation between the costs incurred and the benefits gained. Amongst other issues, the police seemed unable to solve the problem of “banditry”, as their continued calls for military assistance attested. Since costs rose as a result, the German parliament insisted on further reductions to the police. Indeed, the planned merger of the two colonial security institutions in 1915 was a logical conclusion, considering the similarity of their chief tasks: to control – and subdue if necessary – the African population. Although the outbreak of World War I prevented this institutional change, 1915 or 1916 may still have been the final year of a distinct police force in GSWA, even without the South African conquest. The attempts to ‘normalise’ the colonial state, according to European patterns, had thus failed.

51 The involvement of African personnel in GSWA’s police force could not prevent this failure. Nevertheless, Africans proved to be indispensable to the police throughout the period of German colonial rule. Contrary to the wishes of some in the German colonial administration, the German officials’ dependency on their skills and knowledge could not be diminished – African policemen remained as much a part of the German colonial state as they were in any other.

52 Knowledge of language was essential for colonial purposes, however for most of the time only African interpreters had sufficient knowledge of all the languages involved. Police practices (such as regulating, punishing, informing and recording) were dependent, one way or another, on communication with the local population. Likewise, German administrators were dependent on their African personnel in the reverse direction: these “colonial rulers constantly [trying] to hear what their subjects were saying through actions, words and symbols”105. Without Africans, and their knowledge of the German language, they were unable to do so.

53 In the colonial context, the ability to speak and listen became increasingly important as the regulatory framework developed and grew denser. Unsurprisingly, colonial administrators considered their continued dependence on African interpreters as a defect in their otherwise supposedly constantly strengthened dominance of the local

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population. Although the wider administration requested more German officials learn an African language, these efforts showed only meagre results until the end of German rule in GSWA. Policemen, regularly ‘on the beat’ and faced with the difficulties of (mis)communication with the African populace, were understandably more open to learning an African language than other administrators. No concerted policy was ever implemented in this regard however, and apart from the occasional reminders of superiors to improve one’s language skills, most of the attempts to do so were left to the colonial policemen’s own initiative.

54 The assumption of officials that “roughness [… is] often based only on ignorance of language and customs of the natives”106 suggests that it was recognized that, by better understanding Africans, brutalities and other forms of conflict could have been avoided. The question as to what policy for everyday colonial practices could have resulted from such a recognition, however, does not necessarily lead to the answer of a “more moderate approach”107 The incomprehensibility of their language was one of the ‘retreat areas’ for Africans; had this area been ‘disclosed’, colonial administrators could have used it to further strengthen their regime. More research is thus needed into not only the question of ‘what’ was spoken and listened to in encounters between colonial policemen and the African population, but also ‘how’ this was achieved and to what end.

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NOTES

2. See Deflem (1994, p. 51). 3. Betts (1985, p. 314); Huber (1986, p. 609); Schildknecht (2000, pp. 75-196). 4. Canis (2004, pp. 222; 224); see Aydelotte (1970). 5. Tiebel (2008, 62, pp. 75-78); see Gewald (1999, p. 31f.); Kaulich (2001, p. 204ff.; 217f.); Südwestbote, 11. Jg. 29.05.1914, p. 3. 6. Rafalski (1930); see Barth, Osterhammel (2005). 7. Chancellor Leo v. Caprivi Stenographische Berichte des Reichstags (SBRT), 8. Legislaturperiode,1. Session. 1890/91, Vol. 1, 12.5.1890, p. 41. 8. Laak (2004, pp. 257-279); Blackbourn (2004, p. 332). 9. Harding (2006, p. 27f.). 10. See Grohmann (2001); Sippel (2001); Florack (1905). 11. See Koskenniemi (2000, p. 123f.); Blackbourn (2004, p. 318). 12. Pflanze (1998, p. 372). 13. Gerstmeyer, Köbner (1913). 14. Cf. Michels (2006); Huber (1986, p. 609). 15. Krüger (1999, pp. 29-122); Gewald (1999, pp. 141-190); Eckl (2008). 16. Bundesarchiv Koblenz (BAK) N 1037/9, Die gesamte farbige Bevölkerung DSWA 1908. 17. Herbst (2000, p. 58); see Eckert (2007, p. 17f.). 18. Dedering (2006, p. 275). 19. See Blackbourn (2004, p. 303). 20. Oliver (1985, p. 6f.); Pesek (2006, p. 117). 21. Helbig (1988). 22. Gewald (2001, p. 157); see Bley (1996, p. XVII) 23. Zimmerer (2001, pp. 183/5, 2004a, p. 285, 2004b, 2005, p. 48). 24. See Kundrus (2008, p. 30). 25. Gann, Duignan (1977, p. 238). 26. Pesek (2006, p. 132). 27. BAK N 1042/29, 65, W. Külz: Von Bückeburg nach DSWA, Nr.12, 1908.

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28. Roberts (2000, p. 307). 29. Crummey (1986, p. 1). 30. Oliver (1985, p. 6f.); Pesek (2006, p. 117). 31. Oliver (1985, p. 6f.); Kirk-Greene (1980). 32. Leutwein (1906, p. 13). 33. Deutsches Koloniallexikon (1920, p. 435). 34. Rafalski (1930). 35. NAN BKE 199, B II 66 a, Bd. 2, 59, Ortspolizei to BA Keetmanshoop, 28.6.1907. 36. Deutsches Koloniallexikon (1920, p. 441). 37. BAB R 1002/2432, Draft: Gouv to all BA and DA, 13.7.1914; cf. Gewald (1999, p. 204f). 38. Osborn (2003, p. 43f.; 32); see Lawrance, Osborn, Roberts (2006). 39. See e.g. Osterhammel (2003, p. 72); Gewald (1999, p. 204f.). 40. BAB R 1001/1489, p.98, “Bericht über das Gefecht bei !Kaudaus (Hamsib-Kluft) gegen die Afrikaner-Hottentotten am 05.07.1897”. 41. NAN ZBU 147, A VI a 3, Bd.3, 366f, Annual report Southern District, 97/98, 27.6.1898. 42. Cf. e.g. NAN ZBU 406, D II d 2, fol.1, p.157-180, 166, 10.10.12; Bd. 2, 40, KdoSchTr to Gouv, 19.4.1913. 43. NAN ZBU 406, D II d 2, Bd.3,141, BA Outjo to Gouv, 31.7.1914; Leutwein (1906, p. 536). 44. NAN ZBU 715, F V o 2, Bd.2, 55, PolSt Großaub report, 25.07.1912; 53, BA Keetmanshoop to Gouv, 23.08.1912. 45. NAN BOM 34, 2, Gouv to BA Omaruru, 05.05.1914. 46. NAN ZBU 694, F V f 1, fol. 1, 199, DA Bethanien to Gouv, 04.01.1908. 47. See Henrichsen (1997, p. 266f.). 48. BAB R 1001/1491, p. 92, Gouv to Colonial Department, 22.03.1901. 49. NAN ZBU 108, A III e 1, 48, Gouv to BA Windhuk, 23.11.1912. 50. Bley (1996, p. 253). 51. NAN ZBU 158, A VI a 3, Bd.23, 10, Annual report BA Outjo, 1910/11, 10.04. 1911. 52. E.g. Südwestbote No 104, 30.8.12, p. 1; Südwest, 5.11.1912, p. 1. 53. NAN BOM 53, 28, Ordinance to all BA and DA, 22.05.1912; see Gordon (1992, pp. 57-59). 54. NAN ZBU 406, D II d 1, 82, Ordinance to all DA and BA, 13.05.1913; NAN ZBU 406, D II d 2, Bd.2, 210, Tlgr BA Outjo to Gouv, 12.01.1914. 55. See Lüdtke (1982); Lindenberger (1995, p. 204). 56. Kutz (2006, p. 32); Wehler (1970, pp. 65-78, 1995, p. 1127). 57. Hills (2000, p. 29). 58. Tiebel (2008, p. 150). 59. NAN ZBU 2053, W III p 1, p.3, Postdirector Thomas to all heads of post offices, 13.01.1909; ibid., p.1, Postdirector Thomas to Hintrager, 16.01.1909. 60. See e.g. Henrichsen (1997, p. 44). 61. 26 NAN BOM 53, 28, DA Omaruru to Police Station Omaruru, 26.1.1912. 62. Zimmerer (2001, pp. 183-185, 2004a, pp. 128, 285); see Bley (1996, p. 170f.). 63. Madley (2005). 64. Kundrus (2008, p. 28); see Gerwarth, Malinowski (2009). 65. NAN BSW 73, E 1 a 1, Gouv. to BA Swakopmund, 18.7.07; see Fisch (1992, p. 29); Deflem (1994, p. 47). 66. Osborne (2003, p. 34). 67. Irle (1917, p. 261). 68. NAN BSW 73, E 1 a 1, Rudolfine Kandjende to N.N., 7.1.1909; see Krüger (1999, p. 192). 69. NAN ZBU 2365, VII m, 13, BA Omaruru to Gouv, 27.5.13. 70. BAB R 1001/9098, 1115, Bestimmungen für die Landesbeamten... in den Schutzgebieten, 2/06. 71. Trotha (1994, p. 38); Pesek (2005, p. 263f.).

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72. Kundrus (2003, p. 189f.); Osterhammel (2003, p. 107); Dietrich (2007, p. 187); Südwestbote,11. Jg No 34, 20.3.1914, p. 1. 73. Carl H. Hahn, 22.10.1866, in Sundermeier (1962, p. 191); Goldblatt (1971, pp. 194-196). 74. BAB R 8023/880, fol.1, 19, DKG to Colonial Department, 20.9.1894. 75. NAN ZBU 2019, W I b 1, Bd.1, 21, Colonial Department to v. Francois, 27.2.1892. 76. BAB R 8023/880, fol.1, 14, Bericht über die Sitzung des Vorstands DKG, 16.5.1894. 77. NAN ZBU 249, B I qu 1, 7, BHpt Windhoek [v. Lindequist] to Gouv, 25.1.1896; ibid., 17, StS RKA to Gouv, 12.4.1913. 78. NAN ZBU 249, B I qu 1, 11, BHpt Keetmanshoop to Gouv, 10.2.1896. 79. Osterhammel (2003. p. 106); AELCRN, C I 1.2, Protokollbuch der Konferenzen im Namalande, 357, 14.9.1902, 332, 19.9.1900; AELCRN, C I 1.40, 8, Diehl to Leutwein, 1.5.1901; see Zimmerer (2004a, p. 245f.). 80. SBRT, Bd. 216, 11. Leg.Per. 2. Session 1905/06, 67. Session 16.3.1906, pp. 2058-2060. 81. NAN BSW 73, E 1 a 1, Gouv to BA Swakopmund, 30.6.1911. 82. NAN ZBU 249, B I qu 3, 9, Ordinance to all BA and DA, 19.12.1913; cf. Meyer (1905, p. 538). 83. Steinmetz (2007, p. 352); see Kundrus, (2003, p. 189). 84. Steinbach (2005, p. 164; p. 168); cf. Eckert (2005, p. 271); Osborne (2003, p. 30). 85. NAN ZBU 249, B I qu 1, 18, RKA to Gouv, 12.4.13; 19, Gouv to RKA, 14.6.1913: cf. Steinmetz (2007, p. 498). 86. NAN ZBU 249, B I qu 2, 6, Gouv to Missionar Müller, 15.7.14; AELCRN, V 37, Gemeinde-Chronik, p. 55, Meier to Gouv, 30.6.1914. 87. NAN BOU 1, B 10 q, 187, Police Station Zessfontein to BA Outjo, 6.6.1911; cf. Gewald (1999, p. 12). 88. NAN BWI 155, L 2 b, fol.1, Attachment: Gouv to BA Windhuk, 25.9.1907. 89. Steinmetz (2007, p. 154). 90. NAN ZBU 249, B I qu 4, 4, BA Outjo to Gouv, 14.11.1911, 8, BA Grootfontein to Gouv, 15.12.11, 5, BA Gibeon to Gouv, 5.12.1911; 3, DA Bethanien to Gouv, 28.11.11, 12, BA Karibib to Gouv, 10.1.12, 6, DA Maltahöhe to Gouv, 1.12.1911, 9, DA Gobabis to Gouv, 18.12.1911. 91. BAB R 1002/2549, 94, RKA to Gouv, 28.2.10, 96, ILP to PolDep, 25.5.10, 92, ILP to Gouv, 22.11.10. 92. NAN ZBU 249, B I qu 3, 4, BA L’bucht to Gouv, 15.5.1914. Lüderitzbuchter Zeitung, 6. Jg. # 8, 20.2.1914, p. 2. 93. Worger (2001, p. 419). 94. NAN ZBU 2053, W III p 1, 14, PolDep Waterberg to ILP, 18.2.1909. 95. Rafalski (1930, p. 30). 96. NAN ZBU 406, D II d 2, Bd.2, 91, 93, Patrouillenbericht des Polizeiwachtmeisters Eschen, 8.8.1913. 97. Nöckler (1963, p. 35). 98. BAB R 1002/783, 10, AAKolA to Gouv, 5.7.1905. 99. NAN ZBU 747, G I b 1, 129, Gouv. to ILP, 30.6.1913; ibid., 140, BA Warmbad to Gouv with remark, 22.7.1913; see Walgenbach (2005, p. 213). 100. BAB R 1002/2549, 66, BA Swakopmund to Gouv, 26.12.1907. 101. NAN BWI 160, L 2 m, 23, BA Windhuk: Stundenplan 1913; NAN ZBU 249, B I qu 2, 2a, DA Bethanien to Gouv, 31.7.1911, 2b, Gouv to BA Bethanien, 19.8.1911; Walgenbach (2005, p. 214). 102. O’Donnel (2005, p. 44); see Ahlhorn (1926, p. 340). 103. Axter (2005); Mühleisen (2005, pp. 30-48); Kundrus, (2003, p. 189f.); Walgenbach (2005, pp. 205; 248; 212-215); Dietrich (2007, p. 188). 104. See Johansen (2005). 105. Dedering (2006, p. 276). 106. BAB R 1001/9098, 1115, Bestimmungen für die Landesbeamten, 2/1906. 107. Steinmetz (2007, p. 467; p. 498).

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ABSTRACTS

Being only formally founded in 1905, the police force of GSWA (consisting of roughly 500 former German NCOs and 370 African policemen) had duties similar to those of the police within Germany: to secure public order and the public’s welfare, as well as to penalise perpetrators. In addition to these duties, colonial police officers also had to execute the so-called «native regulations» of 1907 (Eingeborenen-Verordnungen), which regulated the carrying of official passes by Africans, as well as their obligation to work and to be registered with the local administration. The actual ability of the colonial police force to exert control over the colonial territory was limited however, as futile attempts to bring an end to cattle theft and other forms of banditry were to demonstrate. Communication with the local population also proved to be a problem for these officers, with officials forced to refer to African interpreters whose reliability they questioned. In an attempt to circumvent this issue, German policemen were requested to learn an African language. In this the colonial police force would encounter many problems however, with their attempts producing only meagre results.

La police du Sud-ouest africain allemand (Namibie), composée d’environ 500 anciens sous- officiers allemands et 370 policiers africains, ne fut formellement créée qu’en 1905. Ses fonctions étaient analogues à celles de la police en Allemagne: maintenir l’ordre et la tranquillité publique et réprimer la délinquance. Les policiers coloniaux devaient également appliquer les « règlements indigènes » (Eingeborenen Verordnungen) de 1907, qui régissaient le port des cartes d’identité pour les Africains, ainsi que leurs obligations de travail et d’enregistrement auprès des autorités locales. L’effectivité de ce contrôle était cependant limitée, comme le montrèrent les vaines tentatives policières pour mettre un terme aux vols de bétail et autres formes de brigandage. En outre, ces policiers avaient du mal à communiquer avec la population et devaient recourir à des interprètes locaux dont la fiabilité leur était suspecte. Afin d’obvier cette difficulté, les policiers allemands furent requis d’apprendre une langue locale, mais cette obligation souleva de nombreuses difficultés et leurs efforts ne rencontrèrent qu’un succès très limité.

AUTHOR

JAKOB ZOLLMANN Jakob Zollmann studied history and law in Berlin, Paris and San Francisco. He works as a legal consultant and is author of a book on the colonial police force in GSWA: Koloniale Herrschaft und ihre Grenzen: Die Kolonialpolizei in Deutsch-Südwestafrika 1894-1915, Göttingen, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2010. [email protected]

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Keeping up appearances: Police Rhetoric, Public Trust and “Police Scandal” in London and Berlin, 1880-1914

Anja Johansen

Police-public relations: from mishaps to scandal

1 In July 1887, while the London press and Parliament were challenging the Metropolitan Police over the controversial arrest of a young seamstress, Elizabeth Cass, on charges of soliciting, further concerns about police malpractice were raised in Parliament by William S. Caine MP. He alleged that police constables took bribes from the prostitutes who conducted their business on Clapham Common. Given the high profile of the complainant, Under-Secretary Munro from the Home Office visited Caine at home, and subsequently wrote a fourteen-pages report explaining how he had urged Caine to substantiate his allegations with solid evidence. As Caine could present nothing more than the testimony of the prostitutes themselves, the report concluded that the allegations were pure fantasy based on Caine’s naïve trust in the basest of females. While Munro described his own conduct at the meeting as measured, polite and professional, Caine comes across as a babbling idiot. Later that year, when the barrister Bradford Woodgate raised similar concerns in a complaints letter to Chief Commissioner Charles Warren, the procedures and outcome were very much the same2. The authorities investigated, wrote reports and then concluded that there was no case to answer.

2 The police authorities in Berlin approached complaints very differently. In 1883, shortly after the formalisation of police complaints procedures in the Prussian Landesverwaltungsgesetz3, a Berlin lawyer, Rechtsanwalt Kaufmann, from the Association for Legal Defence and Judicial Reform (Verein für Rechtschutz und Justizreform) presented a petition to the Prussian Diet complaining about serious malpracticewithin the Berlin

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Schutzmannschaft. The petition was seized by the press who presented the horrifying details of the allegations to the German public who were suitably appalled. During the spring of 1884 the petition was discussed at length by the Interior Ministry and the Provincial Governors, who were indeed very keen to address the problem of police malpractice. Yet the press was never informed, and the public could only guess at whatever actions or discussions were taking place within the civil service. In a typical comparison with English policing, a commentator in the liberal VossischeZeitung noted on 16 May 1884 that this form of secrecy did nothing to improve trust in the Prussian police4.

3 The image of the “gentle English Bobby” has suffered some serious blows over the past decades as social historians have cast unflattering light on both the men and the institutions5. Yet, despite important revisions of the positive myths, the Victorian Bobby undoubtedly enjoyed a much better reputation among contemporaries than his European and North American counterparts6. The Berlin Schutzmannschaft in particular suffered from a poor reputation right from its inception in 1848: German police reformers continuously compared the rude, bossy and boundlessly violent Schutzmann7with the English Bobby, who was held up as the standard for good professional conduct8. However, the Prussian authorities did try to address the problem, and the reputation of the Schutzmannschaft was sometimes worse than deserved. Since the 1980s historians of German policing have sought to moderate and contextualise the image of the Schutzmann, linking the aggressiveness of Prussian Schutzmänner to structural problems such as understaffing, poor professional training and the difficulties of imposing authority on a reluctant population9.

4 These reassessments of the “gentleness” of the Bobby and the “aggressiveness” of the Berlin Schutzmann present the historians with an interesting problem: how was it possible for the London Metropolitan police to maintain an image of Bobbies as well behaved, honest and moderate in their use of force, despite repeated evidence of questionable practices, including violence, perjury, disregard for legality and due process, as well as persistent rumours of corruption10? The Berlin Schutzmannschaft provides a useful counter-example of unsuccessful attempts to improve the image of the Schutzmann even among natural supporters of law and order.

5 As policing is by its very nature confrontational and often controversial, good public relations are difficult to build up and public trust is easily lost. The persistence of the positive image of the Bobby therefore requires some explanation. Contemporary observers and historians have linked the widespread public acceptance of the Bobby11, and the universal fear and loathing of the Schutzmann12 to differences in the legal and institutional framework. Similarly much has been made of the military background and ethos of Schutzmänner as opposed to the civilian ethos of the Metropolitan police. This article adds a further dimension to these explanations by analysing how public expectations and trust were influenced by the handling of criticism by police managers and government authorities.

6 The article investigates trust-building mechanisms in London and Berlin, and compares the moral economy of scandal within the two political cultures between 1880 and 1914. It argues that in London the rhetoric of the Metropolitan police helped to strengthen the image of a responsive, disciplined and accountable force, despite a reality of highly ineffective accountability mechanisms, strongly biased against complainants. In Berlin the official rhetoric from police and government authorities, together with the

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complaints procedures and judicial proceedings often had the unintended effect of undermining public confidence in complaints and accountability mechanisms. This left the Berlin Schutzmannschaft far more vulnerable than the London Metropolitan to public criticism, with incidents of police misbehaviour easily being presented as a ’scandal’ by the left-liberal and social democratic press as a device to undermine the legitimacy of political opponents13.

7 Recent literature on the dynamics and political function of scandal has observed that the effective use of the moral economy of scandal requires an astute understanding of ever-changing popular conceptions of what constitutes transgressive behaviour and of what rhetoric is acceptable within particular discourses14. It appears that the scope for mobilising public indignation and the scale of public outcry is only partly correlated to the seriousness of the transgression. Moreover, certain factors tend to desensitise the public and work against the mobilisation of public consternation. Even gross errors or mishaps by police are often tolerated if committed under difficult circumstances, such as public order policing, armed stand-offs, or violations due to mistaken identity or to the under-resourcing of the police, particularly if such problems could only be addressed by citizens paying more for policing. Similarly when transgressive behaviour happens frequently and conspicuously, the public tends to adopt an attitude of apathy or cynicism. As Eugene Weber rightly observed in relation to political scandals in Republican France of the 1880s-1890s: where scandals and crises happen frequently, public opinion ceases to take notice of ’minor’ errors15.

8 The police behaviour that generates “scandal” tends to develop in two stages. There is the initial transgression: a deliberate act committed out of corruption, callousness or malice which arouses indignation in proportion to the scale and nature of the offence. Yet usually the transgression only has the potential to develop into a “scandal” if the responsible police managers and government authorities seem unwilling or unable to rectify the offence.

9 What distinguished London from Berlin was the engagement by British authorities in debates over the boundaries around legitimate policing (deontology), which modern scholars have identified as central to popular acceptance of policing16. Another key element in public confidence was that the London Metropolitan police made an effort to appear trustworthy. In London, the police rhetoric and strategic approaches to criticism thereby reassured large parts of the public that allegations of malpractice were properly investigated and effectively disciplined. As long as accountability and control mechanisms appeared credible, the occasional revelation of malpractice, if skilfully handled, might even strengthen police legitimacy and public trust, particularly among those who had few dealings with the police. Accordingly, Londoners tended to give the police the benefit of the doubt, and continued to see police corruption and violence as an aberration from the norm.

10 The public outrage in Berlin was caused not simply by poor professional conduct by Schutzmänner. The failure by senior officials to respond adequately to legitimate public concerns was central to the escalation of widespread consternation. Inconsistent rhetoric, insensitive and fanciful justifications of serious police malpractice, as well as institutionalised defence mechanisms continuously undermined attempts to improve the relationship between police and public. The Berlin Schutzmannschaft never managed to overcome deep-seated public distrust of the police: a burdensome legacy inherited by the Schupo of the Weimar Republic.

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Building trust and constructing legitimacy in London: police rhetoric and strategies

11 Inevitably the London Metropolitan police had its fair share of public complaints and popular outcry over alleged police malpractice. In London as in Berlin, complaints came from citizens with very limited social capital as well as from influential members of the public, and covered a very broad range of issues, from complaints about police incivility or harassment, incompetence or drunkenness, to very serious allegations of corruption or violence17. Public concerns over malpractice within the London Met culminated in 1906 with allegations of widespread corruption, leading to a major public inquiry by the Royal Commission into the Duties of the Metropolitan Police. Its report from August 1908 comprised hundreds of pages of witness statements, perspectives on practices since the 1880s, figures and recommendations. It revealed not only dubious or outright illegal practices, but also inadequate accountability and complaints mechanisms18. Nevertheless, the British press overwhelmingly accepted the official conclusions that problems were marginal and concentrated on a few individual constables. Overall the Metropolitan police was officially confirmed as a force of good, honest and hardworking men. Control and accountability mechanisms were described as functioning satisfactorily, albeit with some scope for improvement19. Some criticism was raised at the margins of the public debate, but such critics remained lone voices. During the same decade the Berlin Schutzmannschaft became the object of repeated public revelations of violent practices, corruption and above all wilful disregard by senior police and government authorities for the malpractices committed by the force, individually and collectively. The public outcry came not only from the usual suspects of Social Democrats and the Left-Liberal opposition, but also included important sections of the well-established bourgeoisie.

12 One key feature in the construction of trust and legitimacy in London was the consistency between internal police instructions and orders, public declarations and the rhetoric relating to accountability mechanisms: police managers appeared to practise what they preached. Together the official rhetoric, complaints procedures, and the courts formed a coherent set of arguments, mutually sustaining the legitimacy of each other. As the London Metropolitan police after 1829 continuously had to justify its existence20, the rhetoric and procedures were intended to reassure potential opponents and nervous rate-payers that the police were there to serve and protect them21, and that the police would approach them with politeness, enforce the law with discretion and proportionality, and operate strictly within the boundaries of the law22. The impression was projected to the propertied middle-classes that constables could be controlled and disciplined much in the same way as domestic servants. By the 1880s these control and accountability mechanisms had become tools in on-going exercises in damage limitation, reparation and strengthening of police legitimacy.

13 However the elegant public rhetoric concealed limited implementation of such mechanisms. Metropolitan police managers sought to protect their men against criticism, in the attempt to balance the need for effective – albeit dubious – policing practices against potential damage to public trust in the police. Police managers could not afford to admit publicly that constables often did not meet minimum professional standards or that police sometimes operated outside the legal framework, particularly

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not if the alleged transgression was not a “one off,” but standard practice. As Gamon points out, many policing practices of dubious legality were tacitly ignored by the management as long as this was not revealed in public23. The majority of allegations against the police were refuted and contained before they attracted major media attention; it was only very occasionally that a case developed into such a calamity that the Chief Commissioner or the Home Secretary would have to make a public statement about it.

14 Erring police constables could only be supported if a credible case could be made that the allegations were unsubstantiated or malicious. Credibility was crucial. London police managers carefully tried to distance themselves from actions which were likely to generate outrage in the wider public. Police managers therefore needed to assess in each case whether the policeman’s version of event could be spun in a way that was both credible and morally acceptable to the wider public. Justifying embarrassing events through extravagant explanations or stubborn denials in the face of “much evidence to the contrary” might cause more harm to public trust than the case was worth.

15 While critics complained that police constables in court developed fanciful explanations to justify serious injuries inflicted on members of the public24, the public declarations of police managers were more sophisticated. They tended to follow one of two strategies depending on the ‘defensibility’ of the case: one was to join the public in condemning certain actions as unacceptable and outrageous, but maintain that the accused policeman had not acted as alleged. This allowed police managers to position themselves on the moral high ground over the question of the ethical boundaries of legitimate policing, and to move the discussion to the question of ‘what actually happened.’ The incident could then be defended on the basis of the policeman’s version of events, which was almost invariably cast in terms that made it appear legitimate and moderate. If the complainant could show evidence of serious bodily harm, the police authorities tended to down-play the seriousness of the injuries and give a plausible explanation as to how the person had been hurt in ways that did not involve the police.

16 In cases where evidence of police malpractice was too manifest to support any credible denial, a slightly different strategy was employed. Again, police managers would join the public outrage, showing that they were in full agreement with public opinion about the boundaries of ethically acceptable policing. Then they would announce further police investigations and publicly commit themselves to discipline any offending officer, if allegations were substantiated. The authorities would then carefully control and shape any investigation. During the Royal Commission of 1906-1908 the very restricted remit imposed by the Home Office reduced the number of cases investigated from over 300 to twelve25. Despite vigorous objections from critics26, the commission and its procedures still appeared credible to the wider public who did not follow the details of the inquiry.

17 If allegations were refuted by internal or external investigations and whenever an accused constable was acquitted by the courts, this would be used in the police rhetoric as testimony, not only to the honesty of the individual policeman, but as proof of the high moral standards and discipline of the entire force. Similarly, every time a constable was acquitted by the courts, senior police authorities strongly insinuated that almost all allegations of malpractice against the Metropolitan police were generated by a few malicious individuals. On the other hand, a guilty verdict against a

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policeman was presented to the public as evidence of the robustness and effectiveness of control and accountability mechanism as well as testimony to the transparency and self-scrutiny of the police27. Malpractice was always described as individual error, whereby police managers limited the risk of further scrutiny into standard policing practices. The implicit message was: “We have discovered a problem; we have dealt with it; we have moved forward.” Accordingly, both convictions and acquittals were systematically presented to the public in ways that made the police organisation and its accountability procedures appear transparent and effective. Overall it strengthened the impression in the public of the police being responsive, transparent, and trustworthy.

18 This shiny image of policing practices was belied by numerous memoirs published throughout the period by retired police constables or inspectors, who candidly revealed systematic malpractice within different sections of the force. Yet such revelations of malpractice would most often be presented by the authors as the practices of days long gone, with reassuring claims that policing practices now conformed to the law and that the professional standards of constables had improved28. As in the case of the occasional conviction of constables, the scandals of corruption and violence that haunted the Metropolitan police – such as the 1877 scandals in the Detective Department, or the allegations of malpractice investigated by the Royal Commission of 1906-1908, or the Goddard corruption case of 1929 – were presented to the reading public as testimony to the effectiveness of internal control mechanisms29. The underlying message in police memoirs thereby supported the official rhetoric: all projected the image of the rank-and-file constables as honest, moderate and disciplined, with high professional standards and integrity. As for the police management, they appeared to the public as responsive, respectful of the law, moderate in their methods, and willing to investigate and discipline erring constables.

19 The importance of this image can be discerned through the damage caused to police- public relations during the tenure of Chief Commissioner Charles Warren. Unfortunately his tenure coincided with the turbulent years of 1886-1888, which required a man of flexibility, and engagement with public criticism. Instead Warren’s intransigent and insensitive handling of legitimate concerns about police violence, alleged corruption and abuse of power caused considerable damage to the public image of the Metropolitan police. It was left to his successor, James Munro, to re-establish good public relations and restore trust in the police.

20 As public opinion became more sensitive to police malpractice during the late 19th century, the London Metropolitan police had developed ways of responding to criticism that were geared towards reassuring the public. Together these strategies constituted what – in relation to strategies of protests policing – has been described as “winning by appearing to lose”30. The occasional transgression by London Bobbies could therefore result in what Gerrard describes as a ‘cleansing effect’ on the system31. Even the fact that the popular press was full of allegations of police malpractice occasionally received positive spin as proof of how transparent and open to criticism English policing was32.

21 Investigations and court procedures thereby carried the potential for restoring the relationship between police and public at two levels: it provided justice to the injured individual, and at the same time reassured the wider public that discipline as well as control and accountability measures were robust and effective. This worked in London because in the eyes of large sections of the public the police authorities appeared

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credible and honest, and the judicial measures appeared fair, impartial and transparent.

Politely acting with ”merciless energy”: the inconsistencies of police rhetoric in Berlin

22 The widespread popular mistrust of the Berlin Schutzmannschaft was obviously linked to their proverbial rudeness and violence. Yet the comparison with the London Metropolitan police throws light on less conspicuous factors which exacerbated the negative popular expectations. The British approach of “winning by appearing to lose” was anathema to Prussian authorities, who tended to maintain at all costs an impenetrable public façade and refused to recognise fault. Prussian authorities, in their pursuit of the interests of the State, continued to brush off any challenge to their authority, in particular over policing issues.

23 Yet from the 1880s police managers and government authorities began to adopt a more conciliatory tone when addressing the public on uncontroversial matters, alongside the traditional secretive and defensive gut reactions. This led to police rhetoric appearing fragmented and pointing in different directions. Official declarations vacillated between reassuring noises and the traditional refusal to engage with public concerns: paternalistically tough but fair, responsive and caring, but in the next instant indiscriminately threatening the most extreme measures against anyone who did not instantly comply with police instructions.

24 The question of police discipline and accountability had always been a highly sensitive issue. During the second half of the 19th century Prussian authorities grudgingly but gradually came to accept the principle that police needed to operate within the limits of the law. Thus police managers repeatedly emphasised that Schutzmänner were liable to criminal prosecution if they overstepped their legal powers33. Yet such guarantees only provided very limited protection against questionable policing practices. Conservative forces within the Schutzmannschaft continued to challenge the principle of the Rechtsstaat, maintaining that the police needed free hands to combat crime and social disorder effectively. Furthermore, even when Schutzmänner operated strictly within the boundaries of their legal entitlement, there was still plenty of scope for behaviour and practices which might not be illegal but which violated popular perceptions of what was acceptable. Finally police managers tended categorically to reject any allegation of error or malpractice, and to conceive of criticism as malicious attacks on the honour and moral integrity, not just of the police, but of the entire Prussian State.

25 In the short term this helped to refute irritating opposition, but it also made the Schutzmannschaft very vulnerable when evidence of serious malpractice was revealed. Although the Prussian civil servants generally enjoyed a well-deserved reputation for honesty and integrity, the Schutzmannschaft had been repeatedly shattered by revelations of serious corruption at the most senior level34. The attempts in the early 1860s by police managers to deny and cover up serious financial irregularities did much damage to the credibility of the force as the Berlin public was extremely sensitive to corruption. During the 1880s and 1890s greater public sensitivity to violence led to repeated outrage in the press, starting with Kaufmann’s 1883 Petition to the Prussian

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Diet35. Increasingly Berliners and parliamentarians across the political spectrum complained about the violation of their sense of justice (Rechtsbewusstsein)36, even when the police had technically acted within the boundaries of their legal entitlement.

26 The responses from successive interior ministers did little to reassure the public. Between 1898 and 1910 there were several major debates in the Prussian Diet and the Reichstag concerning police malpractice. Successive Prussian interior ministers and police presidents, who were caught in the unenviable position of having to defend rather nasty incidents of police violence37, publicly demonstrated their unwillingness to allow transparency and meaningful investigations of serious cases. While Interior Minister von der Recke in 1898 vividly regretted that unfortunate incidents of police brutality had taken place, he made no commitment to investigate and discipline erring Schutzmänner; nor did he make any proposition for limiting the occurrence of serious police brutality against members of the public. Instead, he declared that such incidents were inevitable38. Twelve years later, in the face of major public consternation over heavy-handed police interventions in Treptower Park and the Tiergarten, the reactions from Interior Minister Delbrück were much the same. He admitted that considerable violence had taken place, but insisted that the disproportionate and indiscriminate violence was fully justified by the goal the police had pursued. The message to the public was that an illegal social democratic gathering justified extreme police intervention leading to significant numbers of innocent bystanders being severely injured. His insistence that the police had operated technically within the boundaries of the law39 inevitably raised the question whether the public got any protection from the law.

27 This did nothing to reassure or satisfy the public. If the police were not legally in the wrong, they had nevertheless transgressed the limits of what, by 1910, was widely understood as morally acceptable. The Social Democratic and Liberal press mocked the official justifications by describing Delbrück and Police President von Jagow as “aware of their guilt” (Schuldbewusstsein) and feeling “painfully embarrassed” (peinlichVerlegenheit)40. If indeed Police President von Jagow felt painfully embarrassed about the police intervention in Treptow Park and the Tiergarten, he concealed his Schuldbewustsein very well. His public statements over this debacle and similar incidents of heavy-handed police interventions only added insult to injury, and were reported with consternation by the German press across the political spectrum41. Rather than appeasing public opinion, his stubborn defence of what mainstream public opinion regarded as indefensible came across as outrageous and insensitive. Berliners could hardly be under any illusion that the formal complaints procedures and legal subjection of the Schutzmannschaft to the law did not ensure meaningful protection of citizens. Instead, the official justifications of the police’s right to use extreme violence created the impression that extremely violent policing was the norm.

28 It was in vain that more level-headed police managers tried to convince the public that the Schutzmannschaft in general acted with moderation and tact. Too many Berliners had witnessed extremely heavy-handed police interventions for such claims to appear credible. The suggestion that the Schutzmannschaft did not operate with undue violence were met with incredulity – even when it might actually have been true. Public trust in the police and government authorities telling the truth on such matters remained low even among those who otherwise supported law and order and were unfailingly loyal to the regime.

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29 Throughout the Wilhelmine era, the authorities in Berlin sought to promote greater popular acceptance of policing in order to facilitate effective law enforcement42. Indeed senior civil servants were keenly aware and concerned about the detrimental effect that police malpractice had on the reputation of the Schutzmannschaft among citizens irrespective of political inclinations. One handwritten comment in the margins of a critical article from the liberal Vossische Zeitung bitterly stated that poor police behaviour swelled the ranks of the Social Democratic Party43. Consequently, several initiatives were taken to raise the standards of police behaviour and to discipline erring officers. Unfortunately such initiatives were rarely known beyond the inner circles of police managers and senior civil servants; when occasionally information was leaked to the press it was presented to the public as proof of the official cover-up rather than testimony to the attempts by senior authorities to address the problem44.

30 The institutional charm-offensive of the Schutzmannschaft failed to generate ‘English’ levels of acceptability, respect and popular trust, because any level of criticism was met with categorical rejection. The non-engagement with legitimate popular concerns had unfortunate and unintended consequences: it gave the impression that the police were hiding some dark secrets45, even in cases where the police might not have been at fault. The lack of transparency, the blatant lies, and the stubborn defence of indiscriminate and extreme violence undermined trust, even among natural supporters of the police. It made the Schutzmannschaft appear even more reckless and unaccountable than they really were. Whatever improvement was made in pursuing erring Schutzmänner, the public would not know about it and it would not contribute to an improvement in public trust.

The handling of citizens’ complaints: public trust or distrust in the complaints procedures

31 The public rhetoric of police and government authorities implicitly reflected what the authorities considered acceptable or unacceptable police behaviour. For their part, individual citizens, by complaining about police behaviour, marked out certain limits as to what they were willing to accept as legitimate or appropriate. While both the English and the Prussians developed police complaints procedures, it is worth noting the differences in approach and justifications for allowing citizens to voice their dissatisfaction.

32 The complaints procedures for the London Metropolitan police appeared a concrete manifestation of the commitment to engage with the concerns of the public46. It was intended as a mechanism for the de-escalation of potential conflict. Rather than determining rights or wrongs, it was a negotiation about what was reasonable and appropriate in particular situations; a discussion about good practice and boundaries. The complaints system was undoubtedly designed primarily to meet the concerns of the middle-class rate payers, rather than being a means of addressing the complaints of the poor and marginal. Yet the police rhetoric claimed that the system was impartial, thorough and fair, irrespective of the social position of the complainant. The system did indeed allow for some flexibility and sensitivity in its handling of complaints from people with limited resources. There was even a small fund set aside for compensation, although it appears to have been used very rarely47.

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33 Access to make a complaint was deliberately broad and flexible: complaints could be made in writing to the Chief Commissioner, or to senior police officers at lower levels in writing, or by personal appointment. In terms of public relations this provided a forum for informal settlements of conflict and dissatisfaction. From a managerial point of view, it also provided police managers with information from outside the police hierarchy about how individual policemen were performing and what kinds of problem existed between the Bobbies and local communities. Yet, in practice many of those who sought to raise awareness about poor police behaviour found themselves confronted with stiff opposition from the side of the police authorities, and subjected to intense pressure from the police to withdraw their allegations. Investigations relied heavily on police statements and tended to give much greater credit to accounts by constables than to those of members of the public. Not surprisingly many complaints ended with withdrawal or, at most, preliminary police investigations concluding that no error had been detected on the part of the police. However, the Metropolitan authorities were careful to treat complainants with courtesy – at least complainants of ‘respectable’ appearance – and to give the impression that investigations were thorough, transparent and even-handed. Only if the complaints procedure appeared credible could it fulfil the purpose of strengthening legitimacy and public acceptance.

34 By contrast, it was hardly concerns for legitimacy and widespread popular acceptance that motivated the formalisation of police complaints procedures in Prussia in 1883. Prussian authorities did nothing to publicise the intricate rules for making a ‘correct’ complaint; in fact, it would require a legal specialist to identify the exact procedures, buried in the finer details of the Landesverwaltungsgesetz48. Moreover the Prussian complaints procedures were conceived in very rigid legalistic terms, which were ill- suited to negotiate disagreements about boundaries of appropriate policing. It did not help that “error” was conceived only as transgression of some law or instruction. Moreover, unlike the London Metropolitan police, German policing did not operate with the concept of acting with proportionality49. Any amount of police force was regarded as legitimate in order to enforce laws and regulations.

35 The restrictive rules as defined in 1883 may have been constructed with the aim of limiting complaints to the “bessere Stände”; however, by the 1890s it was clear that any attempt to restrict complainants to respectable middle-class citizens had failed. An increasing number of people complained, not least because the Social Democratic Rechtsbureaux busied themselves with informing people about their legal rights and how go about the legal system50. Only during the 1890s did the police authorities began to consider the complaints procedures in more constructive terms as part of improving public relations. In 1898 the Interior Minister even encouraged people to use the complaints system instead of venting their grievances in the press51. Complaints procedures had the double advantage of making the Schutzmannschaft appear open and modern, while allowing embarrassing revelations to be dealt with through internal investigations rather than under the glaring eyes of the public. Moreover, police authorities in Berlin – no less than their London counterparts – became aware of certain managerial advantages. Complaints provided the Berlin police president with useful information about the poor performance of individual Schutzmänner and units, by-passing the police hierarchy52.

36 As a mechanism for generating public trust, however, the Prussian complaints procedures were largely unsuccessful. To the police authorities it was of no concern

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whether the investigation appeared transparent or satisfied the complainant that his or her complaints had been handled in a thorough and impartial manner. Among the considerable number of complaints that were investigated the outcome was in most cases predictably negative53. The investigation primarily consisted of asking the police unit in question to make statements, and only in a minority of cases were statements taken by the complainant and independent witnesses. The complainant would receive a short letter explaining that “after thorough investigation” the police president found that the Schutzmann in question had acted “correctly” and had no case to answer. The complainant would receive no information about how this decision was reached and on the basis of which evidence.

37 The Prussian complaints procedures – just like the police rhetoric – came across as inconsistent and pointing in different direction. The rigid handling of complaints was not simply a missed opportunity for strengthening public trust; instead of becoming a forum for mediating small scale conflict with the public, the complaints procedures frustrated hundreds of individual complainants. Unfortunately it confirmed the impression of the police as arrogant, secretive and refusing any meaningful engagement with citizens’ legitimate concerns and grievances.

Public trust in the courts: ensuring accountability and impartiality

38 During the second half of the 19th century, in Prussia as in England, accountability to the law became a cornerstone in the legitimisation of police actions. Yet in both countries critics complained that the courts did not provide effective control of transgressive police actions, and that victims of police violence and perjury were unlikely to get a fair and impartial hearing. The information on criminal proceedings against policemen is patchy and difficult to compare. Yet some features emerge to help contextualise the difficulties confronting aggrieved citizens.

39 London police and government authorities frequently reminded the public that the Metropolitan Police operated with greater moderation than foreign forces, and ordered the Bobbies to act accordingly54. While London Bobbies were certainly responsible for much violence throughout the 19th century 55, it remains an open question whether English constables operated with greater moderation compared to their European or American counterparts56. Judging from the few cases which appeared before the Old Bailey, the levels of alleged violence inflicted by accused constables – although considerable – were not as extreme as the cases appearing in the German Landgerichte. The police attack on George Hillmann in 1897 or the case against PC Ashford for assaulting George Gamble in 1907 were probably some of the more serious cases brought before a London court57.

40 Contemporary observers familiar with French or Prussian policing accepted the claim of English police moderation as perfectly plausible. Similarly police apologists described the low number of cases against policemen as evidence of generally good discipline58. Yet the low number of cases is at odds with frequent allegation in the popular press of serious police malpractice. Rather than being a testimony to the good behaviour of Bobbies, the low number of prosecutions against constables at the Old Bailey may simply reflect the difficulties of prosecuting59. Policemen’s actions were

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difficult to prove beyond reasonable doubt, and even where independent witnesses came forward their evidence tended to carry less weight than the statements by policemen. Moreover police colleagues would normally support the version of events provided by the accused constables60.

41 This study has identified twenty-three cases between 1871 and 1913 where constables were prosecuted before the Old Bailey. Twelve cases of police perjury over the entire period is remarkably few given the frequent allegations of systematic police perjury from the press, from critics and even from the magistrate Hugh Gamon, who very candidly describes widespread police perjury committed at magistrates’ courts61. Only seven cases were found concerning assault or wounding and four cases where constables were prosecuted for serious crime unrelated to their professional activities (murder, arson, robbery and mail theft).

42 The twenty-three cases led to eleven convictions (48 percent), but the conviction rate varied considerably depending on the charge. The four cases where the crimes were unrelated to professional duties all led to conviction. In perjury cases the conviction rate (42 percent) was considerably higher than for cases concerning assault and wounding (28.5 percent). Moreover the only two cases of assault that led to conviction date from 1908 and 191362, while all cases from before 1908 led to acquittal. This may reflect a stricter approach to police violence in general or simply short-term effects after the Royal Commission of 1906-1908.

43 It was the magistrates’ courts that dealt with the majority of prosecutions against policemen, even though many of these cases should rightly have been brought before the Old Bailey63. Comprehensive numbers of cases against police constables are hard to come by. According to figures provided by the Metropolitan police there were for the year 1906 a total of four court cases against police constables, all concerning assault, illegal arrest or perjury. All four cases were heard before a magistrates court, all led to acquittal, and none were appealed to a higher court64. As many magistrates were suspicious and unsympathetic to complaints against the police, the aggrieved citizens could not be sure to get a fair hearing at the magistrates’ courts65. Yet the magistrates’ courts were much cheaper for the complainant than criminal prosecution at the Old Bailey, and aggrieved citizens were more likely to obtain conviction by pushing for a lesser charge66. While not entirely even-handed, the magistrates’ courts provided people who had limited means with an affordable way to have their cases tried and perhaps to get some redress. This created some sense of justice and due process, as well as the satisfaction of having the evidence heard and publicly recognised.

44 In German debates the perceived inadequacies of courts in handling cases of violent policemen were right at the heart of public criticism over limited police accountability. Although the main criticism came from the SPD and the Liberal press, serious concerns were also voiced in the press that generally favoured law and order67. The pattern of prosecutions differed from the Old Bailey in three important ways. With 556 criminal cases against Berlin Schutzmänner brought before the Prussian Landgerichte between 1899 and 190568, the number of prosecutions was much higher than at the Old Bailey. These figures do not include civil suits for libel or compensation, which would bring the figures from an annual average of 81 to 130-14069. Secondly, the vast majority of cases before Prussian Landgerichte concerned extreme violence leading to serious injury or death (Körperverletzung, Misshandlung, Totschlag). Thirdly, with a conviction rate at 72

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percent (400 out of 556 cases), the Prussian Landgerichte were far more likely to deliver a guilty verdict than the Old Bailey.

45 The higher conviction rates at Prussian courts reflect the particular workings of the Prussian judicial system. Private prosecution for criminal offenses was not an option as this was the preserve of the public prosecutor, who assessed all the evidence and only allowed a case to proceed if he was satisfied that there was a reasonable chance that the case might lead to conviction. Most allegations of police violence could not be prosecuted because the Schutzmann, although acting with extreme violence, had not been in breach of his legal entitlement. As the German Criminal Code of 1872 did not operate with the concept of proportionality in policing, the Schutzmann could not be prosecuted for excessive violence if the violence was inflicted with the intention of enforcing the law. Only violence without any clear law-enforcement objective could be considered a breach of the Schutzmann’s legal entitlement.

46 While the high conviction rate was rarely commented on in the press, what particularly caught the attention of the wider public were the many cases that were sufficiently well documented to be heard in court, but still led to acquittal. In addition there were numerous cases reported in the press of extreme police violence resulting in loss of limb or permanent disability, but which did not constitute a breach of the Schutzmann’s legal powers. This did nothing to raise public confidence in the ability of the courts to punish Schutzmänner for committing acts of extreme violence. Instead the legal system as it functioned only exacerbated the impression that Schutzmänner were to a great extent beyond the reach of the law.

47 The ’sense of justice’ (Rechstbewusstsein) of many Germans was further offended by what both contemporary critics and historians have described – with varying degrees of moral indignation – as extremely lenient punishments70. Between 1898 and 1905, 52 percent of the 400 convicted Schutzmänner received only a fine and another 15 percent got less than three months imprisonment, while 21 percent got between three and six months. Seven percent got between six month and one year, while three percent got one year and above71. This was not entirely out of line with the punishments given by the Old Bailey in the two cases that led to conviction: out of four London constables convicted of wounding or assault, one got four months hard labour, one got nine, while the remaining two got twelve months each72. Yet, while the German public was outraged over such sentences, in London only the usual critics raised concern.

48 Some additional factors made the punishment of Schutzmänner all the more intolerable. Firstly, the vast majority of convicted Schutzmänner applied to the Justice Ministry for mercy (Gnade) leading to a significant number getting some reduction in their sentence73. In addition, while a conviction of a London Bobby would automatically lead to the dismissal from the force, there was nothing to prevent a Schutzmann from returning to his post once he had expunged his sentence. Indeed reinstatement was the norm and some Schutzmänner had several convictions to their name.

49 The German public also compared the sentencing of Schutzmänner convicted of extreme violence, manslaughter or perjury with the harsh punishments handed down to those numerous Germans who were brought before the civil courts for libel against the police. German libel laws were very loosely defined, and used by Germans of all creeds and casts74. During the 1890s the libel laws became the main weapon by the authorities against their critics75. Newspaper editors, notably of the liberal and social democratic press, were in and out of prison, with sentences easily ranging from three to six

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months76. The systematic prosecution for libel may have stifled criticism in the short term, but it also perpetuated an image in the wider public of the Schutzmannschaft being unreasonable, unaccountable, and petty in its revengefulness.

50 The inconsistent rhetoric, the clumsy handling of complaints and the inability of the courts to hold policemen properly to account undermined any attempt by the police to improve relationships with the public. Instead the Schutzmannschaft was met with suspicion and fear. The insistence of police managers on the honesty and integrity of the Schutzmannschaft also left the force extremely vulnerable to ridicule and contempt when embarrassing revelations were made to the contrary.

Public reception: the construction of scandal and winning the moral argument

51 In London as in Berlin, the actions of the police, individually and collectively, were subjected to constant scrutiny by the public. In both countries popular newspapers, left-liberal police critics and the left-wing opposition all sought to mobilise public outrage over “scandalous” police behaviour. For the expanding popular press, reports of “police behaving badly” constituted excellent news material; for left-liberal police critics it provided a platform to push for judicial and administrative reforms; and for the socialist or social democratic opposition it provided ammunition to undermine the legitimacy of the police, attack the political elites and ultimately the regime.

52 Scandals could be constructed not only around policemen committing acts that were criminal in the eyes of the law, but also around non-criminal police behaviour that transgressed popular conceptions of acceptable policing. Critics could construct a “scandal” at two levels, most obviously about police acts considered unacceptable by a public increasingly sensitive to police violence and illegality. However, just as often the main “scandal,” as presented by the press, was about the handling of police misbehaviour more than the transgressive act itself.

53 The potential for the critical press to turn some event involving the Schutzmannschaft into a “scandal” by mobilising public outrage was far greater in Berlin than it was in London. During the Wilhelmine era with the more liberal enforcement of the German press laws, the public media were full of spicy revelations detailing the less than edifying conduct of public authorities and social elites77. The outrage against policing was not restricted to the SPD press, as the call for Schutz gegen Schutzleute became a rallying cry among a broad spectrum of the press, occasionally including even the conservative press78. Among many middle-class Berliners there had undoubtedly been a good measure of complacency when it came to police violence against drunken workers, disorderly individuals from the lower orders, criminals and prostitutes. By the 1890s, however, even conservatively-minded members of the civil service recognised that police malpractice was counterproductive, not least in that it boosted the ranks of the Social Democratic Party. Moreover, middle-class citizens increasingly found themselves at the wrong end of the police truncheon and treated the same way as members of the lower orders by assertive Schutzmänner bossing around the Berlin public with little regard for social distinction.

54 As a result of the jingoistic declarations frequently employed in police statements, and the readiness of government authorities to justify extreme policing, the German public

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was ready to believe the Schutzmannschaft capable of any level of violence and violation of citizens’ rights79. So police authorities enjoyed very little credibility even among core supporters of law and order when refuting allegations of malpractice, even in cases where police were in fact not at fault. The Social Democratic press in particular employed negative popular expectations to undermine the legitimacy of the Schutzmannschaft. Revelations of “scandalous” police behaviour and inadequate responses from the authorities became part of the Social Democratic weaponry against the political regime and social order, illustrating by outrageous examples the moral corruption of the social and political elites as well as the rottenness of the wider system. The more extreme the case, the more eager the Social Democrats would be to publicise it. Critics of the Social Democrats were not entirely unjustified in dismissing some of the reporting as exaggerated sensationalist propaganda.

55 However, Social Democratic reporting was often supported by hard facts that were difficult to refute. In many cases there was no need to adopt a polemical tone of moral outrage in order to create the effect. Often it sufficed to publicise the facts, eyewitness accounts, together with official statements from the Berlin Polizeipräsident and the Interior Minister. The official justifications tended to be self-incriminating by their outrageous crassness and fanciful explanations of how people lost limbs in encounters with the heavily armed Schutzmannschaft, versions of events that flew in the face of common-sense.

56 While the authorities appeared extreme in their defence of the indefensible, the journalists could style themselves as the voices of reason and moderation. The critical press also published leaked documents from the Interior Ministry showing that government authorities were trying to address the problem of police violence. Had these documents been publicised by the Ministry they would have proved the good will of the Ministry. In the hands of hostile journalists, this was lost in the triumphant demonstration that the Ministry internally recognised that the police were guilty of extreme acts of violence and illegality80. Even when seeking to improve bad practices and poor police behaviour, the Berlin Schutzmannschaft lost the moral high-ground.

57 Although the SPD was far more marginalised and vilified by political opponents than Socialists and Left-Liberals in Britain, their campaigns of naming and shaming were considerably more effective in gripping the attention of the German public well beyond their own supporters. Repeated scandals reaching into the highest echelons of government and high-society involving elements from within the police projected a very poor impression of bribery, corruption and illegal practices within the political police and the criminal investigation department.

58 It was far more difficult for aggrieved Londoners and their supporters to raise the temperature among the public to the level of moral outrage over police behaviour. This was despite much reporting in the British popular press of numerous cases of police violence and leniency in magistrates courts against violent policemen81. The English popular press used some of the same techniques as those deployed by the German popular press seeking to manufacture scandals for political or business purposes through sustained campaigns with embarrassing revelations. However, those who criticised the London Met rarely managed to gain the moral upper-hand to an extent comparable with that achieved by the press in Germany.

59 British policing was therefore much less vulnerable to “scandals” than the Berlin Schutzmannschaft82. In London, police managers were capable of diffusing much of the

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public consternation over police malpractice by the skilful handling of allegations complaints. The claim of honest and good police behaviour was credible to most middle-class Londoners who had never witnessed incidents of violent policing, as heavy-handed police interventions in London were socially discretionary83, and mostly happened out of the sight of respectable middle-class citizens, late at night or in poor areas of the city. As the ‘respectable’ public rarely had any dealings with the police and rarely or never witnessed the uglier aspects of policing in working class areas84, they were willing to give the police the benefit of the doubt when presented with conflicting versions of events. It is also striking how willing the London public was to accept the police managers’ rhetorical strategy of presenting criticisms and allegations against the police as verging on the morally unacceptable.

60 Accounts from police magistrates are often apologetic about police malpractice. Only Gamon is unusually candid in admitting that policemen operated in highly questionable fashions in London’s East End and that police perjury in magistrates’ courts was frequent but very rarely prosecuted85. No such admissions were made in The Times which only reported the most high-profile cases of police malpractice, but often represented with consternation the possibility that anyone could suggest that London Bobbies were anything but honest and upright. Where allegations of malpractice could be substantiated, this was treated as an isolated case of a ‘bad apples’ that did not reflect on the wider system86. By contrast, The Times provided extensive coverage of police scandals abroad, thus strengthening the impression among The Times readers of the comparative superiority of British police forces.

61 In times of major revelations of malpractice the temperature of public indignation rose a couple of degrees at best, and soon abated. Accordingly there was less scope for using attacks on the police as a means of furthering wider political agendas, much to the frustration, no doubt, of the left-wing opposition. Even the repeated clashes between police and unemployed workers in 1886-1887 that culminated in the Trafalgar Square Riots, although generating criticism from a broad political spectrum including Liberals and Left-Liberals as well as various Radical and Socialist factions, was only used by the left wing of the Labour movement to target the regime. Following the Trafalgar Square riots of November 1887, William Stead and Annie Besant set up the ‘Law and Liberty League’ to support workers who had been arrested or suffered injury during encounters with the police. Initially the organisation enjoyed broad support among Left-Liberals and socialists. Yet interest soon waned. During 1888 Besant used the LLL publication The Link in very similar ways to those of the SPD press by printing allegations against the police. However her attempt to give publicity to people who believed that their rights and personal integrity had been violated was severely criticised even by close friends for printing unsubstantiated claims87. Even left-wing critics of the London Met were ready to consider the possibility that not all claims might be genuine, and maintained that allegations needed to go through proper complaints procedures or the courts before they could be recognised as ‘true.’ This shows a remarkable acceptance even among critics for the complaints and accountability procedures, even if these were far from perfect.

62 The London Metropolitan police, for their part, sought to individualise and marginalize critics, and present them as a small minority of criminals, political extremists, or malicious madmen88. This is well illustrated by the experiences of the campaigner James Timewell. In 1897, when witnessing the heavy-handed arrest of a young man in

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Southwark, Timewell was shocked. His initial disbelief indicates how surprising it was for a middle-class man, even a politically active person, to imagine the London Bobby being callously violent. Believing that this was an aberration from usual policing practices by a few rogue elements, he reported the incident to the magistrates’ court. What he experienced at the magistrates’ court and later at the Old Bailey was indifference to his complaint by the magistrate and outright lies from the police89. Yet his attempts to mobilise public opinion and raise awareness of police malpractice faltered in the face of a public unwilling to believe that policing of poorer areas of London was characterised by violence and arbitrary arrests. As his campaigns persisted with the organisation of the ’Police and Public Vigilance Society’ in 1902 and his activities during the Royal Commission of 1906-1908, he was described in the media and by prosecutors at the Old Bailey variously as a madman or as a malicious busybody with bad intentions ranging from stirring up social disorder among the poor to insinuation of paedophilia90. Moreover like other critical witnesses appearing at the Royal Commission, Timewell was subjected to two years of systematic character assassination by the police’s defence team.

63 The fate of people who complained against the London Metropolitan was all too often “double victimisation”. The honourable principle that the police were innocent until proven guilty meant that people who claimed to be victimised were suspicious and probably motivated by personal grudges, greed, extremism or madness. This would be the line of the police and their defence lawyers, as well as sections of the press that was sympathetic to the police. In Berlin everybody was willing to believe any claim of police violence as true. In London, the explanations given by the police and government authorities were sufficiently plausible for important parts of the London public to give the police the benefit of the doubt.

Conclusions

64 The comparison of police-public relations in London and Berlin between the 1880s and 1914 illustrates how the responses by police and government authorities to legitimate public concerns over police malpractice shaped public perceptions of police malpractice as a widespread or a marginal phenomenon. Both forces were accused by their critics of undue violence against members of the public, of illegal practices and perjury, and occasionally of corruption. In both capitals, critics argued that complaints systems and criminal procedures were heavily biased against the aggrieved citizen. Yet the potential for critical voices to generate public consternation over police malpractice, and for the press to construct a “scandal” on the basis of individual incidents of malpractice, was much greater in Berlin than in London.

65 In London there were plenty of allegations in the press of police malpractice. Yet, apart from the mid-1880s and the years up to and during the Royal Commission of 1906-1908, incidents rarely developed into “scandal”. The skilful handling of complaints and allegations by the London Metropolitan police, and the successful projection of the Metropolitan police authorities as responsive and sensitive to citizens’ legitimate concerns, repeatedly helped to maintain and restore widespread public trust in the police. The claim that the Metropolitan police was transparent, accountable and responsive was sufficiently credible to large sections of respectable citizens to trust the police accounts and give them the benefit of the doubt. Moreover, the occasional

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incidents of exemplary punishment of erring Bobbies were presented to the public as evidence of the effectiveness and robustness of control and accountability mechanisms. This paradoxically helped to strengthen public trust and police legitimacy, while complainants and critics were vilified and marginalised in the public debate. Despite much concern in the popular press about police violence, perjury and corruption, the Metropolitan police tended to win the moral argument.

66 In Berlin it was the critical voices that came to shape mainstream popular assumptions about how the Schutzmannschaft operated as standard practice. Senior managers did make serious efforts to improve public relations and did pursue and discipline erring Schutzmänner; yet such initiatives were continuously undermined by inappropriate, insensitive and highly unsatisfactory responses to legitimate public concerns about serious malpractice among Berlin Schutzmänner. Similarly the courts failed to convincingly play the role as effective defenders of citizens’ rights and upholders of police discipline. Rather than reassuring the public, the controlling authorities further exacerbated the impression that the Schutzmänner, collectively and individually, operated outside the law almost with impunity. As the authorities repeatedly lost the competition for the moral high-ground in the eyes of the majority of Berliners, even among natural supporters of law and order, this seriously harmed the legitimacy of policing.

67 This made the Schutzmannschaft far more vulnerable than the London Metropolitan police for political opponents or the press to use incidents of police malpractice for their own political or commercial ends. In London, although trust in the Metropolitan police was harmed during the First World War and interwar period, the positive image of the Metropolitan police – and British policing generally – persisted throughout most of the 20th century. German police, by contrast, continued to struggle during the Weimar era with deep-seated public suspicion and with expectation of police brutality and illegality beyond the reach of the law. This was the long-standing legacy of nineteenth-century Prussian policing.

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NOTES

2. NA, HO144/472/X15239A and NA, HO144/472/X15239A: Miscellaneous Complaints, 1887-1888. 3. Gesetzüber die allgemeineLandesverwaltung’ of 30 July 1883. 4. GStA, HA1, Rep.77, Tit.345, No. 17-1. 5. The positive approach of contemporary observers like Melwille Lee (1901), Cairns (1922); Moylan (1929) led to the persistance of the Whig interpretations of Reith (1938, 1943); Critchey (1967); and Ascoli (1979). For a reassessment of the ‘myth’ of the gentle Bobby see Emsley (1992, 2005). 6. Emsley (1992, pp. 123-125); Emsley (1996, p. 259); Miller (1977). 7. Lüdtke (1982, 1993); Funk (1986); Jessen (1991); Spencer (1992); Reinke (1993); Johansen (2007, 2009). 8. Lette (1864, pp. 363-652); Gneist (1879, pp. 41-42); Segger (1898, pp. 38-40); Lemke (1904, pp. 209-211). 9. Jessen (1991, pp. 180-183); Evans (1991, p. 172); Spencer (1992, p. 164). 10. For critical interpretations see Storch (1976); Miller (1977); Emsley (1983, 1996); Taylor (1997, 2002). 11. On attitudes to the police: Gamon (1907, p. 21); on working class acceptance and cooperation see Emsley (1996, pp. 80-84); and Taylor (1997, p. 107). 12. Hall (1977, pp. 98-99); Jessen (1991, pp. 176-179). 13. Hall (1977) on the SPD press and scandals in the Kaiserreich and Searle (1987) on corruption in British politics 1895-1930 both touch upon the deliberate construction of scandal as a tool to undermine a political opponent. 14. Garrard, Newell (2006); Garrard, More, Smith (2007). Markovitz and Silverstein (1988) coined the word ’scandology’ to capture this phenomenon; on rhetorical boundaries of meaning see Skinner (2002, pp. 176-177).

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15. Weber (1991, p. 330). 16. Walker (2001) Goldsmith (2005); see also Policing and Society, 2002, 12, 4: Special Issue on Police Accountability. 17. Johansen (2009, pp. 132-134). 18. Royal Commission (1908) vol.1, pp. 138-143. 19. Idem. 20. Emsley (1996, p. 62); Taylor (1997, p. 98). 21. PP 1830/515, 1 June: ‘A Return of all General Orders’. See Instructions Part I under ‘Police Constables’; Vincent (1883, pp. 34 & 76). 22. These principles were specified from the outset in General Orders of 29 September 1829; 17 October 1829 and 3 June 1830. (PP 1830/515, 7 June: ‘Return of Numbers of Metropolitan Police’). They were repeated by Howard Vincent (1883, p.34), as well as by the otherwise hard-nosed Chief Commissioner Charles Warren, NA, MEPO, 7/48 Metropolitan Police Orders 1886, 18 August, p. 16. 23. Gamon (1907, pp. 25-26); Emsley (2005, pp. 137-138). 24. Timewell (1898, pp. 5-10); Gamon (1907, pp. 128-129). 25. Royal Commission upon the Duties of the Metropolitan Police (1908) vol. LI, pp. 563-617. 26. Atherley-Jones MP in the House of Commons, 29 July 1908, Hansard Vol. CXCIII cols. 1592-1597, and in The Times, 11 August 1908, ‘The Police Commission’. 27. Clarkson, Richardson (1889, pp. 362-363). This logic also prevails in the police and government assessment of the outcome of the Royal Commission of 1906-1908. Cairns (1922, pp. 263-264); Moylan (1929, p. 283). The Times, ‘Editorial: The Metropolitan Police’ 24 December 1908. Royal Commission (1908) vol. L, pp. 105-106 & 144. 28. On the 1877 Scandal in the detective section of the Metropolitan police, see Moylan (1929,pp. 157-158). 29. Lee (1901, pp. 368-370); Smith (1910, p. 180); Moylan (1929, pp. 110 & 157-158); Thomson (1935, pp. 163-164). 30. Although it was only in the 1970s that Sir Robert Mark coined the expression this approach to winning popular consent characterises policing strategies back to Rowan and Mayne. Reiner (2000, pp. 53, 67 & 69); Loader (1997, p. 5). 31. Garrard (2007, p. 38). 32. Lee (1901, pp. 249-250). 33. Funk (1986, p. 18). 34. Eichhoff (1860-1861); Avé-Lallemant (1861). On Prussian police scandals 1858-1907 see Funk (1986, pp. 90 & 97-99); Hall (1977, pp. 98-100). 35. GstA, HA1, Rep.77, Titel 345, No. 17-1 (Docs. 84-93). 36. From the 1890s the notion of Rechtsbewustsein appears with increasing frequency in citizens’ complaints. BLA, Pr.Br. Rep.030, Tit.94, Nos.8872-8881: ‘Beschwerden der BevölkerungüberPolizeidienststellen und Polizeibeamte in Berlin, 1892-1913.’ 37. 17 February 1898 (HdA, sess. 24); 22 Novembre 1902 (Reichstag, sess. 220); 5 February 1903 (HdA, sess. 14); 31 January 1908 (HdA, sess. 21); 23 February 1910 (HdA, sess. 26); 11 March 1910 (Reichstag, sess. 54 and 55). 38. Debate 17 February 1898 (HdA, Session 24), pp. 715-719. 39. 11 March 1910 (Reichstag, sess. 54 and 55). 40. Ledebour in the Reichstag, 11 March 1910 (sess. 54) col. 1865. 41. On 14 February 1910 the conservative Kreuz-Zeitung published the following warning: “Es wird das Recht auf die Straße verkündet. Die Straße dient lediglich dem Verkehr. Bei Widerstand gegen die Staatsgewalt erfolgt Waffengebrauch. Ich warneNeugierige.” Similar statements about preemptive use of weapon were frequently published in the Liberal and Social Democratic press. See also Vorwärts, 6 August 1911 publishing a leaked internal memo threatening Schutzmänner with

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disciplinary action if they did not use their weapon preemptively and with greatest possible effect. 42. Segger (1898, pp. 38-40); Lemke (1904, pp. 209-211); See also Müller (2005) on the Berlin Police Press Bureau. 43. GstA, HA1, Rep.77, Tit.345, No. 17-1, (doc.232): VossischeZeitung, 12 July 1898. 44. After a bruising debate in the Reichstag on 22 November 1902, the Interior Ministry issued a circular to all police authorities of 15 Dec.1902 stipulating that Schutzmänner would be held individually accountable for acts violence. The circular was leaked and published widely in the Liberal and Social Democratic papers on 11 January 1903. GstA, HA1, Rep.77, Tit.345, No. 17-1 (docs. 385-387). 45. VossischeZeitung, 16 May 1884 ‘In Sachen der Polizei’. 46. Emsley (1996, pp. 29-30). Mayne concerning the centrality of complaints procedures see PP 1830 /515, June 1st 1830: ‘General Orders’, Part I, under ‘Superintendents’ and ‘Inspectors’. In the wake of the Royal Commission, 1906-1908 the complaints procedures were tightened and formalised. NA, MEPO 3/192, Complaints against the police: origin of General Order 6 Jan. 1910 paragraphs 55-72, 1908-1910; NA, MEPO 2/1378, Complaints against the police: Procedures 1910-1911. These demands were reiterated by the Royal Commission 1906-1908. Royal Commission (1908) vol. L, pp. 138-139. 47. Witness statements M.D.Chalmers (4 June 1907) and Edward Henry (26 & 31 July 1907) Royal Commission (1908) vol. LI, sec.E47690-E47692&E52968- E52971. 48. Prussian law of 11 May 1842 Gesetz über die Zulässikeit des Rechtsweges in Beziehung auf polizeiliche Verfügungen. Procedures were formalised in the Landesverwaltungsgesetz 1883, Titel 4, Arts. 127-133. 49. Johansen (2007, pp. 62-63). 50. GStA, HA1, Rep.77, CB S, No. 400 ‘Rechtshilfe für Sozialdemokraten, 1895-1914.’ 51. Debate 17 February 1898 in Haus der Abgeordneten (Sess. 24), p. 727. 52. Fosdick (1915, p. 270). 53. BLA, A.Pr.Br. Rep. 030, Tit. 94, Nos. 8872-8881. 54. NA, MEPO, 7/48 Metropolitan Police Orders 1886, Art. 134, 18 August 1886 p. 16; Vincent (1883, p. 76). 55. Emsley (1985, pp. 126-129 & 141-142); Smith (1985, pp. 136-137); Taylor (2002, pp. 177-179). 56. Emsley (1991, pp. 169-170). 57. Oldbaileyonline: R. vs. Edwin Ashfordfor assaulting and thereby occasioning actual bodily harm to George Gamble, 20 October 1908; R. vs. Albert Brooks, Maurice Wetherill; William for assault and perjury, 4 February 1913. See also Emsley (2005, pp. 131-133). 58. Clarkson, Richardson (1889, p. 363). 59. According to Clarkson and Richardson there was only one conviction for assault against a metropolitan police constable during the turbulent year of 1887. Clarkson, Richardson (1889, p. 363). 60. The magistrate Hugh Gamon, who was generally sympathetic to police constables, described perjury as commonplace, but rarely prosecuted. See Atherley-Jones, Letter to The Times, 11 August 1908. 61. Gamon (1907, pp. 128-129). 62. Old bailey online: R. vs. Edwin Ashford, assaulting and thereby occasioning actual bodily harm to George Gamble, 20 October 1908; R. vs. Albert Brooks, Maurice Wetherill; William Smithe for assault and perjury, 4 February 1913. 63. Gamon (1907, pp. 37-38). 64. Royal Commission 1908, vol. III; pp. 116-117. 65. Davis (1984, p. 329). See also Gamon (1907, pp. 37-38). 66. Godfrey (2008, pp. 171-189); King (2004, p. 126).

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67. GStA, HA1, Rep.77, CB S, No. 48, vols.1-4 ‘Angriffe gegen Behörden, 1896-1918’; HA1, Rep.77, CB S, No. 83-1 ‘Gerichtsentscheidung und deren Kritik, 1895-1908’; HA1, Rep.77, CB S, No. 451 ‘Angriffe gegen den Staat, 1895-1918’; HA1, Rep.77, CB S, No. 861 III: ‘Straßendemonstrationen. Einzelnes 1909-1910.’ 68. GStA, HA1, Rep.84a, mf.6740, No. 8264; vol. 5; GStA, HA1, Rep. 84a, mf. 6746. 69. Based on figures provided by Hall (1977, p. 98); Spencer (1992, pp. 106-107). 70. Hall (1977, pp. 98-99); Funk (1986, pp. 286-287); Lindenberger (1995, pp. 282-283). Jessen (1991, pp. 182-183) provides a more sober assessment linking the problem of police violence to difficulties of imposing authority by understaffed and poorly trained policemen. 71. Figures from the Prussian Ministry of Justice.GStA, HA1, Rep. 84a, mf. 6740; GStA, HA1, Rep. 84a, mf. 6746. 72. Old bailey on line: R. vs. Edwin Ashford, assaulting and thereby occasioning actual bodily harm to George Gamble, 20 October 1908; R. vs. Albert Brooks, Maurice Wetherill; William Smithe for assault and perjury, 4 February 1913. See also cases from Middlesbrough, leading to fines of between £2 to £15. Only in one case, described by Taylor as ‘exceptional’ was a constable given a prison sentence of six months. Taylor (2002, pp. 177-178). 73. Between 1900 and 1902, 237 out of 260 convicted policemen applied to the justice Ministry for mercy. 150 of them obtained some reduction from their original sentence. GSBD, HA1, Rep. 84a, vol. 5, No. 8264, mf. 6740, Docs. 125-134. 74. For libel cases see Johnson (1995, p. 127); Goldberg (2010). 75. Hall (1977, p. 3). 76. The police files on libel cases against members of the public, 1895-1917 constitutes seventeen volumes of over 300 pages each. The one single file on libel cases against officials, military officers and Schutzmänner, 1895-1913 contains only 90 pages. GStA, HA1, Rep.77, CB S, No. 497 F vols. I–XVII; GStA, HA1, Rep.77, CB S, No. 519.’ 77. Hall (1977, pp. 143ff). 78. The expression appears already in an article from the Liberal Vossische Zeitung of 16 May 1884, and by 1898 was used even by Conservative deputies to the lower chamber of the Prussian Diet. (Debate in the Haus der Abgeordneten, 17 February 1898). See also Hall (1977, p. 99); Funk (1986, pp. 286-287). 79. The majority of criticism came from the Social Democratic and Liberal Press, but even the conservative Kölnische Zeitung occasionally published letters from infuriated readers. GStA, HA1, Rep.77, CB S, No. 48 vols. 3-4; GStA, HA1, Rep.77, CB S, No. 861 III. 80. Circular from the Prussian Interior Ministry to all police authorities, published in Vorwärts,11 January 1903. 81. Among London based newspapers the Pall Mall Gazette, Reynold’s Newspaper and Lloyd’s Weekly systematically reported on police malpractice. 82. Searle makes a similar point comparing the impact of scandals on British governments 1890-1930 to their French Republican counterparts. Searle (1987, p. 423). 83. On social discretions in the practices of the London Met, see Gamon (1907, p. 26); Shpayer- Makov (2002, p. 148). 84. Gamon (1907, pp. 21-22). 85. Gamon (1907, pp. 21-24 & 134-137); Waddy (1925, pp. 51-52); Cairn (1922, pp. 263-269). 86. See articles on the Metropolitan Police published in The Times from December 1908 to January 1909, notably 25 December 1908, ‘The Metropolitan Police: From a Correspondent’: 2. ‘The Constable.’ 87. Nethercott (1961, pp. 264-265); Williams (1931, pp. 171-174). 88. This was the fate of William Caine and Bradford Woodgate in 1887 (NA, HO144/472/X15239A and NA, HO144/472/X15239A). The campaigner James Timewell was subjected to similar

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character assassination after the end of the Royal Commission in 1908. See also The Times, ‘Editorial: The Metropolitan Police’, 24 December 1908. 89. Oldbaileyonline: R. vs. John Ferris, Frederick Corps, Richard Sands, Charles Woodridge for assault on George Hillman, 10 January 1898. Timewell (1898, pp. 3-4 & 9-10). 90. Oldbaileyonline: R. vs. James Adams, 19 November 1907, a case in which Timewell was involved in establishing evidence against PC Adams. Similarly R. vs. Ernest Sexton, William Church and Beatrice Church, 3 March 1908; R. vs. Walter Studds, 12 October 1909.

ABSTRACTS

This article is about public trust in the police, how to maintain it and how to challenge it. The study compares responses by police and government authorities in London and Berlin to complaints over police malpractice from the 1880s to 1914. How did the London Metropolitan police manage to maintain a good reputation and high levels of public trust despite ample evidence of widespread police malpractice? The analysis identifies a number of factors in the handling of complaints and responses to allegations of malpractice that helped to re-establish and sometimes strengthen trust in the Metropolitan police. By contrast, the case of Berlin shows how insensitive and dismissive reactions to legitimate public concerns over police malpractice undermined attempts to improve public confidence in the police. This made the Schutzmannschaft far more vulnerable than the London Metropolitan police for the critics and the press to generate public outrage and construct “police scandals” for their own political and commercial ends.

Cet article s’intéresse à la confiance du public dans la police et à la manière de la renforcer ou de l’affaiblir. L’étude compare les réponses des autorités de Londres et de Berlin aux plaintes relatives à des fautes professionnelles policières entre 1880 et 1914. De quelle manière la police londonienne s’y prit-elle pour conserver sa bonne réputation et un haut niveau de confiance auprès du public, en dépit de la fréquence avérée de fautes professionnelles ? L’analyse permet de repérer un certain nombre de facteurs qui, dans le traitement des plaintes, contribuèrent à restaurer, voire dans certains cas à renforcer la confiance du public dans la Metropolitan Police. Par contraste, le cas berlinois montre comment l’insensibilité et le dédain pour les préoccupations légitimes du public face à l’inconduite policière minèrent les efforts pour renforcer la confiance de ce dernier dans la police. De sorte que la Schutzmannshaft se trouva beaucoup plus vulnérable que la Metropolitan Police aux efforts des critiques et de la presse pour susciter l’indignation du public et produire des « scandales policiers » dans leurs propres intérêts politiques et commerciaux.

AUTHOR

ANJA JOHANSEN Dr. Anja Johansen is lecturer of Modern European History at the University of Dundee. Since 1999 she has worked on comparative policing in the German Empire, the French Third Republic and Victorian and Edwardian Britain. She is currently working on a monograph on citizens’

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complaints in Berlin, Paris and London 1870-1914. Her main publications include: the monograph Soldiers as Police: Bureaucrats, Generals and the Maintenance of Public Order in Westphalia and Nord-Pas- de-Calais, 1889-1914, Aldershot, Ashgate, 2005; and the articles‚ A Process of Civilisation? Legitimisation of Violent Policing in Prussian and French Police Manuals and Instructions, 1880-1914, European Review of History, 2007, 14, 1, pp. 49-72; Complain in Vain? The development of a police complaints culture in Wilhelmine Berlin, Crime, Histoire et Sociétés/Crime, History and Societies, 2009, 13, 1, pp. [email protected]

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Covering Crime, Restoring Order. The “Berlin Jack the Ripper” (1909) and the Press Policy of the Berlin Criminal Investigation Department

Philipp Müller

Introduction. The «London Belly-Ripper» and the «Ripper in Berlin»

1 At the time of the infamous ‘Jack the Ripper’ in the late 1880s, Berlin dailies such as the Berlin Lokal-Anzeiger had seen fit not to devote much attention to the lengthy and multifaceted media coverage of the case undertaken by their London equivalents2. About twenty years later however, with similar occurrences taking place in Berlin, leading Berlin dailies would begin to associate the violent actions of a knifer with the ominous phenomenon of the “London Belly-Ripper”3: the headline of the Berliner Morgenpost exclaiming “A Ripper in Berlin” on 16 February 1909, the Berliner Tageblatt carrying a similar “No trace of the Ripper” on the same day4. Several days earlier, on 10 February 1909, the police had received several reports of young women and girls being attacked with knives near Schleßischer Busch in South East Berlin; en passant an apparently young man had plunged a knife into the abdomens of female passers-by. The identical pattern of action suggested that only a single individual had been involved in carrying out these “knife attacks”, this and other details prompting both policemen and medical experts to notice a seemingly “exceptional similarity” between the recent incidents in Berlin and the legendary Ripper Case. The day following these first reports, however, the press’ associative imagination had given way to a more precise labelling of the perpetrator and his violent acts: the Berlin Morgenpost’s headline reading “Misdeeds of the Knifer”, the Berliner Tageblatt reporting on the “[t]wo new victims of the Knifer”5. These headlines considered the attacks and their circumstances more precisely, omitting the misleading Ripper tag and its tacit assumptions.

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2 Indeed, these two criminal cases significantly differed in several respects. Between August and November 1888, an unknown perpetrator killed five prostitutes in London’s Whitechapel district, mutilating both their bodies and their inner sexual organs; in February 1909, the police registered 41 attacks with a small knife against women at various locations in the German capital. In contrast to the Jack the Ripper case, the victims in Berlin lacked any unifying social criteria, seemingly being chosen at random at different sites in the German capital. Their only common characteristic was that they shared the same gender: all the victims were female6. Furthermore, the ominous Jack the Ripper killed all of his five victims; in Berlin, only one of 41 recorded victims died of her wounds. Indeed, the vast majority of the victims would merely suffer from “very small skin and laceration wounds”; in eight cases only the victim’s clothes had been cut, these women emerging otherwise completely unscathed from the attempted attacks on the their bodies7.

3 Above all, there was a crucial difference in the media coverage of the two cases as in the two capital cities the relationship between police and press crucially differed. Scotland Yard’s policy regarding the Ripper case was not to furnish London’s dailies with details about the on-going investigation, but instead the police sought to prevent any intrusion by the London press8. If journalists sought to answer the pressing questions and demands of the urban public in autumn 1888, they were obliged to borrow from circulating narratives, metaphors and literary motifs9. In doing so, it was they that accounted for the occurrences in East London: London newspapers thus helped to fabricate the legendary and multilayered Jack the Ripper narrative. In contrast to this, the proactive and inclusive press policy of the Berlin Criminal investigation department resulted in semi-official media coverage. Indeed, it is the contention of this essay that the established cooperation between the Criminal investigation department and Berlin’s daily newspapers was a formative element of the urban crime drama in Imperial Berlin, marking a crucial difference between the alleged Berlin Ripper and its notorious original. Furthermore, the semi-official press policy was an integral element of a public police investigation that affected the alleged Berlin Ripper case in several ways. Firstly, the search in public initiated an essential phase of the urban crime drama, the public investigation: in cooperation with the urban public, the police attempted to track down the perpetrator. Secondly, in the context of the public investigation, the circulation of detective clues and advice provided the pretext for copycat action that in this particular case contributed to the dissolution of the unity of perpetrator and deed and, ultimately, culminated in the “epidemic of the stabbings”. Thirdly, in the end, the search of police and public amounted to collaborative suppression of the “stabbings” (Messerstechereien). In contrast to the London Ripper case, the search for criminals in the German capital city provided an encounter between the police and the urban public. Cooperating as they were, the police and the many engaged in re-establishing the public security and safety. The cooperation was not unambiguous and in the context of the imminent crisis conflict and contestation was rife. However, the “stabbings” ceased: from 20 February 1909 onwards, no further attacks were reported and henceforth the case was silenced, although not one of the many Berlin knifers had been brought to justice10.

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Illustration I. Headline of the Berliner Morgenpost, 11 February 1909

The Press Policy of Department IV

4 Starting during the mid 1880s, the Berlin’s Criminal investigation department pursued a proactive and inclusive press policy. Disregarding the different political leanings of the many Berlin dailies, the police delivered, in principal, its official press notices to all “newspapers of local significance”11. Prior to the implementation of this policy however, Department IV had generally only informed those newspapers considered conservative and “state-loyal” of its actions and investigations. The impetus to change from this policy of limited engagement with Berlin’s wider press would come from the director of Department IV of the Berlin police, Count von Pückler, who in February 1885 contemplated cooperation with the less politically benevolent, “liberal and oppositional newspapers”12. As one of the few institutions of Police in Prussia that were open minded to reforms and renewals during the Imperial Period13, the Criminal investigation department was able to at least gradually overcome its institutionalised political bias14. The main reason for the reform of its press policy in 1885 was the relative circulation of the various Berlin dailies: “If we publish only in Berlin’s conservative newspapers that are rarely read by the masses, [the press releases] do not answer their purpose and should better be discontinued.”15 The circulation of those organs of the press that were well-disposed towards the government was indeed relatively low: the “conservative and government-friendly” Norddeutsche Allgemeine Zeitung sold about 7,500 copies; the circulation of the “independently conservative” Reichsbote was about 12,300; furthermore, the “independently conservative” Post did not sell more than 14,500 copies per issue. Clearly then, these papers could hardly function as a mouthpiece of the police in order to garner public support for the authority. In contrast to the conservative papers above, the circulation of those

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newspapers considered “liberal and oppositional” fared better: the circulation of the “extreme progressive Jewish democratic” Berliner Zeitung reached about 17,500 copies; the circulation of the “extremely progressive” Berliner Presse was about 29,700; and the Berliner Tageblatt, a “progressive scandal-sheet”, sold about 60,000 copies per issue16. Suffice it to say, in 1885, Department IV acknowledged the manifest journalistic power relationships in the German Capital and adjusted its press policy accordingly.

5 In the subsequent years, the press policy of the Criminal investigation department was subject to further change: Department IV deliberately extended its arsenal of public means, ready to be deployed in the daily combat of urban crime. With a view to this, the police authority assured the cooperation of the Deutsche Reichsbahn, as well as managers of movie theatres in Berlin, in helping to disseminate various official statements. Special arrangements concerning the publication of extra editions were also made with the Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger and the Berliner Morgenpost, further guaranteeing the extended and swift circulation of official information in the metropolis and its environs. It was, however, far more the media landscape of the Imperial capital, as well as its transformation, that affected the press policy of Department IV – ultimately also altering the media quality of its semi official press releases. It was true that in 1885 the conservative newspapers were already at a considerable disadvantage: liberal newspapers out matched their circulation. The breakthrough of a mass press was yet to come however. By the end of the 1880s, three new large publishers – Mosse, Scherl and Ullstein – began to prevail. Their numerous journalistic products came to dominate the press market of Berlin; the flagship products of the three publishing houses, the Berliner Tageblatt, the Berliner Lokal- Anzeiger, and the Berliner Morgenpost also reached unprecedented circulations of any newspaper ever before seen in the German Empire. As a result, the press notices of Department IV did not only reach the readers of so called quality papers such as the Berliner Tageblatt, but also the new readers of the Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger or the Berliner Morgenpost. As the Criminal investigation department did not revoke its decision to deliver press notices to any “newspaper of local significance”17, the press policy of the police increasingly reached the wider public of the capital city. Concomitantly, the semi-official press releases surfaced in a new media context: the modern urban daily, rendered affordable for ordinary people and with a strong emphasis on local affairs.

The Plot of the «Stabbings»

6 In view of the “misdeed of the knifer” in early February 1909, Department IV took its usual course of action and instigated a public investigation. As soon as the police had established a connection between the attacks on Martha Kahlert, Martha Fillinger and Marie Schäfer on 9 February 1902, it sought to “resort to the widest public” as Traugott von Jagow (President of Berlin Police, 1909-1916) described the regular public campaigns18. The next day, Berlin police headquarters published announcements at the advertising pillars of the city, promising a reward of 1,000 Mark for information or actions that led to the capture of the perpetrator. Internal reports were also drafted, with further information being published in the official press organs of the police, for example the DeutscheFahndungsblatt, to inform all branches of the German police19. A couple of days later, the search reached a turning point as the police were to notice several attacks per day. From 14 February onwards, the profile of the misdeed began to

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diffuse; the attacks occurred in all parts of the city and the pattern of action varied, the unity of perpetrator and deed dissolved. From now on, Department IV was obliged to assume a plural of perpetrators and thus it began to intensify its public manhunt.

The Public Manhunt in February 1909

7 In engaging in public campaigns, the police generally did not miss the opportunity to highlight its concerted efforts to track down the criminal; the work of the police was a leitmotif of any public campaign. Despite their vain efforts to “render [harmless] the wrongdoer” in February 1909, projections of the police’s industrious activity were underpinned by both general remarks and more detailed narrations of the efforts undertaken20. With its lack of “any distinct clues [about] the criminal”21, the Berlin Ripper case urged the police to at least emphasise their endeavours: whilst the Berliner Tageblatt and the Berliner Morgenpost informed their readers that the police would work on the solving of this crime “feverishly”, the Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger also assured its readership that “the most comprehensive measures have been taken to ascertain the culprit”22. Indeed, it was even deemed worthwhile to mention that, if the perpetrator had escaped again after another attack on a female passer-by, at least leading police officers in automobiles had arrived at the crime scene almost immediately23.

8 A further characteristic of such public campaigns was the detailed representation of detective clues. The search for the ‘knifer’ in February 1909 was no exception in this respect; any attempt to solve a major crime incorporated a public manhunt. In this particular case, however, the search for the “fiend”24 was hampered by the very few and very vague indicators as to the culprit’s personality. Given the lack of any “palpable trace”25 of the perpetrator, the police displayed what evidence they had been able to find, and thus represented in detail the tiniest clues that might aid in solving the case: the victims’ descriptions of the perpetrator, articles of clothing or pieces of jewellery that the police had found, the weapons used by the perpetrator, as well as the pierced garments and wounds of the victims. In principle, and as long as it was in line with the internal search strategy of the police, anything that could relate to the perpetrator was passed on to the publishers of Berlin dailies.

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Illustration II. Evidence illustrated in the Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger

Asking and Demanding: the Appeal to the Public

9 The deliberate dissemination of detective information was an integral aspect of “the appeal to the public” (Publikum). At the beginning of a public investigation into a crime, the police explicitly asked the public for support. In view of the aforementioned lack of evidence in February 1909, the Criminal investigation department emphasised the reliance of the police on the “observations” and “reports” of the public26 in helping to solve the Berlin Ripper case: its Director, Councillor Hoppe, acquainted the Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger with the fact that “[i]n this case we are more than ever dependent on the cooperation of the public”, and underscored “that, for the Criminal investigation department, it is probably impossible to arrest the knifer without the help of the public”27. In order “to keep up permanently / the interest of the public / in this difficult matters”28, the police put up official announcements in pubs and restaurants in the area of the Schleßische Brücke; newspapers subsequently alluded to these very announcements by copying them into their reports. During a brief period where there were no reports of further attacks, the Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger reminded its readers that it would be hazardous “if the public calmed down during this momentary state of tranquillity. On the contrary, the most intense vigilance is necessarily required”29. Time and again, the general and broad appeal to the public was completed by very precise instructions and clear advice. For example, the police called upon particular professions to sharpen their ears and eyes, and also publicly addressed single people that were “urgently requested” to “promptly” report their observations to the police30.

10 The Criminal investigation department did not have to wait long for police “perceptions” (Wahrnehmungen) furnished by various members of the public,

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participating actively in the search for the “fiend”. A few days after the beginning of the public campaign, the Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger sketched the ongoing exchange between the police and the urban public: In the Police interrogation office. / There is a buzz of activity in the police headquarters, a continual coming and going. The head office of the police investigation in this crime case is in room 36, on the ground floor of the headquarters. Commissioned with the solving of the bloody deeds, police detective Peters holds office there. The door of the office does not stand still: one visitor hands it into the hands of the next one. A tangled mass of reports is on hand and they are complemented continuously by new ones. Supported by his staff, the police detective busily inspects the reports. / The incoming reports accumulate, some are also delivered in person by the informers and then they have to be recorded. Pneumatically delivered letters, ordinary letters, telegrams and wired reports are coming in abundantly. So far, all of the examined reports lack any value: they drew the police attention to misleading tracks, or their worthlessness was obvious and they went straight into the wastebasket. But under high pressure the inspecting and examining continues31.

11 The literary quality of the scene notwithstanding, this sketch of the Police interrogation office not only served the embellishment of the published press releases in the Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger, but also conveyed various other messages catered for potential informers. The representation stressed the activity of the policemen; additionally it informed the readers of both where to go and whom they were supposed to contact should they wish to communicate with the police. As a final act, the short paragraph also served to implicitly encourage the public to furnish the authority with expedient details only32.

Co-Searching: the Police and the urban population

12 During the investigations into the Berlin Ripper case, the police considered details relating to “mentally ill persons” especially useful33. From the inception of the search, the Criminal investigation department had entertained a suspicion that “a lunatic” was accountable for the recent knife attacks. A “list of suspicious insane persons and epileptics” provided the police with the means to check on relevant persons “who could be considered capable of committing such a deed due to their former life and disposition”; the police authority used this list to examine the alibis of known “lunatics dangerous to public safety” in Greater Berlin34. Lunatic asylums, penal institutions and the police authorities of the wider German Empire were also contacted, the Berlin police force advising them of their suspicions and asking for their feedback. Complementing the internal police investigation, the public search strategy would also target these “suspicious lunatics”: the initial public announcement by Ernst von Stubenrauch (Director of Berlin police headquarters, 1908-1909) called for the generation of “reports about conspicuous and suspicious behaviour of male persons, especially of insane persons and epileptics” by the wider Berlin public35.

13 In the days following this first announcement there were to be no shortage of “reports about nervous personalities or any other peculiar demeanour”36. The Berliner Lokal- Anzeiger summarised the first three days of the campaign: “It is almost perilous, if one only looks faintly similar to the women-murderer. In a twinkling of an eye innocent people are arrested by members of the public and sometimes carried away to the police.”37 Similarly, an unemployed bricklayer, on his way to Gärtnerstraße 18 to discuss

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working with a foreman, would experience the concrete physical effects of the collaborative efforts of police and public: As he entered [the building] to inspect the silent porter [an index of all tenants], two girls stood in front of the door [of Gärtnerstraße 18]. The children came in the house, too, and rang the door bell of the flat of their parents. One of them believed that the man wanted to do her harm. When the bricklayer left again, because he could not find the foreman here either, he was followed and arrested. Again rumour had it: ‘The knifer has been arrested!’ The man was brought to the police headquarters, but was released as soon as his innocence was revealed38.

14 As the article in the Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger suggested, reports and the arrests were occasionally grounded in a match between the vague personal description of the wanted knifer and the accused. More often though, peculiar demeanours or “suspicious phrases” provided the pretext for arrests and persecutions; further to this, the possession and the public demonstration of a knife time and again prompted swift interventions in the urban arena39. Men simply under the influence of alcohol were also often arrested: the blend of lacking bodily control and ambiguous or unclear expressions repeatedly prompted passers-by to assume that they were dealing with the wanted ‘mentally insane’ person40. The experience of the “cook L.”, who was under such circumstances compelled to stay under arrest for two days, serves as a fitting example. ‘L.’, being heavily drunk, collapsed on the street. As a man helped him up, the drunken cook threatened his helper with his knife, saying: “’You can get a stab, too!’” He was brought to the police headquarters41.

15 Concomitant with the specific public campaigns, the search resulted in a surplus of security and public safety. Given the resonance of public investigations with the wider urban public, the search for a particular criminal was often accompanied by the arrest of wanted thieves and tricksters, fugitive prisoners and escaped inmates of lunatic asylums42. Even if the police did not succeed in apprehending the perpetrator specifically responsible for the recent attacks, they did manage to seize a number of other wanted criminals43. This side-effect of the intensification of measures taken to guarantee the public’s security and safety was at least welcomed by the police, if not partially calculated by the authority as objectives to be achieved in tandem with their on-going public campaigns.

16 Taking a similar line, the Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger also appreciated that “these dreadful occurrences [the misdeeds of the knifer] will have at least one good effect: the return of a number of released dangerous lunatics into their asylums”44. The conditio sine qua non of these intensified security measures, however, was the effective collaboration of the many. Berliners did not limit themselves to mere acts of informing, but actively took matters into their own hands. In order to catch the wanted criminal, the many brought suspects to bay, arrested them, and subsequently either delivered them to the nearest police station or the next police officer they encountered on the way45. Ordinary people appropriated essential policing tasks, tasks that included the observation of suspicious behaviour, the arrest of suspects, and the custodial escort of suspects until such a time or place that they could be handed over to the authorities. In doing so, they empowered themselves and executed, at least momentarily, state power46.

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The ambiguous relationship between police and people

17 It would only been very few cases that the actions of “the voluntary criminalists”47 were ever publicly lauded. Generally speaking, the police and their semi-official mouthpieces, the Berlin dailies, were far more likely to express their dismay at the ineffectual acts of cooperation they encountered from the urban public. The situation in February 1909 was certainly no exception to this; coupled with a lack of positive results in the investigation, the performance of city dwellers had generally let down the police’s expectations. In tandem, both police and press supervised and admonished actions taken by the many: misleading reports and calls were time-costly affairs that consumed the energy of police officers; on the streets, in the various neighbourhoods of Berlin and also in pubs and restaurants, the decrying of innocent passers-by as potential suspects resulted in distracting interventions in public life; “idle talk” and “rumours” about the alleged arrest of the knifer jeopardised the effective coordination of the investigation. In short, the alleged “nervousness”48 of the urban public obstructed the ability to cooperate with the on-going investigation in line with the intentions and objectives of the police. Rather than establishing a panoptic state, with the intended aim of placing the authorities in a position to observe without being seen49, the public search strategy employed by the police produced an unclear state in which everybody claimed to have spotted a criminal who was, in reality, still unknown and on the run. As the many did not comply (or only complied in part) with the instructions of the police, the authority of the police was thus undermined.

18 The attitude of the police towards its potential informers and supporters was rather ambiguous. Characterising the police’s relationship towards the public50 were the two coexistent forms of ‘asking’ and ‘demanding’. On the one hand, members of the public were by no means legally obliged to report any of their observations, and so the police were left with no other option than to ask for collaborative support. On the other, the expectation of the public’s compliant cooperation asserted an authoritative power position, echoing the military spirit of the Prussian police and its close institutional ties with the army51. Official discourse regarding the “public” (Publikum) relied on the notion of the “subject”: in view of the seeming lack of the required reasoning and discipline, the police were to keep a tight rein on “the public”: in order to correctly align the collaborative acts of the many with the investigations of the police, “the public” required constantly both instruction and correction. For the police, diverging from official instructions was not an option and so the actions taken by ordinary people remained incomprehensive and insufficient. The public performance of the many did not make any sense from the police’s viewpoint; the constant criticism is therefore not much of a surprise.

19 The repetitive scolding of “the public”, a leitmotif of any public police investigation, did however ignore a particular attribute of the public’s actions: ultimately, the many did intend to help in apprehending the wanted criminal. Observing and informing, persecuting and (co-)searching, arresting and delivering were all public-social actions, characterised by a willingness to collaborate with the authorities. Indeed, the police officer ‘patrolling his beat’ was not alone when caring for law and order; after all, ordinary people were also concerned with matters of “public security and morality”, and their multifarious participations contributed to ‘law and order’ in different ways.

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As revealed in Thomas Lindenberger’s pioneering study Straßenpolitik, a general condition of this willingness to cooperate was an everyday and permanent “readiness” of ordinary people52. This “readiness” prompted a verbal and physical commitment to public affairs: either in close cooperation with the police or without external support, the many actively opposed breaches of social rules and the disruption of the order of the everyday. However, the “readiness” of the populace in the urban arena does not necessarily match with the Marxist thesis of an antagonism between “the people” and the “power bloc” however53. Participatory actions were rather typified by a wayward opportunism: they seized the opportunity provided by the sensational event and appropriated the detective clues in their own way. As a result, ambiguous verbal expressions or public gesticulations with a knife could thus provide valuable indicators, perhaps leading the ‘ready’ public to the wanted criminal. However, the various social actions did not necessarily correspond with the rationale of the search, or the detective reasoning of the police. The appropriations of the manhunt by members of the public depended rather on their individual enjeu and the situation in which they found themselves.

20 The act of participating in the search for the Berlin Ripper was also imbued with sensationalism, due to the most important medium of the metropolis: the newspaper. Media coverage, the use of other media and the concerted efforts of the search transformed the public investigation into a media event, attributing a distinct significance to the matter which went far beyond a mere police issue. The public investigation was a sensationalist affair in the urban arena, and, apparently, it was worthwhile to appropriate its public-symbolic value by contributing to it in various ways: in the pubs of Berlin, people bragged about their personal acquaintance with the fugitive; on the streets they attempted to track down the wanted criminal, with or without the support of the police; in the telegraph offices, the offices of the newspapers or in the interrogation rooms of the police, the public found authority figures willing to listen. The many were granted the opportunity to inscribe themselves into the daily representation of the metropolis: being acknowledged for one’s endeavours in the newspaper was as much attractive as any publicly announced or proven dedication to the authorities. Semi-official sensationalist crime cases produced momentary chances of empowerment; the numerous and multifaceted appropriations of these opportunities by the inhabitants of Berlin are proof indeed of the attractive potential of sensationalist crime cases.

Limits of the Semi-Official Media Coverage

21 Whereas ordinary Berliners intensively appropriated the search, the leading newspapers of Berlin were to barely exploit the journalistic potential of this particular case. In terms of morale and enjeux, there was a vast gap between the semi-official discourse in the newspapers and the wide spectrum of actions taken in the urban arena.

22 In a remarkable contrast to the portrayal of the London’s Jack the Ripper, the media coverage in Berlin largely focused on the public investigation itself. Despite their various political leanings, Berlin dailies turned into mouthpieces of the police. This is not to say that the leading newspapers, particularly the more liberal Berliner Tageblatt and the Berliner Morgenpost, did not generally oppose the politics of the Prussian police

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however; criticism of the police was an established and distinct feature of public debate in Imperial Germany54. Furthermore, such public manhunts put the police in a position to be criticised: their politics were exposed, and subsequently faced heightened public scrutiny. In the case of failures or shortcomings, the liberal papers time and again seized the opportunity to challenge and criticize the Prussian police for its lack of competence. Last but not least, the journalists of Berlin knew very well how to play with literary motifs, and were quite used to drawing comparisons with literary examples; with reference to more dramatic genres, journalists would translate ongoing affairs into literary dramatic texts55. In February 1909, however, they refrained from producing a dreadful as much as delighting narrative of the current affair. Apparently, there was little reason to do so: the “stabbings” were a worrying matter; the results of the ongoing investigation disappointing; and the circumstances surrounding the death of Miss Schäfer were truly lamentable: due to the small size of the wound, the arterial injury went unnoticed and so resulted in her bleeding to death. The suddenness of the violent acts, the arbitrary choice of the victims, the vague details of the personal descriptions, the lack of any “palpable trace”, all this culminated in the invisibility of the perpetrator and the unpredictability of his re-emergence: the “horror of Berlin” was untraceable and yet, at the same time, the terror of the knifer was omnipresent56. But not even this ominous void would be filled by literary imagination.

23 A further distinct feature of the Berlin Ripper media coverage was the restraint from any literary dramatisation of “the erotic nature”57 of the stabbings. Here, again, the detective context of the public investigation prevailed; the text of the press releases delivered twice daily by the Criminal investigation department dominated media coverage of the knife attacks. Nevertheless, on the occasions that the perpetrator was described as a “fiend”, “monster”, “women-murderer”, “madman”, “lunatic” or “perversely inclined man”, the generally silenced erotic connotations of the “knife attacks” would resurface58. The press notices penned by Department IV contributed to this in their own way, given that they accurately described the details of the criminal deeds. The representation of the crime and its surrounding circumstances were rooted in the detective interests of the police; the detailed information supposedly providing “voluntary criminalists” with clues that would enable them to actively contribute to the on-going police investigation. Although such deliberate and concerted public instruction required the description of indecent circumstances, the discussion of these circumstances was not considered appropriate. The urge to communicate thus conflicted with the morale constraint of public speech – in other words, the public representation of items relating to police investigations had reached a serious obstacle, though these matters still needed to be discussed. The moral conceptualization of the public sphere in Imperial Germany established a border around public speech, and also confined the public representation of details relating to criminal investigations in newspapers. Phrases were shortened and abbreviated as a result, though even these could not completely ignore the erotic undercurrent of the stabbings. In newspaper articles, the deed was designated an “attack”, an “assault” or an “attempted assassination”59, or, in other instances, the course of action was simply reduced to its technical dimension. The Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger, for instance, revealed that Marie Loobs had “received a stab in Kirchgasse around 2.15 pm”60 and that Berta Gröske “was injured by a stab into her abdomen”61. Indeed, those women and girls who had been attacked were thereupon also termed “the Stabbed” (Gestochene)62. As a final act, this ambivalent expression was even put in the mouth of the victim Maria Schäfer, recreating their

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alleged experience of the violent act: the words “A young man has stabbed me!!”63 were purportedly her final utterance, as she recovered consciousness for the last time before her death.

Accounting for the Misdeeds: The Expert Knowledge of the Medical Doctors

24 Although absent in the press, the debate concerning the “erotic” undercurrent of the stabbings was to be found somewhere else: in special comments and the additional articles of medical experts. Due their expert knowledge, male doctors enjoyed the privilege of broadly debating “the sexual nature” of the stabbings, and their pathologic origins. Placed in the central sections of newspapers, their comments and examinations both reflected the increasing significance of criminology64, and also marked the privileged position of experts in the public discourse on crime that took place prior to any proceedings in court65. Whereas the public investigations of the police attempted to answer the question “who is the culprit?”, explanations given by a diverse range of medical doctors focussed on the “nature” of the criminal act, as well as on the “type” of the criminal66. In this context, the neurologist Professor Dr Eulenburg referred to existing investigations in “sexual-pathological studies”: he drew comparisons to the other “varieties of fiends”, from the “inksplasher (Tintenspritzer) to the sex killer”, and also noted that the perpetrator “gets some sexual satisfaction [from] stabbing with a knife”67. Distinguishing the most recent stabbings from other “delicts of rudeness” that occasionally occurred in Berlin, Professor Kohler concluded: On the contrary, the course [of the misdeed] indicates a clearly distinct type of psychosis, a classic type of a sex murderer. Hereupon refers not only the majority of the immediate succession of several assaults[,] but also the fact that the knife was stabbed into the abdomen68.

25 In contrast to Kohler’s findings, the Director of the Bicêtre in Paris, Dr. Rubinowitsch, surmised that “the mysterious criminal [instead] performed [...] under the influence of a mania”69. Whereas these circumstances were only mentioned very briefly in the main articles, and certainly in a laconic and neutral tone, such circumstances were at the centre of the debate between medical experts, and were explicitly discussed in the jargon of their professions. However, this discussion of lust, sexual satisfaction, and the erotic nature of the stabbings was compliant with one essential condition: these themes and issues only surfaced in the context of a medical discourse, a discourse that emphasised the pathological and immoral qualities of its object.

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Illustration III. Headline of the BZ am Mittag,16 February 1909

The “Epidemic of the stabbings”: Copycat knife assaults and invented attacks

26 Regardless of whether or not the knifer was mentally ill or just immoral, several Berliners did not consider the concerns and arguments voiced by the experts of medicine and psychopathology. On 14 February 1909, Berlin newspapers reported that the Criminal investigation department had to assume the existence of more than just one knifer. Although knife assaults on girls and young women had occurred for the first time in the evening of 9 February, the subsequent circulation of this news from 11 February onwards seemed to prompt further attacks, swiftly carried out and in imitation of the original misdeed. The suspicions of both police and press fell on “lads”, “scallywags”, “rogues”, and other “certain bad asocial elements”70: in short, the “rude rabble of which there is some in any big city – and that certainly is relatively strongly represented in Berlin”71. Apparently, male youth or young men seemed to enjoy mimicing the wanted knifer. For the perpetrators, the gender of their victims suggested that they would only encounter (supposedly) defenceless72, or at least certainly astonished, young women. Additionally, the swift technique of the perpetrator gave the individual a chance to inflict considerable pain on a woman, all the while operating at a significantly diminished risk of being apprehended. Above all, copying the knifer’s assault against women contained an inherent sexual undercurrent, an undercurrent that was worded in either the detective language of the police or the expert language of medical practitioners.

27 The copycat stabbings lacked any explicit instructions or literary dramatisations in the newspapers, and yet “certain immoral asocial elements [in] Greater Berlin” restaged the “stabbings” in their own way. They made use of the clues that had been circulated in the diverse urban media; by imitating the original knifer, they appropriated the public-symbolic status of the search. As Dr. phil. Rudolph Hennig pointed out: The incitement is the pleasure to hear people talking hereof in anxiety, to see the deed published in the official announcements put up at advertising pillars, and they feel that they are something great: their hysterical drive to render themselves interesting, at any cost, is amply satisfied73.

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28 The dramatic appropriation of the knifer’s assault strategy also commented on the helplessness of the police, as well as on the measures that they had taken in order to arrest the criminal: to the young copycats, the knifer that had been initially dubbed the Berlin Ripper was far more convincing than the vein undertakings of the police74.

29 The counterpoint to such imitation stabbings by young men was the feigned knife assaults by women and girls. The actions of Bertha Marzahn, a 48 year old worker who had been attacked by a knifer on 16 February, provide a illustrative example of this kind of behaviour. Several days after she had been initially attacked, Marzahn was to report another “knife attack” to the police on 22 February: As [Bertha Marzhan], running some errands, passed by this building around 9:15 in the morning, she had been jostled by a young man who then accelerated his pace and escaped her eyes. Only later, she sensed a strong pain in her right thigh. As she look down on her clothing, she noticed that there was a clear cut like the first time75.

30 In order to clarify the circumstances of the second and relatively unlikely “knife assault” on Bertha Marzahn, the police began to search for witnesses. The next day, the young man indicted in the above statement reported himself to the police, producing a very different record of the incident: He “[went] calmly his way [...] when suddenly Miss M., who he was not acquainted with, rushed up to him and embraced him. Puzzled, the man stopped while Miss M. continued her way and shouted loudly for help as she was about fifty steps away from him”76.

31 Marzahn’s dramatic performance was rooted in material motifs. Since she had been signed off as sick for several days following her initial attack, she wanted to continue her sick leave and receive sick leave payment. From the inception of the public investigation, young women and girls had approached the police in order to report a “knife attack”. In contrast to the “mischief” of “rascals” and “scallywags”, the imitation of being attacked did not prompt any serious public critique77 – the fictitious suffering did not, after all, inflict any harm to anybody. What is more, the police simply distinguished between the real and the fictitious by transforming the women’s clothing into the touchstone of truth: whereas the lack of any evident damage suggested the ‘victim’ was no more than pretending, distinguishable knifemarks on women’s clothes induced the authorities to assume a ‘true’ assault had taken place. Nevertheless, although these feigned assaults were deemed harmless, the copycat action of young men did indeed harm women and girls, and threatened public security and safety in Berlin.

32 From the viewpoint of police, medical experts and journalist commentators, copycat stabbings and feigned assaults were perceived as an illness or a temporary infection. For these observers and readers, the imitation of criminal demeanours originated from urban sensationalism and the of sensationalist crime cases – as illustrated on many other occasions. Criminal actions imbued by sensationalist media coverage would be “infectious [and] suggestive”, helping to elicit the action of imitation. In order to account for the recent happenings, commentators referred to similar cases of “psychic infection”78, as well as previous knife assaults such as the murder of Lucie Berlin in 190479. A particular precedent had already been set for the knifer in Berlin however, coming in the form of London’s Jack the Ripper80: It is a psychological fact of experience, whose significance has been acknowledge only very recently, that each sensationalist and startling criminal case

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characterised by a certain originality has the dangerous effect that very shortly after further similar criminal actions are committed, reproducing all details with utmost accuracy81.

33 The best form of “prohibitive means against [the] further mimicking actions”, it was thought, would be the apprehension of “one of these criminals”82.

“Working hand in hand”83: The end of the stabbings

34 In order to ultimately contain the “imitation drive” (Nachahmunsgtrieb)84 of the “rabble”, Department IV acknowledged its obligation to undertake further measures. As a result, the police raised the advertised award from 1000 to 3000 Mark, and continued its public investigation in cooperation with the population of Berlin. Besides the intensification of tried and tested means, the police also decided to take additional institutional actions, and to initiate further private measures as well. Hoping that the combination of “governmental and private measures”85 would finally result in the arrest of the knifers, the police on the one hand “increased their public as much as secret presence of forces in the metropolis”, and on the other integrated the central logistical institutions of the city into the wider public search. Intensifying their presence by establishing “special taskforces”86. The police ensured that several hundred police officers “were continuously patrolling the streets of particularly emperiled districts.” Patrols were reinforced, “railways and other gathering points of larger crowds” were placed under observation, and “undercover agents, some of them dressed in women’s clothing” were deployed at various endangered parts of the city. As an additional measure, the Berlin police force appealed for all of its officers, if off duty, to voluntarily support those on patrol87.

35 Private surveillance measures also pursued the stated aim of observing “the hustle and bustle on the streets”88. On 16 February 1909, the President of the Lichtenberg Police asked the chairman of the Associationof Houseowners of Lichtenberg and Boxhagen- Rummelsburg for support, arguing that a “private supervision of buildings, houses as well as the streets” should render it feasible to catch the culprit in the act89. The President of the Berlin Police achieved a similar agreement with the chairmen of the Association of the House- and Landowners, the Tram and Omnibus Company, the Overhead Railway and the Subway, and the Security Company in Berlin; in order to establish an effective “supervision of their houses”, it was advised that “homeowners should, in groups, employ one man who observes the street and, in the case of an attack, initiates the persecution of the perpetrator and follows the man, too”90.

36 Ultimately, the police and private measures proved effective. From 20 February onwards, only ten days after the first reported stabbings in South East Berlin, the assaults on women and girls ceased. This achievement was due to a deliberate transformation, into police observation points, of the logistical positions in the city that had played a crucial role in the criminal acts of the knife attacks: the streets and corridors where the perpetrators had, unawares, caught their victims. As a result, the unconditional invisibility of the perpetrator, and therefore the certainty of escaping any attempted arrest, was no longer guaranteed.

37 Although the police extended their measures beyond the ordinary boundaries of a public campaign by “requesting”91 private associations and institutions, the police still operated within the ordinary framework of the public police investigation. “Working

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hand in hand” with civic institutions as they were, the police attempted to establish a massive presence in the metropolis. The police deliberately incorporated civic agencies and particular groups of people, delegating to them special policing tasks; with this, the internal strategies of police thus multiplied in the urban public. The successful suppression of other attacks on young women and girls was therefore achieved by a publicly visible dissemination of policing competences in the urban arena: the police enjoined “the public”, and vice versa.

Conclusion

38 In the end, the police succeeded in restoring safety and security in the capital city. Their strategy effectively combined the physical and discursive presence of various forms of policing. Through this strategy, which involved both the enhancement of police’s public methods and the co-option of the public in aiding with their investigation, the dreadful occurrences of February 1909 were brought to an end. Yet the investigation ultimately failed in apprehending either the original perpetrator or any of the subsequent copycats – a failure that went without any further scandalisation in Berlin’s dailies. When pushing for reform, the Director of Department IV, Count von Pückler, had anticipated such kind of effect; in 1885 chief instigator of the reform noted, “the service catered for the newspapers [i.e. the aforementioned proactive press policy] will not remain without effect on their [the newspapers’] position and will make them more liable to concede to the wishes of the police headquarters”92. The proactive press policy of Prussian police therefore successfully silenced their failed attempts to bring any of the perpetrators to justice, the police’s discursive presence in the media pitching the fact of their failure into oblivion. In the case of London’s Jack the Ripper, the unwillingness of Scotland Yard to communicate with the press had produced rather the opposite effect: silence on behalf of the detectives prompted the press’ invention of the Jack the Ripper legend, a legend that continues to play on our imagination in view of the manifest failure of London’s police in 1888. However, Berlin’s reformed press policy was not a panacea for all of its police investigations. On other occasions, this very same proactive press policy was a clear and resounding failure; the semi-official notices of the police reports were turned against the authorities, whilst the wanted criminal rose to prominence. The mixed results of this policy notwithstanding, Berlin’s police acquired an essentially new tool, one that allowed for the promotion of police concerns in public and the presentation of matters of public safety and security. As Department IV embarked on the reform of its press relations, the police adjusted their policy to the political conditions of the Berlin press market at the time, prior to its thorough transformation a few years later. In order to reach the wider public, the Criminal investigation department was therefore willing to acknowledge the prevailing position of the liberal papers in the capital city.

39 Despite the adaptation of the Criminal investigation department to its surrounding media landscape, the learning process of the Prussian police was limited in several respects. In the first instance, the police clung to their political bias – continuing to occasionally favour conservative newspapers and to withhold official information from a publisher if they were to be penalised for insubordinate media coverage. Such practises contradicted the core objective of reform: to use the police’s newly required means to enhance their position, promote their agenda and garner public support.

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Similarly, the adjustment of the police’s press policy did not prompt an overhaul of the institutional make up of the Prussian authorities. The small and almost invisible reform of 1885 did not eclipse the prevailing notions of Prussian policing; the distinct and superior self-understanding of the police remained, along with a persistent disregard of the public. Although it is true that the police were willing to engage with the wider public, they did not to assume a more civilian approach like that epitomised by the notion of the «gentle Bobby»93. Furthermore, the press policy of the police was subject to change. Although the official press notices was persistently considered an original police matter, the transformation of Berlin’s media landscape altered the effect of the very same press notices published and disseminated in a essentially changing urban public. Thus is it does not come as a surprise that the attitude of the police remained; social change made the police aloof of the popular repercussions of its press policy. The police neither acquired an understanding of the public dynamics to which it significantly contributed, nor the streetwise actions of the urban crowd. The authority thus did not meld with the popular nature of public affairs that they stirred so well.

40 Nevertheless, the police still contributed to public affairs, and also informed the urban crime drama in the capital city. In the previous decades and centuries, the persecution of a criminal climaxed in the spectacle of retribution, with the authorities increasingly choosing to conceal the retributive act from the public eyes94. The theatre of punishment gave way to the «hunts for the criminal» (Verbrecherjagden), although the execution of death sentences continued to attract some attention. Thus, in the urban crime drama, the search for criminals and the public investigation of their misdeeds preponderated. Through the use of modern mass media, the search for criminals was put on public display – the media coverage transforming the detective work of the police into a sensational and highly popular affair. In contrast to the institutional credo of the police, the public investigation of crimes opened up new horizons for (co-)policing. These searches produced a new encounter between police force and public, an encounter that certainly did not match with the police’s self portrayal as superior, nor with assumptions of a nervous and ill-performing public. Against this backdrop, the term «moral panic»95, albeit occasionally attributed to sensational crime cases, does not prove sufficient. First, the concept of «moral panic» hardly covers the complex interdependent interlacing of news and its appropriation during the campaign of the Berlin police; secondly, the concept echoes a leitmotif of the public campaign, i.e. the scolding of the public. Underlying this leitmotif was the problem of the fear of «the new reader»96. These ‘new readers’ came in the form of the shop owners, craftsmen, servants, and workers, whose comparatively recently initiated consumption of Berlin’s dailies staked their political claims in the urban arena. The reading of the Berliner Morgenzeitung or the Berlin Lokalanzeiger marked just the beginning of their political participation in urban affairs, very much to the dismay of the formerly privileged reading public. Given the “readiness” of ordinary people, public police investigations prompted their intervention in public affairs. Criminal actions endangered society and its order, were a serious breach of social rules, and initiated a crisis97: the liberty of the wrongdoer thus meant a continuing threat to the public’s security and safety, and necessarily required public intervention. Offences demanded the subsequent restoration of order, and prompted undertakings that ranged from on looking to talking, from observing to informing, from investigating to following and even arresting. Regardless of whether or not these actions complied with the inherent conventions and expectations of the police, the actions of the many “voluntary

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detectives” were driven by a willingness to contribute to the restoration of social order. The public manhunt offered the urban public opportunities to do this, even if the appropriation of these chances went against the grain of the rationale of the police. In this way, the imitations of the original Berlin Ripper, as well as the feigned “knife attacks”, were as much characterised by wayward opportunism as the numerous actions taken to catch the culprit.

41 The public manhunt affected the power relationship of the police and the public. For the many, public police investigations produced a wide range of opportunities to contribute to the policing of society. Particularly in the case specifically discussed in this piece, searching for the criminal required the cooperation of both the public and the police. For the police, cooperation meant the enforcing of their superior position of the authorities, actions that strongly required the leadership and the instructions of the police. To a certain extent, the multifarious acts of cooperation certainly served this end: the many demanded leadership, and lent authority to the police whenever they either addressed a policemen on his beat or detailed their perceptions of an alleged criminal in one of Berlin’s many police stations. Indeed, during the period of crisis, acts of informing flourished, and detective police work became increasingly popularised. When examining the collaborative efforts to hunt down the criminal (e.g. the agreement with private association, the collective hunting of suspicious persons), this becomes even more plain. Depending on the situation and the enjeux of «the voluntary detectives» however, the notion of Prussian police superiority proved illusionary. This was particularly so in February 1909, when the police were unable to either establish any evidence relating to the crimes, or to contain the following «epidemic of the stabbings» without the (semi-)compliant support of the many. What is more, the numerous independent arrests of suspicious passers-by, not to mention the various copycat stabbings and feigned attacks, amply illustrate the limits of the alleged institutional superiority. As a result then, the police was forced to continuously reassert its role as the primary instigator of the on-going public investigation: the police corrected misleading rumours, rebuffed members of the public for their inadequate behaviour, and instructed the public by presenting essential clues and good examples of adequate support. Rather than a “general perspective” then, or even a “word city” as proposed by Peter Fritzsche98, sensational crime cases like the 1909 Berlin stabbings produced a multitude of voices and inextricably interlinked actions. The newspapers of Berlin relayed the attempts of various actors to track down the criminal, channelling and amplifying as they did so. Whilst searching for the wrongdoer, the various actors of urban public not only communicated about the whereabouts and identity of the perpetrator, but also about their say and performance, their role and conduct in the urban arena. In the period of crisis, misunderstanding was rife; through this the polyphony of the German capital’s transforming urban public was revealed.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

Archival Material

Landesarchiv Berlin

LAB A Pr. Br. Rep. 030 Tit.198B Nr.1934 Vorgehen bei Kapitalverbrechen

LAB A Pr. Br. Rep. 030 Tit.28 Nr.806 Kriminalkomissariat

Geheimes Staatsarchiv

GStA Berlin I.HA Rep.77 Tit.235 Nr.1 Bd.14 Die Verwaltung der Kriminalpolizei sowie der allgemeinen Sicherheitspolizei in Berlin

Newspapers

Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger (BLA)

Berliner Morgenpost (BMP)

Berliner Tageblatt (BT)

BZ am Mittag (BZM)

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NOTES

2. Walkowitz (1992, pp.191-228); Curtis (2001). 3. Berliner Tageblatt (BT) 11.2.1909, No. 75, 1. Spl., 1. 4. Berliner Morgenpost (BMP) 11.2.1909, No. 35, 1.Spl., 1; BT 11.2.1909, No. 76, 1. Spl., 1. 5. Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger (BLA) 11.2.1909, No. 76, 1; BMP 12.2.1909, No. 36, 1. Spl., 1; BT 12.2.1909, No. 77, 1. Spl., 1; cf. BMP 13.2.1909, No. 37, 1. Spl., 1. 6. This rule did not lack one exception: on 19 February 1909, the seventeen years old Georg Lewandowski was attacked with a knife by a passer-by in Andreasstrasse, BLA 20.2.1909, No. 93, 3. 7. Lindenberger, Lüdtke (1995); Brückweh (2006). 8. Walkowitz (1992, p. 191); Curtis (2002, pp. 116, 141 & 194). 9. Walkowitz (1992, p. 197); Curtis (2002, pp. 116f., 137, 254, 313 & footnote 29). 10. The fundament of this analysis is an examination of the media coverage of the prevailing newspapers of Imperial Berlin, the Berliner Tageblatt, the Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger, and the Berliner Morgenpost. In addition to this, I inspected the media coverage of the BZ am Mittag and the relevant records and files of the Berlin police headquarters (BPH) and the Prussian Interior Ministry. General observations and arguments concerning the context of the urban crime drama in Imperial Berlin rely on the investigation: Müller (2005a). 11. Landesarchiv Berlin (LAB) A Pr. Br. Rep.030 Tit.28 No. 806, Draft 25.6.1885, 328f., 329. 12. LAB A Pr. Br. Rep.030 Tit.28 No. 806, Writ 18.2.1885, 290-293, 291. 13. Reinke (1991); Funk (1986); Johansen (2001); cf. Lüdtke (1992); Reinke (1993). 14. Cf. Requate (1995, 393); Müller (2009); Bösch (2009). 15. LAB A Pr. Br. Rep.030 Tit.28 No. 806, Writ 18.2.1885, 290, 293, 291. 16. Cf. Müller (2005a, p. 380). 17. LAB A Pr. Br. Rep.030 Tit.28 No. 806, Draft 25.6.1885, 328f., 329. 18. GStA Berlin I.HA Rep.77 Tit.235 No. 1 Bd. 14, Newspaper Clip, Tageszeitung 10.3.1912, 20. 19. LAB A Pr. Br. Rep.030 Tit.198B No. 1934, Report February 1909, 92-95, 94; BLA 11.2.1909, No. 76, 2; BLA 11.2.1909, No. 76, 1. 20. BT 11.2.1909, No. 75, 1. Spl., 1. 21. BLA 12.2.1909, No. 77, 3. 22. BT 16.2.1909, No. 85, 1. Spl., 1; vgl. BT 19.2.1909, No. 90; BMP 11.2.1909, No. 35, 1. Spl., 1. 23. BLA 14.2.1909, No. 81, 3. 24. BLA 14.2.1909, No. 81, 1. Spl., 1; BT 12.2.1909, No. 77, 1. Spl., 1; cf. BMP 11.2.1909, No. 35, 1. Spl., 1. 25. BLA 11.2.1909, No. 76, 1. 26. BLA 11.2.1909, No. 75, 3; BMP 11.2.1909, No. 35, 1. Spl., 1. 27. BLA 11.2.1909, No. 76, 2 [Explanation by the Director of CID Hoppe]; vgl. BT 11.2.1909, No. 76, 1. Spl., 1 [Explanation by the Director of CID Hoppe]; BLA 15.2.1909, No. 83, 3; BT 15.2.1909, No. 82, 1. Spl., 1. 28. BLA 12.2.1909, No. 77, 3. 29. BLA 19.2.1909, No. 90, 3. 30. BT 11.2.1909, No. 75, 1. Spl., 1 [Explanation by the Director of CID Hoppe]; BT 12.2.1909, No. 78, 1. Spl., 1; BLA 11.2.1909, No. 76, 2. 31. BLA 11.2.1909, No. 76, 1 [Original emphasis]; cf. BT 12.2.1909, No. 78, 1. Spl., 1. 32. BT 11.2.1909, No. 75, 1. Spl., 1; BMP 11.2.1909, No. 35, 1. Spl., 1; BLA 11.2.1909, No. 75, 3 [Announcement of BPH 10.2.1909]. 33. BMP 11.2.1909, No. 35, 1. Spl., 1. 34. Ibid.; LAB A Pr. Br. Rep.030 Tit.198B No. 1934, Report February 1909, 92-95, 94; BLA 11.2.1909, No. 75, 3; BT 11.2.1909, No. 75, 1. Spl., 2; BT 11.2.1909, No. 76, 1. Spl., 1 [Explanation by the

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Director of CID Hoppe]; BLA 11.2.1909, No. 76, 2 [Further Explanation by the Director of CID Hoppe]; BT 12.2.1909, No. 78, 1. Spl., 1. 35. BT 11.2.1909, No. 75, 1. Spl., 1; BMP 11.2.1909, No. 35, 1. Spl., 1; BLA 11.2.1909, No. 75, 3 [Announcement of BPH 10.2.1909]; LAB A Pr. Br. Rep.030 Tit.198B No. 1934, Report February 1909, 92-95, 94; cf. BLA 11.2.1909, No. 76, 2 [Statement of Professor Kohler]. 36. BLA 11.2.1909, No. 75, 3. 37. BLA 14.2.1909, No. 81, 3; BMP 14.2.1909, No. 38, 1. Spl., 1; BT 14.2.1909, No. 81, 1. Spl., 1. 38. Ibid. 39. BT 14.2.1909, No. 81, 1. Spl., 1; BLA 14.2.1909, No. 81, 3; BMP 14.2.1909, No. 38, 1. Spl., 1; BLA 16.2.1909, No. 84, 2; BLA 22.2.1909, No. 96, 2. 40. BLA 13.2.1909, No. 79, 3. 41. BLA 22.2.1909, No. 96, 2. 42. See BT 11.2.1909, No. 76, 1. Spl., 1; BLA 11.2.1909, No. 75, 3; BLA 15.2.1909, No. 83, 2. 43. BLA 14.2.1909, No. 81, 3; BLA 15.2.09, No. 83, 2. 44. BLA 11.2.1909, No. 75, 3. 45. Concerning violence and the use of weaponry in conflicts, cf. Schwerhoff (2002, pp. 102-127); Lindenberger (1995); Ellerbrook (2003); Müller (2005a, pp. 310-312). 46. Foucault (1975); Lüdtke (1992); Landwehr (2003); Holenstein (2009, pp. 25-28). 47. BLA 21.2.1909, No. 94, 1. Spl., 1. 48. BLA 21.2.1909, No. 94, 1. Spl., 1; BLA 13.2.1909, No. 79, 3. 49. Foucault (1995, p. 257); Gellately (1997, p. 185); compare differently, Elder (2006, p. 414); Fürmetz, Lüdtke (1998); Hohkamp, Ulbrich (2001). 50. BT 11.2.1909, No. 75, 1. Spl., 1; BMP 11.2.1909, No. 35, 1. Spl., 1; BLA 11.2.1909, No. 75, 3 [Announcement of BPH 10.2.1909, original emphasis.]; LAB A Pr. Br. Rep.030 Tit.198B No. 1934, Report February 1909, 92-95, 95; BLA 15.2.09, No. 83, 2. 51. Concerning the relationship between military and police in 19 th-century Prussia, Spencer (1985); Lüdtke (1989); Reinke (1991); Johansen (2004). 52. Lindenberger (1992, pp.16, 131 & 191, 1994, p. 53); cf. Davis (2002, 2005). 53. Lindenberger (1992, p. 13, 1995, pp.192, 194 & 209). 54. Funk (1986); Roth (1997, pp. 55ff.); Reinke (1991); Johansen (2009). 55. Müller (2005a, pp. 191ff. & 325ff.). 56. BZM 15.2.1909, No. 38, 1. 57. BT 18.2.1909, No. 89, 1. Spl., 1 [Statement of Dr. Rubinowitsch, quote of the Petite République]. 58. BT 11.2.1909, No. 76, 1 Spl., 1; cf. BT 12.2.1909, No. 75, 1. Spl., 2; BMP 14.2.1909, No. 38, 1. Spl., 1; BLA 14.2.1909, No. 81, 1. Spl., 1; BLA 16.2.1909, 84, 2; BLA 14.2.1909, No. 81, 1. Spl., 1; BLA 14.2.1909, No. 81, 3; BLA 13.2.1909, No. 79, 3; cf. BLA 14.2.1909, No. 81, 1. Spl., 1; BLA 11.2.1909, No. 75, 3; cf. BT 11.2.1909, No. 75, 1. Spl., 1; BT 11.2.1909, No. 76, 1. Spl., 1. 59. BLA 16.2.1909, No. 84, 1. 60. BLA 16.2.1909, No. 84, 1. 61. Ibid. 62. BMP 11.2.1909, No. 35, 1. Spl., 1; BLA 18.2.1909, No. 88, 3; BLA 19.2.1909, No. 90, 3. 63. BLA 11.2.1909, No. 76, 2; cf. BMP 14.2.1909, No. 38, 1. Spl., 1. 64. In regard to the significant role of criminology, see Wetzell (2000); Becker(2002); concerning the role of medical experts in court trials see Hett (2004, p.177); Siemens (2007, pp. 195ff.). 65. Cf. Habermas (2006, 2009b). 66. Becker (2005). 67. BLA 11.2.1909, No. 76, 2 [Statement of Professor Dr. Eulenburg]. 68. BLA 11.2.1909, No. 76, 2 [Statement of Professor Kohler]. 69. BT 18.2.1909, No. 89, 1. Spl., 1 [Statement of Dr. Rubinowitsch].

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70. BLA 14.2.1909, No. 81, 3; BMP 14.2.1909, No. 38, 1. Spl., 1; BLA 16.2.1909, No. 84, 1; BLA 16.2.1909, No. 85, 2; BMP 16.2.1909, No. 39, 1. Spl., 1; BLA 19.2.1909, No. 90, 3. 71. Cf. LAB A Pr. Br. Rep.030 Tit.198B No. 1934, Report February 1909, 92-95, 92. 72. See the response of the “resolute Miss Henze”, BLA 17.2.1909, No. 87, 3. 73. BT 16.2.1909, No. 84, 1. Spl., 1 [Article by Dr. phil. Rudolph Hennig]. 74. Cf. BLA 13.2.1909, No. 79, 3. 75. BLA 22.2.1909, No. 56, 2; BMP 23.2.1909, No. 45, 1. Spl., 1. 76. Ibid. 77. Cf. BMP 18.2.1909, No. 41, 1. Spl., 1. 78. LAB A Pr. Br. Rep.030 Tit.198B No. 1934, Report 92-95,93. 79. Concerning this criminal case, see Fritzsche (2005), Müller (2005b). 80. BT 16.2.1909, No. 84, 1.Spl., 1 [Article by Dr. Hennig]; cf. BMP 14.2.1909, No. 38, 1. Spl., 1. 81. Ibid. The association of both cases went further: a particular aspect of the unfolding case of the Berlin knifer, the plural of perpetrators, was considered to be at the core of the London Jack the Ripper case: a “suggestion of the masses” (Massensuggestion) had resulted in the emergence of several “rippers” in late Victorian London, LAB A Pr. Br. Rep.030 Tit.198B No. 1934, Report February 1909, 92-95, 93, 95; BT 16.2.1909, No. 84, 1. Spl., 1. 82. Ibid. 83. Ibid. 84. BT 18.2.1909, No. 89, 1. Spl., 1 [Statement of Dr. Rubinowitsch]. 85. BLA 17.2.1909, No. 87, 2. 86. BLA 16.2.1909, No. 85, 2f. 87. LAB A Pr. Br. Rep.030 Tit.198B No. 1934, Report February 1909, 92-95, 94; BT 15.2.1909, No. 82, 1. Spl., 1; BMP 16.2.1909, No. 39, 1. Spl., 1 [Decree of Police President Stubenrauch]. 88. Ibid. 89. BLA 16.2.1909, No. 84, 2; BMP 16.2.1909, No. 39, 1. Spl., 1. 90. BLA 16.2.1909, No. 85, 3; BMP 17.2.1909, No. 40, 1. Spl., 1. 91. BLA 16.2.1909, No. 84, 2. 92. LAB A Pr Br Rep.030 Tit.28 Nr.806 Writ 18.3.1885, 290-293, 291. 93. Emsley (1996, 2005). 94. Foucault (1975); Evans (1996); Martschukat (2000). 95. Reinke (1991, p. 62); Evans (1998, p. 192); Hett (2004, p. 78). 96. (2002, p. 457). 97. Turner (1987, p. 75). 98. Fritzsche (1996, 5, 26, 131, 158, 2005); cf. Schwartz (1989, 2f.). In this respect the studies of Stuart Hall and other scholars of the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies at the University of Birmingham are legendary, Hall (2000, 61); in regard to the sensationalist media events, see locus classicus Walkowitz (1992); cf. Lüdtke, Müller (2005); Habermas (2003, 2009a); Schwerhoff (2011).

ABSTRACTS

This article highlights the interdependent interlacing of semi-official sensationalist media coverage and its appropriation by ordinary people in Imperial Berlin, by examining the criminal case of a knifer in 1909 and its repercussions in the urban arena. In 1909, contemporaries swiftly

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associated “the misdeeds of the knifer” with the London Jack the Ripper Case of the year 1888. In spite of the intriguing Ripper tag particular characteristics distinguished the Berlin knifer: the proactive press policy of the Criminal Investigation Department and the cooperation of Berlin’s newspapers. My contention is that the well established semi-official cooperation between Department IV and Berlin’s press was instrumental in ‘the making of the case’. The police instigated a public manhunt, and the success of this undertaking crucially relied on the effective cooperation of the police and the urban population. However, the public investigation of the case was not without frictions and misunderstandings; relationship between the authority and the “subjects” was ambiguous. Furthermore, the daily circulation of clues of the ongoing investigation went with the proliferation of “the misdeeds of knifer”. Consequently, copycat action was rife, and the suppression of the “stabbings” was achieved only by extending the ordinary means of the public search coordinated by the police.

Cet article met en lumière l’entrelacement entre une couverture médiatique sensationnaliste et semi-officielle et sa réception par les gens ordinaires de la Berlin impériale, à propos de l’affaire mettant en cause un « surineur » en 1909, et ses répercussions dans l’arène urbaine. À l’époque, les contemporains associèrent rapidement les « méfaits du surineur » à ceux de Jack l’éventreur, à Londres en 1888. Toutefois, certaines caractéristiques étaient propres au criminel berlinois, en particulier l’attitude proactive en matière de presse du département d’enquête criminelle et la coopération de la presse berlinoise. Ma thèse est que cette coopération semi-officielle bien établie fut décisive dans la construction de l’affaire. La police lança une chasse à l’homme publique, dont le succès reposait sur la coopération effective de la police et de la population urbaine. L’enquête publique ne fut cependant pas dépourvue de frictions et de malentendus, les relations entre les autorités et les « sujets » étant ambiguës et conflictuelles. En outre, la circulation quotidienne d’éléments sur l’enquête en cours accompagna la multiplication des « méfaits du surineur », de sorte qu’il y eut beaucoup d’imitateurs et qu’on ne parvint à supprimer les attaques que grâce à une extension des moyens ordinaires de recherche coordonnés par la police.

AUTHOR

PHILIPP MÜLLER Dr Philipp Müller is Lecturer in Modern German History at University College London. Prior to his current position he earned his Ph.D. at the European University Institute in Florence. Subsequently he was Post Doctoral Fellow at the Research Centre Media of History - History of Media at the Universität Weimar and the Universität Erfurt. He specialises in the field of the history of crime, police and media. Selected Publications: Auf der Suche nach dem Täter. Dramatisierung von Verbrechen im Berlin des Kaiserreichs, Campus, Frankfurt a.M., 2005 (Historische Studien; 40); co-edited with A. Lüdtke, MedienAneignung in historischer Perspektive, Sozialwissenschaftliche Information/ SOWI, 34 (2005) 4; “‘Éducateur’ ou ‘mauvais garçon’? Le capitaine de Köpernick et les bouleversements du paysage médiatique dans l’Allemagne de Guillaume II”, in Requate, Les médias au XIXe siècle, 2009, pp. 89-99).

Lecturer in Modern German History School of Slavonic and East European Studies University College London Gower Street

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UK – London WC1E 6BT [email protected]

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Articles

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Whigs, Tories and Scottish Legal Reform, c.1785-1832

Jim Smyth and Alan McKinlay

Introduction

1 In Scotland in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, reform of the Law, both civil and criminal, was the focus of a prolonged and bitter debate between Whig and Tory, and between rival notions of ‘Scotland’, and ‘Britishness’. This controversy occurred parallel to and influenced the wider political debates of the time, and legal reform can be seen as one of the main elements of the new settlement represented by the Reform Act of 1832. The main protagonists were the younger Scottish Whigs of the Edinburgh Review, whose influence was felt throughout the United Kingdom. The Review, edited by the lawyer Francis Jeffrey and ably supported by other lawyers such as his close friend Henry Cockburn, played an important role in advancing the cause of parliamentary reform, while, at the same time maintaining a consistent polemic on the failures and general backwardness of Scots Law. Furthermore, figures associated with the Review such as Henry Brougham (another Edinburgh trained lawyer) played a central role in the criminal law reforms in England in the 1830s. The Whig argument was that English law was superior and that English practice should be emulated as the route to progress and modernity. This critique, however, was challenged by a stout Tory defence which concentrated upon the criminal law and which based much of its moral authority on Scotland’s lack of a bloody code.

2 For the Tories, the attack on Scots Law was part of the Whig programme of Anglicisation which threatened the civil institutions of Scotland, and indeed Scotland’s very identity. The Scots Tory position was limited, however, by their own embracing of Enlightenment notions of progress and improvement, as well as their political commitment to the Union3. Even Walter Scott, for all his romanticism, nonetheless supported the ethic of improvement, and shared the Whig view that it was the Union which allowed Scotland to share in modern progress4. For the Whigs, on the other hand, committed as they were to English constitutionalism and English liberty,

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defending the legal practices of their southern neighbour was problematic when that model, in terms of criminal law, was significantly more sanguinary than Scotland’s own practice5. What was consistent from the Scottish Whigs was a clear understanding of the needs of a commercial society, and it was this that informed their views on reform of the civil and criminal law north and south of the border. Because the Scottish Whigs could not attack the ‘bloody code’ directly without implicitly criticising English practice, it was not until around 1830 that a clear critique of capital punishment emerged in the EdinburghReview. This was focused particularly over the penalty for forgery, a crime of major importance to commercial interests6.

3 The abolition of most capital offences in England and concomitant decline in capital punishment coincided, more or less, with the 1832 Reform Act and the triumph of the Whigs. After years in the political wilderness those associated with the Review, for whom legal reform had been central to the reform discourse, became prominent in Grey’s Ministry: Brougham became Chancellor, Francis Jeffrey was made Lord- Advocate, and Henry Cockburn was appointed Solicitor-General7. Jeffrey and Cockburn had the responsibility for drafting the Scottish legislation, not only for parliament, but also the municipal reform of 1833. If anything marked the triumph of the Scottish Whigs it was Jeffrey’s return for one of Edinburgh’s seats in the first reform election8. Their victory was not only ideological, but highly personal.

‘The nearer we can propose to make ourselves to England the better.’ The Scottish Whigs, the law and reform

4 In Scotland the long battle over parliamentary reform had to a great extent been one waged between lawyers, and had been shadowed by the complementary struggle over reform of Scots Law. Nearly all the leading Whigs were lawyers, and Edinburgh lawyers at that, and it was they who dominated ‘the political, social and intellectual life’ of the Scottish capital9. The Faculty of Advocates was the centre of the profession, from which body were drawn the candidates who went onto the bench. The abolition of the position of Secretary of State after the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745 left Scotland effectively administered by two law officers, both advocates, the Lord Advocate and the Solicitor General who were answerable to the Home Secretary. The ‘Dundas Despotism’, by which Scotland was administered by the Westminster Government, operated through this system; Henry Dundas became progressively Solicitor General, Lord Advocate and, finally, Home Secretary10.

5 Credited by one historian as being the ‘father’ of the Tory party in Scotland11, Dundas mobilised the conservative reaction against the reform movement of the 1790s, crushing the Friends of the People, and effectively suppressing radicalism north of the border. The Whigs were not republicans, but, nonetheless, they were included in this all-out assault. It was the French Revolution, which hardened the differences between Whigs and Tories and, once cast, these hostilities proved to be permanent.

6 Socially there was little to distinguish between Whigs and Tories, which may in part explain the bitterness between them. They came from the same background and inhabited the same world. Which group an individual would end up in was not readily apparent. Henry Cockburn was related by marriage to Dundas and could have expected

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rapid advancement through family connection, but he rejected his father’s Toryism and became a Whig. Archibald Alison (see below) was on friendly terms with the Edinburgh Review group as a young man, but turned Tory. Although mutual hostility became entrenched, there were areas of contact, if not agreement; for instance a common respect and admiration for Walter Scott12.

7 Any ideological difference between them was one of degree rather than fundamental principles. The Whigs had no intention of overthrowing the rule of property but they did realise that an accommodation had to be made with the middling orders, now rapidly becoming the middle class, who could not be expected to accept the presumptions of privilege for ever13. In Scotland, prior to 1832, the Tory defence of the status quo had not gone beyond Braxfield’s infamous summing up at the trial of Thomas Muir in 1793, “A government in every country should be just like a corporation; and, in this country, it is made up of the landed interest who alone have the right to be represented”14.

8 The Whigs were not only lawyers, but they were regarded – and certainly regarded themselves – as representing the brightest and the best. For a generation, however, they found that they were excluded from the process of promotion and advancement; the top legal offices of the land, even a seat on the bench, were denied them15. The Scottish Whigs would constantly hark back to the behaviour of the Bench in the sedition trials of the 1790s, as self-evident proof of the need for legal reform. Given the significance that the law had in the governance of Scotland, it was clear that this campaign mirrored the call for political reform. Indeed, the two were linked together inextricably. For the Whigs reform meant not only a more representative electoral system for national and local government, but also the extension of English civil liberties to Scotland, in particular through the improvement of civil and criminal law. Once all this had been achieved then, as Henry Cockburn put it in 1831, Scotland would have “a constitution for the first time”16.

9 The Whig critique of Scots Law had two main targets: reform of the Court of Session, in particular the introduction of juries in civil cases; and the removal of the power of judges to ‘pack’ juries in criminal cases tried in the High Court. The former was clearly part of a conscious anglicising tendency on the part of the Whigs. The Scottish civil court – the Court of Session – sat as a body in the French style, and all fifteen judges or, Senators of the College of Justice, deliberated on cases and gave their judgements without the inconvenience of a jury. The introduction of juries in civil trials, therefore, as well as providing valuable opportunities for talented advocates, assimilated Scottish practice into that of England. And, as Cockburn, bluntly put the matter, ‘the nearer we can propose to make ourselves to England the better’17.

10 The beginning of a sustained call for reform can be located in the 1780s when the Lord Advocate called for a reduction in the number of judges on the Court of Session. That proposal provoked an immediate virulent response from, among others, James Boswell who, somewhat confusingly, defended the constitution and prerogatives of the Court while at the same time demanding the re-introduction (as he saw it) of juries in civil cases18. While war with revolutionary France pushed all questions of reform, political and legal, to the side, the early years of the new century saw a strengthening opinion that the Court of Session could not continue its current practices indefinitely, a view, of course, which was expressed forcefully in the pages of the EdinburghReview19.

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11 Out of office for so long, the first opportunity for the Whigs to secure reform came in 1807. The so-called ‘Ministry of all the talents’ under Grenville introduced the first changes by proposing that the Court of Session be split into three chambers and creating a Court of Review, though it dropped jury trial in civil cases20. The Ministry fell before it could introduce the intended Bill, but the process was continued under the Tories and a civil Jury Court eventually was introduced in 181521. Thereafter, pleased as they were with this breakthrough, the Whigs would press for the Court of Session to be re-assembled as a single entity with jury trials predominant22. The basic premise of the reform argument was that the existing system was sclerotic, too slow and had a huge backlog of cases to deal with. Despite the resentment at English influence, civil jury trials were seen to work, and can be regarded as a typically Whig adjustment to the rapidly expanding legal needs of an increasingly commercialised society. An indication of this social change was the rapid growth in the number of lawyers. Phillipson has shown that the membership of the Faculty of Advocates (who alone had the right to plead in the Court of Session) grew from 200 as late as 1794, to 300 by 1810, and 442 by 1832. At the same time its social composition was changing, with fewer advocates coming from the greater gentry and more from the ‘new prosperous bourgeoisie’23.

12 With the call to end the judge’s perceived ability to pack a jury, the Whigs were dealing with something much more contentious and personal. In the 1820s the Tories had more or less reconciled themselves to civil juries, but they did continue to oppose criminal jury reform24. The principal advocate for reform was Henry Cockburn who wrote a seminal article on the subject for the EdinburghReview in 1820, published subsequently as a pamphlet in 1822. Cockburn was providing public support for the Bill of his old friend and fellow Whig, Thomas Kennedy of Dunure, MP for Ayr Burghs. The proposed Bill was intended to remove from the Bench the entitlement to select the jury, or in Cockburn’s words, to relieve the Scottish judges, “from one of the most painful duties that they are called upon to perform … TO SELECT THE INDIVIDUALS OF WHOM THE JURY SHALL CONSIST!”

13 “Many of our readers will start at the very mention of such a custom. Nevertheless, a practice, of which we cannot discover the origin, but which was introduced long before the blessings of the British Constitution were opened to us, still continues; and at this day the Judge names the Jury”25.

14 Notwithstanding the mock outrage, Cockburn’s substantial point was that the system in Scotland was based on 45 persons being named as potential jurors, with the final 15 being chosen by the judge. In Edinburgh, where the High Court sat, the counties and the burghs of Edinburgh and Leith submitted the names of those qualified and the clerk of the court made the initial selection of a pool of 45. This was bad enough, but on the circuits it was the judge who also named the original 45 as well as choosing the final 15. The lists given to the judges contained ‘designations or additions quite sufficient to let each individual to be distinguished and known’26. In an earlier letter to Kennedy, Cockburn had spelt out his practical complaint that the system encouraged manipulation that “may leave out Whigs”27.

15 Juries, therefore, could contain – indeed one might say they were intended to include – the unprincipled, the prejudiced, and the politically biased with judges likely to select those with whom they were in agreement28. The evil was compounded by the fact that there was no right to peremptory challenge to juries in criminal trials, and that in Scotland, a bare majority was sufficient to secure a conviction, even in capital cases.

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Cockburn’s solution was selection by ballot and the accused being given the right to peremptory challenge. The main opposition came from the existing County Freeholders who argued that they, as prospective jurors, would be inconvenienced by having to make themselves continuously available for possible jury service. For Cockburn, however, lapsing into the language of radicalism, the Freeholders, who were also the main opponents of franchise reform, preferred the present system because it preferred ‘gentlemen’, exactly the type ‘to lord it over the humble drones by whom the box may be encumbered’29. Given that the Lord Advocate and the Court of Session were hostile to the Bill, Cockburn looked south, to English practice and English constitutionalism; as he put it to Kennedy, ‘I think you must succeed in a parliament of Englishmen’30.

16 It is revealing that Cockburn chose to illustrate his case not so much with current or recent criminal trials, but with older cases and especially the sedition trials of the 1790s. Thus Cockburn referred back to the 1752 trial of Stewart of Ardshiel for the murder of Campbell of Glenure, which saw the Duke of Argyll, in his position as Lord Justice General, select eleven Campbells to sit on the Jury and not a single Stewart31. Cockburn also made much of the trial of Gerrald, one of the Friends of the People, in 1794. When one juror attempted to excuse himself on the grounds that he was strongly opposed to the political beliefs of the accused, the judge remarked that this was no reason as he would be surprised to find any man who was not of a similar opinion. This example clearly made the point that under the Scottish system, the jury was not an independent part of the tribunal, but “is made, in a certain degree, the image of one individual Judge”32.

17 If there was one particular judge whom Cockburn had in mind, it was the same judge who presided over the Gerrald trial, the infamous Lord Braxfield. When Cockburn published his two volume study of the Scottish sedition trials, he explained his purpose in a prefatory note, dated 17 August 1853, less than a year before his own death; “On now revising the following pages, I am still of opinion that, from the interest of the subject, and the duty of never letting Braxfield and the years 1793 and 1794 be forgotten, they are not unworthy of publication”33.

18 What this brings us back to, as it constantly drew Cockburn back, was the defining moment that was the French Revolution, and the political and personal fallout it provoked. In his biography of Jeffrey, published in 1852, Cockburn wrote, Everything was influenced by the first French Revolution. … Never, since our own Revolution, was there a period when public life was so exasperated by hatred, or the charities of private life were so soured by political aversion34.

19 If this was the case in England, then it was so much worse in Scotland where there was “no popular representation, no emancipated burghs, no effective rival of the Established Church, no independent press, no free public meetings, and no better trial by jury” than the system whereby the judge selected the jurors, and with no right of peremptory challenge. “Thus, politically, Scotland was dead.”35 Furthermore the ‘great personal bitterness’, which the Revolution engendered, had direct consequences for Whig lawyers, as they were no longer seen as oppositional, but as rebellious. “There was no place where it operated so severely as at the bar. Clients and agents shrink from counsel on whom judges frown.”36

20 A recent study of Braxfield accuses Cockburn of ‘over-egging his pudding’. Braxfield was a reactionary, and proud of it, but he was not a ‘hanging judge’ in the mould of England’s Jeffries; apart from anything else, the Scottish courts hung fewer convicted

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felons. Moreover, other judges gave similar sentences and juries were not always subservient, but at times acquitted the accused against Braxfield’s clear instructions37. Cockburn’s own very personal bitterness towards Braxfield, and his reference to English practice as a model of constitutionalism, meant that, in his political and legal polemics, he was partially blind both to the merits of Scots law and the demerits of English law.

21 Braxfield and the Tories generally may have packed and directed juries to secure guilty verdicts in sedition trials, but the only death sentences passed in Scotland for political offences were in the treason trials which were held under English law. The appointment of the Special Commission of Oyer and Terminer had been used in Scotland after the risings of 1715 and 1745 and the Dundases decided to implement the process again in the case of Robert Watt and David Downie who were charged with treason in 1794. Part of the rationale was to take sole control of the trial away from Braxfield, who was now one of nine judges on the Commission. The case then proceeded with due English process; a jury of twelve and the accused exercising the right to challenge the jurors38. Although the accused received a ‘fair trial’ Watt was still hung, the only Scottish political prisoner of the 1790s to be so punished. Similarly in 1820, in the aftermath of the radical rising, the three death sentences were handed down by the once-again assembled Commission of Oyer and Terminer39.

22 By prosecuting other radicals under sedition rather than treason, there would be no death penalty, but Cockburn was unwilling to recognise this point or to offer Braxfield any credit. Cockburn argued that had treason been the charge, then Braxfield would have been superseded as head of the court, and the accused would have had the benefit of challenging hostile jurors, as well as enjoying the protection of a unanimous verdict: “and, after all, a single and speedy death was at least not worse than the many deaths that were then implied in the unnoticed and humiliating agonies of New South Wales.” 40 It is tempting to wonder what those radicals who managed to return from Botany Bay, such as Gerrald’s colleague Margarot, and indeed Thomas Muir (another lawyer and member of the Faculty of Advocates), would have made of such logic.

23 This elision in Cockburn’s argument is doubly surprising since he and Jeffrey acted as counsel in the trials of the accused in the 1820 radical insurrection, and both attempted to delay the proceedings by refusing to serve in an English court, and then insisting upon being aided by an English barrister41. As we shall see, Cockburn did recognise the merits of Scots law, and would even defend its superiority, but the wider Whig reform project, at least until 1832, was predicated upon the constitutionalism of English practice and traditions. In the world view of Cockburn and his fellow Whigs it was not until 1747, with the abolition of hereditary courts, that feudalism was seen as coming to an end in Scotland. As Kidd has commented, “Scottish sociologists conceived the reforms of 1747-1748 as a caesura between a backward feudalism – Scottish history proper – and an Anglicised modernity’42.

24 Cast out into the political and professional wilderness post 1794, the younger Whigs were forced into an oppositional role that could make them appear more radical than they actually were. Since they were not going to be elevated to the bench, they had ample opportunity to practice their skills of advocacy in court, and, as their fame spread so did the demand for their services. If, earlier in their careers, the young Whig lawyers suffered for their political affiliations, in their mature years they were feted and there was hardly a prominent trial in which they did not feature; the infamous case

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of the body snatchers Burke and Hare saw Cockburn appear as the defence counsel for Burke’s mistress, Helen MacDougall, securing a ‘not proven’ verdict for his client. The fellow Whig, Moncrieff appeared for Burke, and Jeffrey later acted for the family of one of the victims, ‘Daft Jamie,’ in a private case against Hare who had been given immunity having turned King’s evidence43.

25 Towards the end of the French Wars there were an increasing number of industrial and political trials, and it was here that young Whig lawyers really made their names. From the 1813 weavers’ case in Glasgow, through the various sedition trials of 1817, 1818 and 1819, to the treason trials of 1820, Cockburn and Jeffrey were actively involved in virtually every incident; they became the preferred briefs for political defendants. Jeffrey, in particular, had been noticeably unsuccessful at the bar, but his involvement in these trials transformed his reputation as a skilled advocate. At the same time, Henry Brougham, one of the most prominent of the contributors to the Edinburgh Review, although he sat in the Commons for an English seat, achieved lasting fame through acting as counsel to Queen Caroline44. From 1820 the Review became more openly political and Jeffrey “launched himself more vehemently into reform politics”45.

26 While these events certainly inspired Jeffrey and the Review to more definitely nail their colours to the mast of reform, their aims remained quite distinct from the radicals they had defended in court. A democratic suffrage was never part of the Whig agenda, and Cockburn in 1820 had assembled with the Edinburgh Armed Association in order to repel the expected assault on the city by the radical army46. Nonetheless, their activities during these years would cement their reform credentials. In his electoral campaign for Edinburgh in 1832, Jeffrey was able to base much of his appeal on his activities during this period; in favour of reform, helping to expose the Castlereagh spy system in Scotland, and his opposition to the ‘unconstitutional’ treason trials of 182047. In Jeffrey’s view the insurrectionists had been ‘misguided and seduced’, and one of the first acts of the new parliament was to issue retrospective pardons to those involved, and the first memorial to the ‘martyrs’ of 1820 was erected in 183248.

‘Our custom of punishment is eminently gentle’: The Tory defence of Scots Law

27 For the Whigs Scots Law lagged behind its southern counterpart and needed to be brought into line. This was a constant refrain of Whiggish Unionism where English constitutionalism with its attendant protection of civil liberties was to be imported into Scottish institutions. For the Tories the matter was quite different. Just as Unionist as the Whigs, nonetheless the Tories wished to preserve many of the peculiarities or distinctiveness of Scottish institutions, especially as regards the Law. This, after all, was where so many of them made their living and, in this period, it was Tories who dominated the bench and the major offices of state. The Tory predicament was that of Walter Scott himself; celebrating, even trying to preserve Scottish identity, while, at the same time, defending the means whereby what was distinctively Scottish would be superseded and surpassed, that is the Union of 1707.

28 Exactly one hundred years later the proposed changes to the Court of Session provoked furious debate amongst Scotland’s lawyers, particularly within the Faculty of Advocates who devoted two sessions to the issue in February and March49. For Scott, the Bill

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represented nothing less than ‘Anglomania – a rage of imitating English forms and practices’50. Moved to tears, he famously admonished Francis Jeffrey: “Little by little, whatever your wishes may be, you will destroy and undermine until nothing of what makes Scotland Scotland shall remain.”51 Tory defenders of Scots Legal practice argued that it was perfectly adapted to Scotland’s needs and culture, and, in addition, was in many ways superior to English law. While it would be easy to dismiss their stance as a case of special pleading and the instinctive reaction against change by the conservative-minded, this would be to ignore what was a powerful and coherent argument.

29 The first great ‘institutional’ writer on Scots law was Stair whose Institutions of the Law of Scotland was published in 1681, though written during the Cromwellian Union and, it has been argued, was intended as much as a defence of Scots law as it was a systematisation of the law52. In the second half of the eighteenth century, however, Scottish legal writing diverged from the predominant ‘natural law’ school to something that was both more historically located and more akin to a social science. And this was a perspective shared by Whig and Tory53. Such works were not unique to Scotland but, due in part to the relative lack of actual case law in comparison to larger jurisdictions such as England or France, the Institutional writers gained a particular influence with their texts regarded as “an authoritative source of Scots law, coming after legislation and judicial precedent”54. While still referring to the historical origins of the law, these authorities were not bound by precedent. In systematising the law they also referred to contemporary social mores. They were not simply commenting on the law, but attempting to determine current and future principles.

30 This can be seen most clearly, and most cynically, in the work of the Whigs dealing with the poor law and labour disputes where actual precedent was simply denied in order to re-fashion the law into what they regarded as more appropriate for modern commercial society. The Whig supporters of Thomas Chalmers effectively re-wrote the history of the Poor Law so as to deny that there ever had been any assessment of parishes, or that the ‘able-bodied poor’ (the unemployed) ever had an entitlement to relief, or been granted the same55. This ‘reinterpretation’ of the past was exactly the same as the Whig lawyers had done in the case of protective legislation for workers such as apprenticeship laws and the right to appeal to Justices of the Peace to establish ‘fair’ wages56. In both cases the motive was the same; to secure the triumph of laissezfaire and the free market over the older system of regulation and (partial) protection.

31 It is interesting to note that the Whig Jurists tended to concentrate on and become recognised experts on civil and commercial law, for instance see J.G. Bell’s ‘epoch making’ Commentaries, first published in 180457, the full title of which is Commentaries on the Law of Scotland And on the Principles of Mercantile Jurisprudence58. Bell consciously sought to establish a middle way between English and Scots law, but his approach was historically grounded in the common Whig perspective that England was more advanced than Scotland: During the troubles which agitated and depressed this country, England was triumphantly proceeding in her greater career of commercial prosperity; and the progress of her jurisprudence, which might naturally be expected to accompany that of her trade, was happily directed by the successive wisdom and learning of many great men59.

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32 In contrast, the two leading Tory Jurists of this period, Hume and Alison, focused on criminal law. Baron David Hume, a nephew of David Hume the philosopher, was both a judge and professor of Scots Law at Edinburgh. He first published his Commentaries in two volumes in 1797 and 1798, which were subsequently re-issued at various times in a single volume. Hume’s work was followed a generation later by Archibald Alison who published two volumes on the ‘Principles’ and ‘Practice’ of Scots Criminal Law in 1832 and 1833. Recognising that Hume remained “the foundation of our Criminal Jurisprudence” Alison intended that his volumes should accompany and update his predecessor’s work. In essence a new treatise was necessary because of “the extraordinary increase of crime of late years”: The change of manners has consigned to oblivion a great variety of crimes … while the same cause, joined to the vast increase of criminal business, has brought prominently forward a complete new set of delinquencies, of which little is to be found in the records prior to the last twenty years60.

33 Alison served as one of the Advocates Depute under The Lord Advocate who had responsibility for the public prosecution of all crimes in Scotland. In the normal course of affairs Alison would have expected eventual political promotion to the bench or even to become Lord Advocate, but the fall of Wellington in 1830 and the ultimate triumph of the Whigs put paid to that ambition and Alison decided to forego a political career, settling for the post of Sheriff of Lanarkshire61. Alison had entered the public debate with the Whigs over Scots Law some years earlier when he responded to Cockburn’s attack on the control of the judge in selecting juries in criminal trials (see above). Having taken up the position of Advocate Depute in early 1823 Alison was asked shortly afterwards by John Hope, the Solicitor General, to pen a defence of the Scottish criminal justice system. In his response Alison was at pains to defend the role of the Lord Advocate, especially as the current incumbent, Sir William Rae – who was Alison’s mentor – had been forced to answer to the House of Commons twice against allegations of complicity in prosecutions. Rae had been directly involved in creating and subsidising a particularly scurrilous pro-Government Tory press, and the fact that he only escaped a resolution of censure by six votes indicates the dissatisfaction with his behaviour and array of powers62. While this provoked the “immediate context of the … exchange”, Alison set himself the larger task of defending Scots Law against English pretensions63.

34 Both Hume and Alison were firm Tories and both made it clear that their treatises were directed against an unthinking importation of English ways. Alison, in his Practice, included an introduction intended for a lay readership rather than the professionals: which, while it shows in striking manner the wisdom of ancient Scottish Legislature, and the admirable effects, both to the administration of justice, the liberty of the subject, and the interests of the prisoners, with which our practice has been attended, may possibly contribute to moderate, in this particular, that passion for transplanting into Scotland the institutions of a neighbouring kingdom, which, however well adapted to their character and habits, are certainly not fitted for our customs, or calculated to effect any practical improvement in the Criminal Jurisprudence of this Country64.

35 Hume explained in his introduction why he had been moved to bring out his work sooner than he would have preferred to: I mean the desire of rescuing the law of my native country from that state of declension in the esteem of some part of the public, into which, of later years, it seems to have been falling… This disposition, in particular, appears in those

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multiplied references to the Criminal Law of England, and these frequent and extravagant encomiums on the English practice, in preference to our own; which, in any point where the two differ, is calumniated as rude and barbarous, nay is sometimes even spoken of as grievous and oppressive. This is an opinion, which, for my part, I am unwilling to learn…”

36 Hume then paid a back-handed compliment to the advanced state of English criminal law: That the law of England respecting crimes is a liberal and enlightened system… what reasonable person will dispute? … But… how should we expect to find the case otherwise in comparing our law with that of a country, where, owing to the much greater number of dissolute and profligate people, and to the greater progress of every refinement, and of every sort of corruption, crimes are both more frequent, and far more various in their nature, than among ourselves...65.

37 Hume went on to provide a detailed defence of Scots Criminal Law, which, he pointed out, had fewer capital offences and actually executed fewer people. Referring to Blackstone, who had regretfully remarked three decades earlier on the 160 capital offences extant in England, Hume pointed out that Scotland had barely one quarter of that figure. Furthermore, during that same period, Scotland’s rate of executions “had not exceeded six in a year. … Such is the law, which, by ill-informed persons is reproached as sanguinary and tyrannical in comparison of others”66.

38 If, in Scotland, the prisoner had no right of peremptory challenge, in England, other than in treason trials, the accused did not see the indictment or the charge against him before he appeared in court. Until then he was kept ignorant of both the jury members and the witnesses against him. In Scotland the charge and the list of witnesses had to be delivered fifteen days prior to the trial, which allowed the prisoner time to prepare his defence and any objections. A further contrast was that Scots Law ensured that the accused, even the poorest, would have counsel to defend them and address the jury. Again, in England, this right was restricted to cases of treason.

39 The English practice of demanding unanimous verdicts may have appeared more humane than Scotland’s bare majority. However, English juries could convict on the evidence of a single witness even in capital cases, whereas this was not allowed in Scotland, even on lesser charges. The accused in Scotland had the same right as the court in compelling witnesses to appear. Witnesses were interviewed separately in order to avoid any combination against the prisoner, witnesses were free to change their previous testimony once they had taken the oath, and they could not be recalled after giving their evidence. All of this, Hume argued, was contrary to English practice and, furthermore, the written verdict of a Scots jury had to be accepted as it stood, whereas an English jury could be “questioned and instructed by the Court, without any manner of restraint”67.

40 Hume was at pains to refute the charge that in Scotland a prisoner could be tried repeatedly for the same offence. On the contrary, the maxim, ‘that no man shall thole an assize twice’ remained sacrosanct. The confusion arose from the fact that where, at an early stage in proceedings, a charge was dismissed as inaccurate or defective, this did not protect a prisoner from being tried subsequently on a correct charge. But, once acquitted, the prisoner could not be retried.

41 In response to criticisms that in Scotland all power of prosecution resided with the Lord Advocate, a public officer, and that this allowed undue influence by the crown, Hume rather glibly responded that this would only be a concern under a system of

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‘arbitrary government’, i.e. absolutism. But “in this country with its love of freedom and justice,” this was not a concern, and no Lord Advocate would stain his own reputation or that of the crown by doing anything so corrupt. Hume was on more solid ground in his more general argument against the English system where the whole burden of prosecution and conviction lay on the offended party. In this matter, Scots law was clearly better suited “for repressing the growth of crimes”68.

42 Hume’s conclusion, and that of Alison, was that “our custom of punishment is eminently gentle,” especially in comparison with England. The rights of the prisoner were much more fully protected, and “the country at large” was not burdened “with a numerous list of special and statutory rules”69. Scottish judges could exercise discretion in the punishment of crimes, which was denied their southern counterparts, and in practice this had acted to the benefit of the accused. More than this, however, was the fact that Scottish courts could determine certain acts as crimes, that is, create new offences, whereas English courts had to wait until Parliament had decreed an action as a crime and determined the punishment. As Hume put it: “The Supreme Criminal Court have an inherent power as such competently to punish (with the exception of life and limb) every act which is obviously of a criminal nature.”70

43 It is here that the ‘genius’ of Scots Law is meant to reside. This ‘declaratory power’ of the High Court has been the subject of intense debate for the past two centuries. If the defenders of Scottish legal practice no longer support declaratory power in the manner of Hume, they argue that the ‘native genius’ of Scots Law resides in the ‘administrative and judicial discretion’ that was so different to the legislative approach in England71. It was clear to Hume that the Scottish approach was superior because crime was censured and punished when it first arose, rather than after it had become more widespread and serious, which delay encouraged a more draconian response. Hume illustrated his argument with reference to the sending of incendiary and threatening letters, which, in England, Parliament eventually had decided constituted a capital offence. But, in Scotland, because judges were able to punish such acts when they first appeared, they did not become a major issue, and transportation was the appropriate sentence. This was the case also with some types of forgery offences, “alteration of bills, promissory notes and the like”72.

44 Even today Hume’s Commentaries is recognised as a ‘classic of that time’; a study, which superseded everything that had gone before it, and which “has won continuing recognition as the supreme one in its field”73. The Whig Cockburn, while recognising much of the veracity of what Hume said about Scots Law, could not bring himself to give the Tory jurist any credit. In Cockburn’s opinion Hume’s purpose had been to vindicate the court’s handling of the sedition trials in the 1790s and the behaviour of Braxfield74. This was undoubtedly true, though Hume approached the issue in an oblique manner. He admitted that Scots Law was “more vigorous than that of England in regard to certain articles.” In what ironically can be seen as a very Scots-Whiggish argument, Hume explained that the severity of the ‘ancient statutes’, which dealt with those unspecified offences, was due to the “factious and unruly temper of the inhabitants of this country”. One might have expected this ‘vice’ to have been corrected by “so long a period of increasing prosperity, and of mild and equitable government.” Events, however, had shown this disposition to be still active among the population, and so it was fortunate that the Legislature had, in its ‘wisdom’, bestowed such powers on the Courts75.

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45 This constituted the political difference between reactionary High Tories (Hume has been described as ‘the arch apostle of legal conservatism’)76, and younger reforming Whigs. Personal animosities, however, were nearly always involved. As it happened Cockburn thought very highly of the younger, and ex-Whig, Alison, but he detested Hume, who had been the leader of the opposition to the re-appointment of Henry Erskine as Dean of the Faculty of Advocates in 179677. Erskine was a well-loved figure among the Whigs, and this action seemed to exemplify the dominance of the Tories and the spite with which they chose to exercise their authority78. The effective dismissal of Erskine was regarded as unprecedented and clearly linked to his reform activity. Although he had not joined the Edinburgh Friends of the People and actively dissuaded fellow Whigs from doing so, Erskine was tarnished by association. He was friends with Thomas Muir, who had dedicated his thesis (part of the qualification for entry to the Faculty) to Erskine. Though Muir chose to defend himself at his trial, it was common knowledge that Erskine had offered to act in his younger colleague’s defence, and Erskine’s brother Thomas, who enjoyed a successful career at the English bar had defended English radicals, including Thomas Paine79. Once again, we can see the long shadow that was cast by the revolutionary years, not least upon Henry Cockburn.

‘How much more efficacious would a penalty of a lesser nature be’: judges, forgery and repeal of the death penalty

46 If the Tories delighted in pointing out the superiority of Scots criminal law, the Whigs tended to keep quiet about English practice, other than in the selection of the jury. The multiplicity of capital statutes in England in this period, the creation of the ‘bloody code’ was simply ignored by the Whigs because it did not fit neatly into their schema of civilisation being imported from the South. Whether or not one agrees with Hay that the ‘bloody code’ was an upper class construct designed to terrorise the poor80, or with Langbein that it operated to ‘protect the interests of [all] the people who suffered as victims of crime’81, it remains the case that the ‘bloody code’ was very much an English construct82. It is also the case that even if most convicted felons were not hung, England still executed more criminals than any other comparable society, including Scotland83.

47 In his Commentaries on the Laws of England, Blackstone referred to the earlier writings of Sir Edward Coke who recognised the ‘many diversities’ between the laws of England and Scotland which he saw as due to the differences “of practice in two large and uncommunicative jurisdictions, and from the acts of two distinct and independent jurisdictions”. But what was more remarkable was “how marvellous a conformity there was, not only in the religion and language of the two nations, but also in their ancient laws”. Coke, noted Blackstone, “supposes the common law of each to have been originally the same”84. Blackstone drew specific attention to article 18 of the Act of Union. The laws governing trade and excise were to be common between the two countries, and Westminster was to have authority over changes in the law, north and south. Notwithstanding, “laws relating to private right are not to be altered but for the evident utility of the people of Scotland”85. The practical devolution of this arrangement meant that while ultimate power resided in London, the Scottish legal system was permitted its effective independence. Moreover, since Westminster had little interest in internal Scottish affairs, the Scottish courts, rather than being

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diminished by the Union, became more important to the running of the country, and the law, both as an institution and profession, enjoyed increased power and prestige86.

48 In his pre-Union work on the criminal law in Scotland Mackenzie had been clear that it was the prerogative of Parliament to establish what was and was not a crime: “none can make Laws but the Parliament.” He did recognise that there were situations, such as threat to public order, when an offence that was not actually designated a crime could be punished arbitrarily, and similarly crimes against nature, such as bestiality and sodomy, even though there was no statute against them87. Notwithstanding these exceptions, Mackenzie was clear about the general principle: That is a Crime, which is declared such by an express Statute… and it were to be wished, that nothing were a Crime which is not declared to be so, by a Statute, for this would make Subjects inexcusable, and prevent the arbitrariness of Judges88.

49 Writing in the late seventeenth century Mackenzie was, of course, referring to the Scottish Parliament. His successor as a jurist of criminal law, Hume, writing at the end of the eighteenth century, had an almost completely opposite view. Hume had no fear of the ‘arbitrariness of Judges’; rather he saw it as a virtue that the Scottish courts, unlike in England, could determine actions as crimes and determine their punishment without the decree of parliament. Hume’s view that this explained why Scotland did not have the same lengthy list of capital offences as England was supported, at least indirectly, by Blackstone who saw the application of the death penalty to widely differing offences as ‘a kind of quackery in government’89. Blackstone argued further that: The enacting of penalties to which a whole nation shall be subject, ought not to be left as a matter of indifference to the passions and interests of a few, who upon temporary motives may prefer or support such a bill; but be calmly and maturely considered by persons, who know what provisions the law has already made to remedy the mischief complained of, who can from experience foresee the probable consequences of those which are now proposed, and who will judge without compassion or prejudice how adequate they are to the evil90.

50 If Blackstone was arguing for judges and lawyers to be given priority as experts in determining what constituted crime and how it ought to be punished, this was the situation that actually existed in eighteenth-century Scotland, courtesy of the practice of the settlement of 1707, which saw Westminster show little or no interest in Scottish affairs. The major Scots legal authorities were all affected by Enlightenment precepts and understood that the law had to change in accordance with the needs of a changing, and improving society. Perhaps the greatest of these writers was Lord Kames, whose main work was on civil law but who did publish a ‘History of the Criminal Law’, published in his Law Tracts in 1758.

51 Kames showed how changing forms of property, particularly money, which were inextricably related to economic development, were also linked to the identification of crime as both a personal and a social offence. Alongside this, punishment also became a social matter monopolised by the State. Within a historical account that presented society as continually developing and improving, and becoming increasingly stable, so Kames saw less and less need for sanguinary punishment: … when a people have become altogether tame and submissive, under a long and steady administration punishments being less and less necessary, [they] are generally mild and ought always to be so91.

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52 With a judiciary more or less free from parliamentary interference, (‘the passions and interests of a few’, in Blackstone’s words), and saturated with the ethic of ‘improvement’, it is hardly surprising that Scotland did not develop its own ‘bloody code’, and saw virtue in not following the English example. Kames’s writings on criminal law sit alongside the more famous arguments of Montesquieu and Beccaria and, if now largely forgotten outwith Scotland, did have a direct influence on the English penal reformers Eden and Bentham92.

53 The young Whigs of the Edinburgh Review, while close to and sympathetic with penal reformers such as Samuel Romilly93, tended not to comment on the issue. To do so would run the risk of drawing attention to English barbarity and hence undermine their whole project. Moreover, the Whigs were not opposed to capital punishment per se. When a petty thief, Robert Johnston, was the victim of a botched hanging in Edinburgh in 1818, reformers used the scandal to berate the unreformed and reactionary town council. The complaint was not that Johnston was being hung, rather that avoidable errors had made his suffering prolonged and cruel. With the treason cases in 1820, there was a feeling that the state had overstepped the mark, particularly in the case of the elderly Wilson, but again punishment by death was accepted94. By 1830, however, arguments against capital punishment were being heard increasingly, encouraged by the rise of the Whigs and the sense that the long night of Tory supremacy was ebbing away.

54 The issue that really cut through the impasse and allowed the Whigs to champion criminal law reform was the pressure to repeal capital punishment for the crime of forgery. Writing in 1831 in the Edinburgh Review, Brougham, while paying homage to Romilly as the pioneer in Parliament in questioning the death penalty, identified two lines of argument among the abolitionists; those who denied the right to take any life; and those who argued that capital punishment was ineffective and defeated its own ends. He found the first case ‘untenable’, but was sympathetic to the latter95. The specific issue which Brougham addressed in this article, was not capital punishment generally, but ‘Reasons for abolishing the Punishment of Death in Cases of Forgery’. This was the bill that had recently passed the Commons, in spite of Peel’s opposition, but had been thrown out by the Lords. Although a number of offences had been made non-capital in recent years, these had been mostly minor crimes or obsolete statutes; there had been no real restriction of capital punishment, and the rate of executions were as high as ever96. The matter of the appropriate punishment for forgery can be seen to be of vital importance in determining how far society was going to continue to rely on execution as the main defence of property.

55 The basic point Brougham made was that the death sentence was very hard to secure in cases of forgery; so much so that only one in eight or nine cases resulted in execution; in England and Wales between 1820-1829, there were 733 persons sentenced to death for forgery, of which 64 were executed97. The reluctance to convict affected more or less everyone: jury, witnesses, even the victim. This encouraged criminals to commit the offence, since they were able to calculate their (good) chances of getting off. Thus, despite the terror that the statutory punishment seemed to threaten, the practice “makes the law anything rather than dreadful”. The logical conclusion was for a lesser but certain penalty: “How much more efficacious would a penalty of a lesser nature be, which was nearly certain to be always enforced”98.

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56 It has recently been argued that there was no ‘underlying consensus’ about whether or not the death penalty was the just punishment for the crime of forgery, but that the penal reformers were highly skilled in mobilising and manipulating public opinion on exactly that issue99. Brougham was able to state that what made this Bill (or, to be more precise Mackintosh’s amendment) a more substantial proposal than simply the exertions of the committed was the support it received from the financial sector. It had always been assumed that ‘those in trade’ would be opposed to any change in the law, but ‘The memorable Petition of the Country Bankers put an end, at once and for ever, to this imagination’100. These ‘plain, practical men of business’ were not seeking leniency, but greater protection for their property. It has been estimated that this Petition, which called for the abolition of the death penalty for all forgery offences, represented half the banking community of Britain. Although predominantly English, 16 of the 214 towns and cities listed were from Scotland101.

Conclusion

57 The political dominance of the Tories ended in 1830 with the fall of Wellington’s government, and the retirement of the second Viscount Melville. No longer would Scotland be ‘managed’ in the same way; as Thomas Carlyle put it, the Dundas Despotism had ‘become noisome in the nostrils of all men’102. The Whigs would soon enter their inheritance, but, in terms of legal reforms, considerable headway had already been made, indeed the battles had really been won: the Court of Session had been divided into two chambers in 1808; jury trials in civil cases had been introduced in 1815; by 1825 the criminal law had been reformed to permit both the balloting of juries and the right of peremptory challenge; and in 1830 the Jury Court was abolished as trial by jury became standard in the Court of Session itself; there was also a reduction in the number of judges and types of jurisdictions, such as the Admiralty Court103. In addition to these changes, the Government had been unable to maintain its wholesale ban on Whigs from the bench, simply because the available talent from among the Tories was so poor.

58 In 1830 Henry Cockburn re-discovered the genius of Scots Law; what was now needed was reform of English Law. As the Scots Whigs got closer to power, so they realised just how insular Westminster really was. Ignorance of Scottish matters was almost absolute and, worse, attempts to raise issues were treated with contempt. ‘The case is called Scotch; … and there is an end of it’104. In what was almost plagiarism of his old enemy Hume, and with breathtaking disregard for his own writings, Cockburn wrote, ‘there has been of late a foolish disposition in certain quarters, to undervalue everything connected with [Scots law]’105. Any further reforms needed in Scotland were essentially minor. Scots law, in Cockburn’s words, was ‘perfect’, but English law was not. Cockburn, continuing his volte face, now argued the superiority of Scots Law over England, and concluded with an appeal that, once the minor administrative measures were introduced, ‘we shall be let alone. Everything that will be then done will have been right’106. A few years later Cockburn returned to this theme, ‘the general excellence of our system… and especially in comparison with that of England’107.

59 What allowed this new, positive approach to Scots practice, and criticism of English law, was the fact that the main planks of the Scottish Whig case had been won, and that the English ‘bloody code’ was in the process of being legislated out of existence. As

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Radzinowicz puts it: “The principle that no offence against property should be punished by death now held the field.”108 The Scottish Whigs could never have attacked the ‘bloody code’ directly since they were too deeply reliant upon the view that England, and English law, was the source of constitutionalism and liberty109. On the other side, the Tories could complain about the slavish importation of English ways, but were unable to make political capital out of this for fear of threatening the basis of the Union, on which their own long dominance had been based. Even when the legal reforms of the 1830s left Scotland with more capital statutes than England, there was effectively no protest or little demand for similar legislation north of the border. The last executions in Scotland for theft or robbery occurred in 1831, and while that year witnessed one of the highest ever number of hangings, the level dropped permanently thereafter110.

60 The Whigs of the EdinburghReview looked self-confidently to the future, convinced that the present was better than the past and the future would be liberal111. In their own estimation, they were “the friends of good government, and of human improvement generally”112. Reform both of the law as well as the system of representation was necessary for Scotland to become fully modern. While the Scottish Tories may have been more sceptical about grand projects, they were also influenced by the spirit of ‘improvement’, and had no fundamental objection to offer. Both groups shared a concern with managing change, of ‘how to preserve the traditional community while adapting it to new knowledge and commercial pressures’, and in that pursuit the role of the law was crucial113. The ‘flexibility’ or ‘genius’ of Scots law did not rely upon statute, and the Courts – civil and criminal – were used to acting in defence of commercial society. That was something both Whig and Tory ultimately did agree on.

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Cockburn, H., An Examination of the Trials for Sedition Which Have Hitherto Occurred in Scotland, by the late Lord Cockburn, 2 vols., Edinburgh, 1888.

Cockburn, H., Memorials of His Time, Edinburgh & London, T.N. Foulis, 1910.

Ellis, P.B., Mac a’Ghobhainn, S., The Scottish Insurrection of 1820, London, Victor Gollancz, 1970.

Farmer, L., Criminal Law, tradition and legal order: Crime and the genius of Scots Law, 1747 to the present, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1997.

Fontana, B., Rethinking the politics of commercial society: the Edinburgh Review 1802-1832, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1985.

Fraser, W.H., Conflict and Class: Scottish Workers 1770-1838, Edinburgh, John Donald, 1988.

Fry, M., Patronage and Principle, Aberdeen, Aberdeen University Press, 1987.

Fry, M., The Dundas Despotism, Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press, 1992.

Gatrell, V., The Hanging Tree: Execution and the English People 1770-1868, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1994.

Gordon, G.H., The Criminal Law of Scotland, Edinburgh, Green, 1978.

Handler, P., Forgery and the end of the bloody code in early nineteenth century England, The Historical Journal, 2005, 48, 3, pp. 683-702.

Harvie, C., Scotland and Nationalism: Scottish Society and Politics, 1707-1977, London, George Allen & Unwin, 1977.

Hay, D., Property, Authority and the Criminal Law, in Hay et al. (Eds), Albion’s Fatal Tree: crime and society in eighteenth century England, London, Allen Lane, 1977, pp. 17-63.

Hume, D., Commentaries on the Law of Scotland Respecting Crimes 2 vols., 3rd edition, Edinburgh, 1829.

Kidd, C., Subverting Scotland’s Past: Scottish Whig Historians and the creation of an Anglo-British Identity, 1689-1830, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1993.

Langbein, J., Albion’s Fatal Flaws, Past & Present, 1983, 98, pp. 96-120.

Lieberman, D., The legal needs of a commercial society: the jurisprudence of Lord Kames, in Hont I., Ignatieff, M., (Eds), Wealth and Virtue: The Shaping of Political Economy in the Scottish Enlightenment, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1983, pp. 203-234.

Lobban, M., Brougham, Henry Peter, first Baron Brougham and Vaux (1778-1868), Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Vol. 7, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2004.

Mackenzie, G. (Sir George of Rosehaugh), The Laws and Customs of Scotland in Matters Criminal, Wherein is seen how the Civil Law, and the Laws and Customs of other Nations doth agree with, and supply ours, 2nd Edition, Edinburgh, 1699.

McKinlay, A., Smyth, J., “Un spectacle des plus mortifiants”: Foucault, le pouvoir et l’échafaud, in Hatchuel A., Starkey K., Pezet E., Gouvernement, Organisation et Entreprise: l’héritage de Michel Foucault, Québec, Presses de l’Université de Laval, 2005, pp. 147-168.

Michie, M., An Enlightenment Tory in Victorian Scotland: The Career of Sir Archibald Alison, Montreal, McGill-Queen’s University Press, 1997.

Miller, K., Cockburn’s Millennium, London, Duckworth, 1975.

Mitchison, R., The Creation of the Disablement Rule in in the Scottish Poor Law, in Smout, T.C. (ed.), The Search for Wealth and Stability, London, MacMillan, 1979, pp. 199-217.

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Omond, G.W.T., The Lord Advocates of Scotland, Vol. 2, Edinburgh, David Douglas, 1883.

Osborne, B.D., Braxfield the hanging judge? The Life and Times of Lord-Justice Clerk Robert McQueen of Braxfield, Glendarvel, Argyll Publishing, 1997.

Phillipson, N., The Scottish Whigs and the Reform of the Court of Session 1785-1830, Edinburgh, The Stair Society, 1990.

Radzinowicz, L., A History of English Criminal Law and its Administration from 1750, Vol. 1, The Movement for Reform, London, Steven & Sons Ltd., 1948.

Rigg, J.M., Thomas Francis Kennedy, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Vol. 31, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2004.

Spierenburg, P., The Spectacle of Suffering, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1984.

Stein, P., Law and Society in Eighteenth Century Scottish Thought, in Phillipson, N.T., Mitchison, R. (Eds), Scotland in the Age of Improvement, Edinburgh, Edinburgh University Press, 1970, pp. 148-168.

Walker, D.M., Introduction to D. Hume, Commentaries on the Law of Scotland Respecting Crimes 2 vols, reprint, Edinburgh, The Law Society of Scotland, 1986.

Willock, The Origins and Development of the Jury in Scotland, Edinburgh, The Stair Society, 1966.

Young, A.F., The Encyclopaedia of Scottish Executions 1750-1963, Orpington, Eric Dobby Publishing Ltd., 1998.

NOTES

3. Michie (1997, pp. 3-11). 4. This was also the viewpoint of the Edinburgh Review, see Kidd (1993, p. 266, and chapter 11 generally). 5. North Britishness was a Scottish version of English Whig identity, based on a commitment to English constitutional history. Kidd (1993, p. 214). 6. For a recent study of forgery and the ‘bloody code’, see Handler (2005). 7. Lobban (2004, p. 976); Fontana (1985, p. 148). 8. Miller (1975, p. 37). 9. Phillipson (1990, p. 1). 10. Fry (1992). 11. Fry (1987, p. 18). 12. Miller (1975); Michie (1997). 13. Fontana (1985, p. 149). 14. Fry (1987, p. 13). 15. Miller (1975); Fry (1987); Phillipson (1990). 16. Phillipson, (1990, p. 36). 17. Cockburn (1874, p. 33). 18. Willock (1966, p. 247). 19. Willock (1966, p. 251); see article by Francis Jeffrey reviewing various ‘Pamphlets on the Proposed Reform of the Court of Session in Scotland’, Edinburgh Review, January 1807. 20. Phillipson (1990, p. 110). 21. Willock (1966, p. 256). 22. Cockburn in Edinburgh Review, April 1830. 23. Phillipson (1990, p. 9).

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24. Phillipson (1990, pp. 163-164). 25. Cockburn (1822, pp. 5-6, emphasis in original). 26. Cockburn (1822, p. 14). 27. Cockburn (1874, pp. 3-6). 28. Cockburn (1822, p. 42). 29. Cockburn (1822, p. 51). 30. Cockburn (1874, pp. 3-6). 31. Cockburn (1822); Miller (1975, p. 233). 32. Cockburn (1822, pp. 46-48). 33. Cockburn (1888, p. i). 34. Cockburn (1852, i, pp. 73-74). 35. Cockburn (1852, pp. 74-76). 36. Cockburn (1852, pp. 79-80). 37. Osborne (1997, pp. 24-26). 38. Osborne (1997, pp. 203-207). 39. Ellis, Mac A’Ghobbainn (1970, p. 233). 40. Cockburn (1888, p. 92). 41. Ellis, Mac A’Ghobbainn (1970, p. 233). 42. Kidd (1993, p. 208). 43. Edwards (1993, pp. xi, 135, 152). 44. Lobban (2004, p. 976; Stevenson, 1977). 45. Ellis, MacA’Ghobbainn (1970, p. 283). 46. Ellis, MacA’Ghobbainn (1970, p. 33). 47. Scotsman, 11 July 1832. 48. Scotsman, 11 July 1832; Ellis, MacA’Ghobbainn (1970, p. 233). 49. Phillipson (1990, p. 102). 50. Quoted in Willock (1966, p. 253). 51. Harvie (1977, p. 132). 52. Cairns (1983, p. 90). 53. Stein (1970). 54. Cairns (1983, p. 98). 55. Mitchison (1979). 56. Fraser (1988b, pp. 81-99). 57. Phillipson (1990, p. 106). 58. Bell (1870). 59. Bell (1870. p. xii). 60. Alison (1832, p.v). 61. Michie (1997, pp. 51, 60-61). 62. Omond (1883, pp. 274-284). 63. Michie (1997, p. 46). 64. Alison (1833, p. vi). 65. Hume (1829, i, p. 4). 66. Hume (1829, i, pp. 10-14). 67. Hume (1829, i, p. 6). 68. Hume (1829, i, p. 9). 69. Hume (1829, i, p. 11). 70. Hume (1829, i, p. 12). 71. Gordon (1978, pp. 453-454); For a more critical approach see Farmer (1997). 72. Hume (1829, i, p. 12).

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73. D.M. Walker, Introduction to 1986 reprint; see Farmer, 1997, p. 39 on the ‘fundamental ambiguity’ of relying on Hume as an authority. 74. Cockburn (1910, p. 156). 75. Hume (1829, i, p. 10). 76. Philipson (1990, p. 95). 77. Michie (1997, p. 62). 78. Cockburn (1909, pp. 85-86; Phillipson (1990, pp. 20-22). 79. Bewley (1981, pp. 8, 30, 67, 132). 80. Hay (1977, p. 18). 81. Langbein (1983, p. 97). 82. Gattrell (1994); Spierenburg (1984). 83. Gattrell (1994, p. 8). 84. Blackstone (1771, Vol. 1, p. 95). 85. Blackstone (1771, i, p. 96). 86. Lieberman (1983, p. 219); Michie (1997, p. 50). 87. Fortunately both ‘were rarely committed in this Kingdom’, Mackenzie (1699, p. 2, 82). 88. Mackenzie (1699, p. 2); Farmer (1997, p. 42). 89. Blackstone (1771, iv, p. 17). 90. Blackstone (1771, iv, p. 4). 91. Lieberman (1983, p. 214). 92. Lieberman (1983). 93. Illustrative of the personal links between Whig reformers is the fact that Kennedy was married to the daughter of Samuel Romilly. Rigg (2004, p. 271). 94. McKinlay, Smyth (2005, pp. 152-157). 95. Edinburgh Review (January 1831, pp. 401-402). 96. Radzinowicz (1948, pp. 606-607). 97. Radzinowicz (1948, p. 594). 98. Edinburgh Review (January 1831, p. 403). 99. Handler (2005, p. 693). 100. Edinburgh Review (January 1831, pp. 402-407). 101. Radzinowicz (1948, pp. 730-731). 102. Fry (1992, p. 378). 103. Miller (1975, p. 232); Phillipson (1990, pp. 157-162); Cockburn in Edinburgh Review April 1830. Savings in the number of judges were used to increase the salaries of those remaining on the bench. 104. Edinburgh Review (April 1830, p. 122). 105. Edinburgh Review (April 1830, p. 123). 106. Edinburgh Review (April 1830, p. 142). 107. Edinburgh Review (April 1833, p. 106). 108. Radzinowitz (1948, p. 607). 109. Kidd (1993, p. 164). 110. Young (1998, pp. 105-106). 111. Fontana (1985, pp. 176-178). 112. Edinburgh Review (October 1832, p. 249). 113. Michie (1997, pp. 4-5).

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ABSTRACTS

In early nineteenth-century Scotland the debate over political reform occurred alongside a shadow debate over legal reform. On the one side the young Whigs of the Edinburgh Review argued for the adoption of English legal practice, particularly in civil law, as the means to modernise and civilise Scotland. On the other side stood the Tory jurists who responded by defending Scotland’s more humane criminal law. Unlike in England, there was no need to repeal the numerous statutes detailing the death penalty, since Scotland had long been used to judge- made law. These debates reveal rival notions not just of legal procedure but also of Scottish identity. Both sides however, were constrained by their own agendas; the Whigs had little option but to ignore England’s ‘bloody code’, while the Tories could not push their defence of Scots Law as far as questioning the value of the Union of 1707.

Au début du XIXe siècle en Écosse, un débat sur la réforme du système légal se déroula dans l’ombre du débat sur la réforme du système politique. D’un côté, les jeunes Whigs de la Edinburgh Review plaidaient pour l’adoption du système légal britannique, en particulier en droit civil, qu’ils percevaient comme un moyen de moderniser et de civiliser l’Écosse. De l’autre, on trouvait les juristes Tory, qui répliquaient en défendant le droit pénal écossais jugé plus humain. À la différence de l’Angleterre, il n’était pas nécessaire d’abolir les nombreuses lois relatives à la peine capitale, car en Écosse, les juges jouissaient depuis longtemps d’un large pouvoir discrétionnaire. Ces débats mettaient en cause non seulement des conceptions procédurales rivales, mais également l’identité écossaise. Toutefois, chacune des parties était contrainte par ses propres impératifs politiques: les Whigs n’avaient d’autre choix que de passer sous le boisseau le Bloody code anglais, tandis que les Tories ne pouvaient pousser leur défense du droit écossais jusqu’à remettre en cause l’Acte d’union de 1707.

AUTHORS

JIM SMYTH Jim Smyth is Senior Lecturer in History at Stirling University. His main publications include: Labour in Glasgow, 1896-1936: socialism, suffrage, sectarianism (Scottish Historical Review Monograph/Tuckwell Press, East Linton, 2000; ‘Resisting Labour: Unionists, Liberals and Moderates in Glasgow between the wars’, The Historical Journal, 2003, 46, 2, pp. 375-401; (with Levy-Vroelant, C., Laflame, V., Robertson, D. (eds), Habiter en marge: héritages et perspectives du logement précaire, Paris, L’Harmattan, 2007.

Senior Lecturer in History Stirling University Stirling FK9 4LA [email protected]

ALAN MCKINLAY Alan McKinlay is Professor of Management at the School of Management at the University of St Andrews. The long-term dynamics of management strategy and the labour process have been the central themes of his research. More recently, he has combined these empirical concerns

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both of historical topics and also contemporary organisations with the thinking of Michel Foucault. His main publications include (with Richard Coopey) ‘Stealing the Souls of Men: Employers, Supervisors and Work Organisation, c. 1890-1939’ in van den Eeckhout P. (ed.), Supervision and Authority in Industry: Western European Experiences, 1830-1939, Oxford, Berghahn Books, 2009; ‘Managing Foucault: Genealogies of Management’, Management and Organisational History, 2006, vol. 1 (1), pp. 87-100; (with Jim Smyth), ‘Un spectacle des plus mortifiants: Foucault, le pouvoir et l’échafaud’, in Hatchuel A., Starkey K. et Pezet E. (eds), Gouvernement, Organisation et Entreprise: l’héritage de Michel Foucault, Québec, Presses de l’Université de Laval, 2005. Both authors have a joint research interest on the history of crime and especially capital punishment.

Professor of Management School of Management University of St Andrews St Andrews KY16 9AL [email protected]

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Comptes rendus / Reviews

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Bloembergen Marieke, De geschiedenis van de politie in Nederlands-Indië. Uit zorg en angst Amsterdam (Boom), Leiden (KITLV), 2009, 408 pp., ISBN 978 9085 067078.

Pieter Spierenburg

REFERENCES

Bloembergen Marieke, De geschiedenis van de politie in Nederlands-Indië.Uit zorg en angst, Amsterdam (Boom), Leiden (KITLV), 2009, 408 pp., ISBN 978 9085 067078.

1 This history of the police in Colonial Indonesia is presented as the first in a series of two that follows on – but is separate from – the five-volume history of the Dutch police (2007) that resulted from a project led by Cyrille Fijnaut (see the discussion dossier in Bijdragen en Mededelingen betreffende de Geschiedenis der Nederlanden 123, 3, 2008. The other volume of the present series, as indicated in Fijnaut’s book, will be written by Elsbeth Locher). The book under review covers a period from the 1870s, when the transformation of the «old police» began to be debated, until April 1942, when the Japanese imprisoned the European leadership of the corps. The «modern» colonial police force originated in reforms in 1897 and it was restructured, expanded and subjected to greater central control in the wake of major unrest shortly after the First World War. Both reforms receive ample attention, but in the book the theme of police organization is much less over-represented than it was in the series of volumes directed by Fijnaut. Police organization in the Indonesian context, moreover, was always intimately bound up with issues of race, ethnicity and colonialism. That the various police corpses consisted in majority of locals but were led by whites (Dutchmen and a few other Europeans) comes as no surprise. The locals, however, were not ethnically homogeneous and men from one island or region were preferably recruited to police another. Christian natives from Ambon counted as very reliable constables.

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The presence of a sizeable Chinese community, notably on the main island of Java, further complicated the pattern.

2 Bloembergen writes very well, without unnecessary jargon. There are only occasional oddities; line 4 of the conclusion of chapter 4, for example, manages to contain two anglicisms. Frequently used Indonesian terms are explained in a glossary, although the very frequent rampok (a type of robbery) is missing there. The author has wisely decided not to try to cover every police activity or part of the country during the period studied. In order to give body to her story, she alternates between more general, chronological chapters and thematic ones, in particular about sugar cane fires, Surabaya’s police and the attempts to raise standards of physical and moral cleanliness, The sugar canes fires, rampant between about 1880 and 1920, resembled archaic protest in Hobsbawm’s sense. Indeed, the modern nationalist organization Sarekat Islam, founded in 1912, condemned them. Most resulted from arson, although this was difficult to prove, and it was even more difficult to identify individual culprits. This fact sometimes resulted in policemen identifying the culprits arbitrarily and occasional collective punishments that were criticized in the Dutch parliament although only by a few social-democrats. The chapter about Surabaya is instructive too, if only because by 1920 it was a large, multi-ethnic city with over 200,000 inhabitants. My image of Indonesia has been colored for a long time by a story that a friend told me in my youth: his father got his driver’s license there in the 1930s after just driving up and down the street, because there were few other cars. I don’t know in which place that was, but Surabaya in the 1910s already had a busy traffic that required police regulation. The Chinese, agitated by their 1911 revolution, also kept the police busy.

3 The drive toward cleanliness included a wave of persecution of gay men in 1938-1939. This episode would be perfectly suited for a comparison with the well-known persecution of 1730 in The Netherlands. In both cases, for example, it was preceded by a period characterized by a lack of concern; in both cases accusations extended to men high up in the social hierarchy, most of whom were allowed to flee in 1730 while in the 1930s several Europeans were arrested and tried. These included a few police officials. Although no offense like sodomy existed then, homosexual activities involving an adult and a minor were legally forbidden and punishable for the former. The standard gay relationship involved a European middle-aged man who had one or more native male servants. The isle of Bali was viewed as a Mecca for Europeans, which reminds one of the bombing attack a few years ago committed by Islamic fundamentalists who considered the island’s tourism as immoral though not necessarily in a homosexual sense. In the 1930s a German artist was said to drive around the island with his harem of native boys. In May 1940 this artist was arrested anew – a fate that he shared with his countrymen in the colony. Once more, these Germans included a few police officials, some of whom had worked for the corps since World War I, but who were now fired as unreliable.

4 Much more frequent in the book than the word cleanliness, however, are the words beschaafd (civilized) and beschaving (civilization). They recur seven times in the conclusion of chapter six, apart from its title «violence and civilization». The introduction of chapter eight has one paragraph in which the two related words appear seven times. Therefore, it is highly remarkable that Norbert Elias is absent from the bibliography. Generally, there is little theoretical reflection in the book. Bloembergen situates her story within the context of the historiography of colonial policing and

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colonialism. The conclusion ends with two pages discussing Foucault, unsurprisingly concluding that his model is partially applicable and partially non-applicable to policing in the colonial state. What does «civilized,» in the absence of references to Elias, mean for the author? The answer is never explicitly given. Presumably, she means civilization in an -emic sense, as a we-ideal of the colonial elite. But whom among the elite is she referring to and to what extent did they want Indonesians to share this ideal? Most notoriously, throughout the book, colonial leaders wanted the Indonesian police to be civilized. That meant cleanliness and wearing shoes, but also refraining from excessive violence. If they were excessively violent nevertheless, they were chided for it by leftist commentators and are chided implicitly by the author. However, the effort to eradicate homosexuality in 1938-1939 is also analyzed in terms of a civilization campaign. In short, this is a missed chance. Elias and scholars working with his theory are often criticized for their alleged neglect of non-Western history or the supposed inapplicability of this theory to that part of the world. A thoughtful use of Elias’ work could have made Bloembergen’s study even better. It is still an interesting contribution to the emerging field of colonial policing.

AUTHORS

PIETER SPIERENBURG Erasmus University Rotterdam [email protected]

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Musin Aude, Xavier Rousseaux, Frédéric Vesentini (eds), Violence, conciliation et répression. Recherches sur l’histoire du crime de l’Antiquité au XXIe siècle Louvain-la-Neuve, Presses Universitaires de Louvain, 2008, 326 pp., ISBN 978 287463 1337.

Pieter Spierenburg

REFERENCES

Musin Aude, Xavier Rousseaux, Frédéric Vesentini (eds), Violence, conciliation et répression. Recherches sur l’histoire du crime de l’Antiquité au XXIe siècle, Louvain-la-Neuve, Presses Universitaires de Louvain, 2008, 326 pp., ISBN 978 287463 1337.

1 This collection is announced as the first volume in a series on «history, justice and societies» of the University of Louvain Press. Of the three editors, apart from the very brief introduction, it is only Rousseaux who is present with a contribution of his own. Although the volume’s title is given exclusively in French, some of the contributions are in Flemish or Dutch. As the title indicates, they cover a wide area within the field of crime and justice history with respect to both chronology and subject. They also vary in quality. It seems best, therefore, to say a few words about each contribution separately. Because of the bilingualism, I will give their titles in English.

2 Julien Maquet, ‘Hagiographical sources and the exercise of justice in the middle ages, 10th-12th centuries’ (9 pp.) explores some narratives of saints’ lives for passages dealing

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with judicial practices, concluding that this type of source can be profitably used for that purpose.

3 Frédéric Lalière, ‘The pardon letter as a source, direct and indirect: A juridical instrument in the centralization of power and a promising field for the legal historian’ (45 pp.) discusses pardon letters from Hainaut and Namur in the fifteenth century. These letters appear to have had the same function and structure as in other Burgundian and French territories at the time.

4 Marjan Vrolijk, ‘Reconciling and correcting in the sixteenth century: The case of Van Muelenbeke vs. De Goudsmet’ (24 pp.) discusses feuding, reconciliation and justice in sixteenth-century Flanders, taking one conflict as an example.

5 Éric Maes, ‘The legal regulation of the prison régime in Belgium: Developments regarding the practice of detention over two centuries, 1795-present’ (45 pp.) discusses changes in legal provisions with respect to prisoners’ rights. The author uses naïve terms such as improvement and ignores my warning (in The Prison Experience, 1991) not to refer to the unreliable writings of the amateur historian A. Hallema.

6 Guy Dupont, ‘Age profiles of perpetrators and victims in the late middle ages: How can historians make silent sources speak?’ (15 pp.) has an interesting method for determining a person’s approximate age from the first name suffix, but the author admits that he has published about this before (which had eluded the present reviewer).

7 Mariann Naessens, ‘Sexual offenses in late-medieval Ghent: The limits of a quantitative approach to sources’ (35 pp.) discusses prostitution, adultery and sodomy.

8 Anne van Cauwenberghe, ‘The criminalization of women and penal repression in the accounts of the provost of Bastogne in the sixteenth century’ (30 pp.) discusses all offenses with female perpetrators, in particular witchcraft and infanticide.

9 Nicolas Coupin, ‘An aspect of order maintenance in Belgium: The expulsion of foreigners, 1830-1914’ (19 pp.) establishes that the overwhelming majority were expelled for having no means of existence; the author fails to tell us to which countries they were expelled.

10 Françoise van Haeperen, ‘Human sacrifices and ritual killings in Rome: Some observations’ (20 pp.) establishes that, although some of the stories about these practices were propaganda, there have been several human sacrifices during moments of crisis in Republican times.

11 Xavier Rousseaux, ‘Violence in pre-modern societies, sources, methods and interpretations: Nivelles, a city in Brabant during five centuries’ (36 pp.) deals with the period 1378-1795 and focuses on the transformation from a mediating to a repressive system of justice which came about by the mid-sixteenth century.

12 Benoît Garnot, ‘Violence in early-modern France: violence tamed?’ (9 pp.) begins with a skeptical remark about the theories of Norbert Elias; has three references and concludes that early-modern Frenchmen also engaged in other activities besides violence.

13 Jean-Claude Farcy, ‘Violence and the historians: France in the contemporary era’ (25 pp.) provides a useful overview of the recent French historiography on the subject as well as a discussion of the various types of sources. The expression «contemporary era»

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is still used by the French to designate all history since 1789, so it now stretches over four centuries.

AUTHORS

PIETER SPIERENBURG Erasmus University Rotterdam [email protected]

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Marco Bellabarba, La giustizia nell’Italia moderna. XVI-XVIII secolo Rome, Laterza, 219 pp., ISBN 978 88 420 8714 4.

Marco Cicchini

RÉFÉRENCE

Marco Bellabarba, La giustizia nell’Italia moderna. XVI-XVIII secolo, Rome, Laterza, 219 pp., ISBN 978 88 420 8714 4.

1 Loin du manuel scolaire ou de la synthèse superficielle auquel le titre pourrait faire croire, cette Giustizia nell’Italia moderna est un livre d’histoire tout court. En cinq chapitres denses et vivifiants, Marco Bellabarba propose une histoire sociale et politique de la justice pénale sous l’Ancien Régime dans un espace géographique morcelé par des souverainetés territoriales de tailles et de régimes très divers. Le pari de traiter ensemble les différents États de la péninsule italienne est tenu au prix d’une approche thématique et sélective de la pratique pénale. Certes, le livre ne comporte ni présentation systématique des institutions judiciaires, ni chronologie indicative, ni tableaux récapitulatifs susceptibles d’orienter le lecteur profane. Mais là n’est pas l’enjeu de l’ouvrage. La variété et l’instabilité des régimes politiques de l’Italie, entre XVIe et XVIIIe siècles, sont érigées en observatoire de la relation étroite entre pratiques de gouvernement et pratiques judiciaires. La justice pénale étant considérée ici comme un fondement de la vie politique, une question émerge qui sert de fil conducteur au livre : comment la punition des criminels peut-elle assurer le Buon Governo d’une Cité ?

2 Les guerres qui ravagèrent l’Italie pendant la première moitié du XVIe siècle (siècle le plus largement traité du livre, avec trois chapitres sur cinq) ne bouleversèrent pas que l’ordre des États, mais aussi, selon l’expression de l’observateur avisé que fut Francesco Guicciardini, les « manières de les gouverner ». Le renforcement de la justice fut au service des nouvelles formes de gouvernement. Depuis le XIIIe siècle, la péninsule était le laboratoire où se développaient les instruments juridiques de la modernité pénale, avec la redécouverte du droit romain et l’essor de la procédure inquisitoire. La nouvelle

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procédure, élaborée par la curie pontificale, s’avéra assez souple pour s’adapter à l’activité des cours séculières. Mais surtout, elle permit, ainsi que le corpus doctrinaire justinien, de renforcer l’autorité politique des cités médiévales et « d’accroître la crédibilité du pouvoir public » (p. 8). Les autorités jouissaient du pouvoir d’instruire d’office, se donnaient les moyens de rechercher la veritas delicti (en recourant notamment à la torture) et fixaient dans les statuts urbains des articles élémentaires de procédure pénale. Si, par la suite, les grandes ordonnances pénales promulguées en Espagne (la Pragmatica, 1500), dans l’Empire (la Caroline, 1532) ou en France (Ordonnance de 1539) poursuivirent l’expérience des cités médiévales, elles pesèrent en retour sur le droit de punir dans la péninsule en offrant un cadre plus large de l’affirmation du politique.

3 L’étatisation du pénal et la volonté d’en faire un instrument du contrôle du territoire furent confrontées dès le XVIe siècle à des obstacles en grande partie spécifiques à Italie. Ainsi, les rivalités entre clans aristocratiques, qui animaient la vie des cités médiévales et qui furent longtemps considérées comme des ingrédients de l’équilibre politique, sapaient désormais les fondements de l’autorité publique. Ces luttes de partis, devenues factieuses dans le langage politique du XVIe siècle, devinrent des atteintes à la souveraineté judiciaire, dès lors que les violences aristocratiques échappaient au contrôle des juges. Le poids des cours baronniales, en particulier dans le royaume de Naples, limita également l’homogénéité du droit de punir dans la péninsule. Marco Bellabarba rappelle que vers 1550, près de 70 % de la population du sud de l’Italie vivait dans des territoires sous juridiction féodale, laïque ou ecclésiastique (p. 63).

4 Le pluralisme des systèmes juridiques et les conflits de compétence entre tribunaux laïcs et ecclésiastiques furent un autre écueil que rencontra le monopole judiciaire des princes. Si les cours partageaient des techniques procédurales communes, il n’en allait pas de même des sources de la doctrine car les tribunaux des évêques privilégiaient le droit canon par rapport au droit romain. De plus, les tribunaux ecclésiastiques revendiquaient des compétences judiciaires non seulement sur les clercs, mais aussi sur des non-religieux dès lors que les délits touchaient aux sacrements, à la morale et ou à la doctrine de la foi. Plus invasive dans le champ judiciaire fut encore la Congrégation du Saint-Office (l’Inquisition romaine), créée en 1542 pour contenir la brèche des dissensions confessionnelles et pour lutter contre l’hérésie. Certes, son action ne fut pas uniforme dans la péninsule. Elle ne pénétra que très peu dans le royaume de Naples sous autorité espagnole, la Sardaigne et la Sicile étant même investies par les tribunaux de l’Inquisition espagnole, créée en 1478. Partout ailleurs dans la péninsule, en revanche, des tribunaux agissant pour le compte du Saint-Office fleurirent. Dans le contexte de la Contre-Réforme borroméenne, ils furent autant les modèles que les instruments directs du renforcement de la répression morale de la seconde moitié du XVIe siècle.

5 L’auteur insiste sur une autre dimension de la pratique judiciaire italienne, en s’appuyant sur une nomenclature qu’il doit à Mario Sbriccoli. Il s’agit de l’opposition entre, d’une part, la « justice négociée », essentiellement de type communautaire, qui reposait sur la composition et les accords entre parties, visait la paix privée et, d’autre part, la « justice hégémonique », plus formelle, fondée sur l’autorité de la norme princière, sur la punition des coupables et qui relevait de l’action publique1. Pour Marco Bellabarba, ces deux modèles de justice coexistaient dans la seconde moitié du XVIe

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siècle, à l’exemple des médiations proposées par l’Église dans le monde rural, des négociations que connaissaient les petites cours judiciaires de montagne ou les cours baronniales du Sud de l’Italie. Quelle fut l’ampleur de ces pratiques de négociation ? Furent-elle encore fréquentes au siècle suivant ?

6 Le XVIIe siècle est décrit comme l’âge de l’affirmation de la culture pénale dans la société italienne du fait de l’ascension d’une classe de robins. Quel que fût le régime politique, la croissance numérique du personnel judiciaire affecta autant le Nord que le Sud de la péninsule. Ce phénomène s’explique par la nouvelle technicité qui caractérisa la procédure – notamment l’affirmation du système des preuves légales –, mais le climat de révoltes politiques et de difficultés économiques n’y fut pas étranger. Au service des gouvernants, juges et juristes purent affirmer l’autorité de la loi, comme garantie contre le désordre. Par ailleurs, l’essor, encore embryonnaire, de la littérature d’échafaud fut un autre moyen d’affirmer la puissance de la justice et de susciter l’obéissance sociale. Paradoxalement, en s’intéressant peu à peu aux détails de la procédure, et en cherchant moins à édifier la population par le récit de la punition des vies criminelles, cette littérature participa à la construction, dès les premières années du XVIIIe siècle, d’un public comme quasi-instance judiciaire. Le langage du droit ne fut dès lors plus l’apanage des cours criminelles.

7 Que le Settecento fût un siècle de réforme judiciaire n’a donc rien d’étonnant. Bien connu de l’historiographie européenne grâce à la place centrale qu’occupa Cesare Beccaria dès les années 1760, le mouvement réformateur italien fut toutefois inauguré quelques décennies plus tôt, tantôt par des réformes initiées par les juges, tantôt encouragées par une littérature de combat, comme celle qu’inaugure Muratori dès 1742. Le « moment beccarien » fut par ailleurs, comme le suggère Bellabarba, porté par une réflexion plus large qui inscrivait la pénalité dans un débat sur les pratiques de gouvernement. La lutte contre le vagabondage n’était jamais dissociée de la question pénale, tandis que l’affirmation des moyens de police accompagna les refontes judiciaires, comme en témoigne, en 1787, la création à Milan d’un « Ufficio di polizia ».

8 Au final, la fragmentation politique de l’Italie, qui pourrait de prime abord constituer un obstacle à la synthèse, devient ici un atout tant elle permet d’affiner le tableau d’ensemble par des exemples et des cas complémentaires. Grâce à une abondante historiographie transalpine consacrée au droit de punir sous l’Ancien Régime, Marco Bellabarba peut restituer les dimensions agonistiques de l’affirmation de l’État pénal, à travers les tensions institutionnelles, les luttes de pouvoir et les rivalités entre groupes sociaux. Le format du livre et l’exercice de synthèse ne permettent à l’évidence pas à l’auteur de développer en profondeur bien des thématiques évoquées. Toutefois, sa capacité à tisser des liens entre des champs historiques parfois étanches stimulent fortement la réflexion. À charge pour le lecteur de digérer la matière dense et roborative qui lui est offerte.

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NOTES

1. M. Sbriccoli, «Giustizia negoziata, giustizia egemonica: riflessioni su una nuova fase degli studi di storia della giustizia criminale», in Bellabarba M., Schwerhoff G., Zorzi A. (dir.), Criminalità e giustizia in Germania e in Italia. Pratiche giudiziarie e linguaggi giuridici tra tardo medioevo ed età moderna, Bologne, Il Mulino, 2001, pp. 345-364.

AUTEURS

MARCO CICCHINI Université de Genève [email protected]

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Benoît GARNOT (dir.), Normes juridiques et pratiques judiciaires du Moyen-Âge à l’époque contemporaine Dijon, Éditions universitaires de Dijon, « Société », 2007, 451 pp. , ISBN 978 2 915 552 713.

Ludovic Maugué

RÉFÉRENCE

Benoît GARNOT (dir.), Normes juridiques et pratiques judiciaires du Moyen-Âge à l’époque contemporaine, Dijon, Éditions universitaires de Dijon, « Société », 2007, 451 pp. , ISBN 978 2 915 552 713.

1 « […] Le gouvernement permet sans cesse de faire par exception autrement qu’il n’ordonne. Il brise rarement la loi, mais chaque jour il la fait plier doucement dans tous les sens, suivant les cas particuliers et pour la grande facilité des affaires. […] L’Ancien Régime est là tout entier : une règle rigide, une pratique molle ; tel est son caractère »1. Opéré par Tocqueville en 1856, ce diagnostic des mœurs administratives de la France d’Ancien Régime révèle le décalage entre des normes excessives, émanant d’une administration autoritaire et centralisée, et une application limitée au gré des circonstances, parfois même inexistante, tant l’inflation normative encombre un édifice juridique et réglementaire déjà monumental.Précocement identifiée dans un livre que Raymond Aron qualifiait d’« essai d’explication sociologique d’événements historiques »2, l’écart qu’observe Tocqueville entre normes et pratiques se trouve au cœur du présent ouvrage dirigé par Benoît Garnot. Fruit d’un colloque international qui réunit à Dijon, en octobre 2006, divers spécialistes de la question (chercheurs chevronnés et relève académique), ce gros volume s’intègre dans le renouvellement des perspectives de recherche en histoire criminalo-judiciaire, en inscrivant celle-ci au cœur de l’histoire sociale, de l’histoire des comportements et de l’histoire politique. À la faveur d’une approche diachronique du Moyen-Âge à l’époque contemporaine, les

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tensions engendrées par la distorsion entre normes juridiques et pratiques judiciaires sont mesurées à partir d’études qui intéressent la France pour l’essentiel (30 communications sur 43), quelques contributions offrant cependant des points de comparaison avec d’autres États européens (Genève, Lombardie, Toscane, Espagne, Lituanie, etc.), voire d’outre-mer (Québec, Antilles françaises, Amérique portugaise).

2 S’il préside à l’ensemble de l’étude, l’intérêt porté aux juridictions subalternes ainsi qu’à l’« infrajustice » (mode de traitement extra-judiciaire des conflits) n’en demeure pas moins complété par des contributionsqui interrogent la répression des contentieux les plus graves. Entre qualification doctrinale et incrimination retenue, Julie Doyon propose ainsi une analyse du parricide – paradigme du crime absolu – dans le système judiciaire parisien entre 1690 et 1760. Qu’ils soient appréhendés dans le cadre de la justice civile ou pénale – mais également au regard de la justice ecclésiastique (étude de Bruno Lemesle) –, les écarts qui se manifestent entre normes juridiques et pratiques judiciaires tendent généralement à relativiser la part d’autonomie et d’influence du droit et renforcent l’idée selon laquelle l’histoire de la justice ne peut se faire avec les seuls textes normatifs. Contrairement au colloque de Dijon qui s’articulait initialement autour de trois thématiques (mesure des distorsions entre normes et pratiques, causes des distorsions, et conséquences de celles-ci), le plan du présent ouvrage obéit au seul croisement de perspectives chronologique et géographique (« France médiévale », « France moderne », « France contemporaine », « Europe et Amérique »). Des contributions réunies se dégagent toutefois trois lignes de force autour desquelles se nouent les principaux apports de cette rencontre ; elles sont brièvement synthétisées en conclusion par Pascal Bastien, Jean-Claude Farcy, Benoît Garnot, Hervé Piant et Éric Wenzel.

3 1) Ainsi, l’analyse globale des facteurs de distorsions entre les normes juridiques et les pratiques judiciaires doit-elle d’abord prendre en compte les règles de droit, dont l’incertitude et l’obsolescence pour les sociétés anciennes, comme à l’inverse la surabondance à l’époque contemporaine, engendrent paradoxalement des conséquences similaires : la pratique des tribunaux entretient un rapport lointain avec le droit. De même, l’excessive sévérité des dispositions légales incite-t-elle souvent les magistrats à prononcer des peines moindres que celles prévues par ces lois et, lorsque les peines sont fixes (Code pénal de 1791), la justice aura tendance à acquitter des coupables plutôt que de les condamner à des peines outrancières relativement à la faute commise. Sans surprise, ce phénomène s’observe essentiellement en matière de châtiment suprême et de crimes politiques. Enfin, l’écart entre normes et pratiques s’avère particulièrement sensible lorsqu’il y a pluralité des sources de droit (loi du roi, droit romain, droit canon, coutume, doctrine, etc.) ; en effet, au Moyen-Âge et durant l’Ancien Régime, observer une norme conduit presque automatiquement à en violer une autre.

4 2) La seconde ligne de force identifie les trois principaux acteurs des distorsions entre normes juridiques et pratiques judiciaires : le pouvoir politique, les praticiens de la justice, les populations. Usant essentiellement de la grâce selon ses différentes modalités, le pouvoir politique intervient dans cette perspective avant tout pour ce qui concerne « ses responsabilités éminentes » (maintien de la paix civile, question religieuse à certaines époques, violence, etc.). Or, si cette pratique se révèle absolument légale et obéit à des modalités parfaitement officielles, elle n’en concourt pas moins à l’affaiblissement de la norme en contribuant à sa non-application. Bien entendu, la

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responsabilité des praticiens de la justice s’avère encore plus importante. Aussi le parquet tend-il souvent à classer les plaintes, voire à concilier les parties afin d’éviter la tenue d’un procès. L’arbitraire sous l’Ancien Régime et plus récemment l’appréciation des circonstances offrent par ailleurs aux magistrats la latitude d’interpréter la loi ou la coutume ; cette liberté est du reste largement reconnue dans le domaine de la justice civile. Ce constat fait dire aux auteurs de la conclusion que « si bonnes soient les lois qui assurent le fonctionnement [de la justice], elles ne sauraient jamais lui suffire, de sorte que le monde des normes humaines ne peut pas se refermer sur lui-même et que la conscience des magistrats joue toujours un rôle extrêmement important dans le pouvoir et la responsabilité de juger » (p. 444). Enfin, au regard de l’administration des peines, la non-application d’une partie des sanctions découle généralement d’insuffisances matérielles et de difficultés techniques, aporie notamment récurrente dans le système carcéral.

5 3) Ultime axe d’analyse, la question de la société – et plus précisément celle du consensus social – permet d’appréhender globalement les facteurs de distorsion entre normes juridiques et pratiques judiciaires. Ces dernières sont ainsi davantage en accord avec l’état des mentalités, alors que la norme n’y correspond pas toujours, soit parce qu’elle est obsolète – auquel cas la pratique manifeste une autonomie par rapport à la norme –, soit parce qu’elle est trop récente. Considérer les mentalités collectives suppose également la prise en compte des critères qui conditionnent la sanction édictée contre un justiciable : par exemple, la pauvreté du condamné engendre parfois la modération de l’amende par rapport à ce que prévoit la loi (critère économique), de même que la question des moyens d’ester en justice est essentielle (critère social) ; de surcroît, tant le critère religieux (dans les sociétés anciennes, le pardon chrétien pouvait atténuer les sanctions), que le critère culturel (connaissance des lois, analphabétisme) peuvent exercer une influence. Finalement, se pose le cas de l’impossibilité d’appliquer systématiquement une peine, au vu du très grand nombre et parfois de la qualité des individus potentiellement concernés (notamment les législations sur les ivrognes, les blasphémateurs ou les sodomites sous l’Ancien Régime) : avant tout règle de comportement, la norme tend alors moins à empêcher la déviance qu’à en autoriser ponctuellement la répression.

6 S’il offre des contributions de qualités inégales et des articles succincts (entre 8 et 10 pages) – qui laissent parfois le lecteur sur sa faim – cet ouvrage recèle une masse d’informations aussi riches que diversifiées. L’étude de la distorsion entre normes juridiques et pratiques judiciaires proposée ici renforce et nuance la position des historiens, entre les juristes positivistes d’une part, pour qui la loi existe indépendamment de son application concrète, et les sociologues d’autre part, pour lesquels le fait prime le droit. À la lecture de cet ouvrage, il semble dès lors indéniable que la pratique crée et recrée la norme, ou, pour reprendre les termes de Vincent Bernaudeau : « l’ajustement de la norme apparaît comme la résultante tangible d’une expérience sociale largement partagée entre les justiciables et les juges ».

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NOTES

1. Alexis de Tocqueville, L’Ancien Régime et la Révolution, Paris, Gallimard, [1856], 1967, pp. 139-140. 2. Raymond Aron, Les étapes de la pensée sociologique, Paris, Gallimard, 1967, p. 240.

AUTEURS

LUDOVIC MAUGUÉ Université de Genève [email protected]

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Étienne Hofmann, Une erreur judiciaire oubliée : l’Affaire Wilfrid Regnault (1817-1818) Genève, Slatkine, « Travaux et recherches de l’Institut Benjamin Constant » (11), Genève, Slatkine, 2009, 628 pp. , ISBN 978 205102 108 1.

Gilles Malandain

RÉFÉRENCE

Étienne Hofmann, Une erreur judiciaire oubliée : l’Affaire Wilfrid Regnault (1817-1818), Genève, Slatkine, « Travaux et recherches de l’Institut Benjamin Constant » (11), Genève, Slatkine, 2009, 628 pp. , ISBN 978 205102 108 1.

1 Le 29 août 1817, Wilfrid Regnault, marchand de bois et propriétaire à Amfreville-la- Campagne, dans l’Eure, est condamné à mort pour l’assassinat crapuleux d’une domestique six mois plus tôt. Le verdict est sévère, étant donné l’absence de preuve, mais il aurait pu passer inaperçu dans le contexte tendu et répressif des premières années de la seconde Restauration, s’il n’avait été immédiatement l’objet d’une publicité polémique dans la presse ultraroyaliste. Celle-ci, relayant le maire d’Amfreville, le marquis de Blosseville, dénonce dans le condamné un « septembriseur », voire un « satellite de Fouquier-Tinville ». Poursuivies comme calomnieuses, ces allégations politisent et « nationalisent » l’affaire, en donnant lieu à un procès parisien et en entraînant la mobilisation de l’opinion libérale en faveur de Regnault, dont les défenseurs s’emploient à démontrer l’innocence complète. Parmi eux, le jeune « Odillon-Barrot », qui plaide devant la cour de cassation, et la conjure d’« empêcher un grand attentat judiciaire », se signale particulièrement. La calomnie est reconnue, non sans un intéressant débat sur l’honneur qu’un condamné à mort peut encore défendre ; mais le pourvoi est rejeté le 31 octobre et la plainte de Regnault contre le paysan dont le tardif témoignage l’accable, échoue elle aussi. Alors que les issues judiciaires paraissent se fermer, Benjamin Constant, peut-être sollicité par

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Barrot, « entre en scène » au mois de janvier 1818, contribuant à donner à ce qui apparaît bien comme une scandaleuse erreur judiciaire un écho tel que le roi ne peut laisser exécuter Regnault. Répugnant à désavouer le jury (défendu par les ultras, en l’occurrence), et les diverses cours qui ont successivement statué (à Évreux, à Rouen ou à Paris), le gouvernement choisit une solution bâtarde, la commutation de la peine en 20 ans d’emprisonnement. L’affaire n’est totalement close qu’en juillet 1818, avec l’étonnante relaxe en appel des calomniateurs de Regnault, contre l’avis du ministère public : la justice dédouane décidément les ultras de leur acharnement contre le malheureux marchand.

2 Dans ce gros ouvrage, Étienne Hofmann, professeur à Lausanne, où il dirige l’Institut Benjamin Constant, rassemble et réédite la quasi-totalité des textes ayant trait à cette affaire, en particulier les Mémoires justificatifs dus aux avocats du condamné (Gaillard Laferrière, Barrot), le Plaidoyer – dans l’autre sens – de Roussiale en faveur du marquis de Blosseville, et surtout les trois brochures que B. Constant consacra à l’affaire en 1818. À quoi s’ajoute un riche dossier d’articles de presse, d’extraits de correspondances ou de Mémoires, ainsi que divers documents d’archives qui ont pu être retrouvés. Une longue introduction (pp. 1-113) présente en détail le minutieux travail de recherche qui permet de se faire, malgré la perte des dossiers judiciaires, une idée claire et complète des diverses procédures à travers lesquelles se développe l’affaire, d’en identifier les multiples protagonistes, mais aussi d’en dégager les enjeux et les enseignements, repris dans une plus synthétique conclusion (pp. 573-578). Au delà du remarquable travail d’édition érudite, de nombreuses pistes de réflexion sont ainsi suggérées, touchant notamment à l’usage et aux dysfonctionnements de l’institution judiciaire, depuis l’enquête initiale – totalement à charge1 – jusqu’aux ultimes voies de recours, ou encore à la constitution d’un « espace public » susceptible de contester la justice et de peser sur le pouvoir politique.

3 Par cette publication, Étienne Hofmann entend réparer l’oubli dans lequel sont tombées, assez rapidement d’ailleurs, l’affaire Regnault comme les brochures de Constant, rarement rééditées et peu commentées. Sans ajouter grand-chose au corpus doctrinal du philosophe libéral, il est certain que ces textes de 1818 méritent pourtant d’être lus : ils montrent une pensée à l’œuvre, dans l’urgence, tout à la fois brillante et humble dans le précautionneux démontage de l’accusation qui pèse sur Regnault. Pièces à l’appui, le philosophe se fait « limier » (p. 576) – mais sans quitter néanmoins son cabinet, ni résoudre l’énigme du crime. Comme nombre d’auteurs de ce temps, Constant est rompu à la production d’écrits de circonstance, brefs, incisifs, pragmatiques, et y excelle, mais il sait aussi, ici, réfréner le mordant de la polémique pour mieux asseoir la contre-démonstration policière qui innocente le condamné, ni « septembriseur » (loin de là, apparemment), ni surtout assassin. L’écrivain, emboîtant le pas des avocats, dont il « reformule » l’argumentation (mais il paraît curieux de parler de « conscience professionnelle » p. 91), se met véritablement au service d’une cause individuelle, sacrifiant de son temps sans autre profit possible que symbolique. Ses adversaires royalistes ne manquent d’ailleurs pas de l’accuser de se faire valoir et de singer Voltaire défendant un nouveau (et obscur) Calas…

4 Courageuse, l’intervention de Constant fut-elle décisive ? É. Hofmann se pose à plusieurs reprises la question, sans vraiment trancher. Sans doute Constant était-il trop engagé politiquement pour que son intervention ait pu paraître totalement déconnectée de la polémique qui faisait alors rage entre royalistes et libéraux, et pour

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qu’elle pût convaincre au delà de l’opinion libérale ou surtout – en évitant toute réification de « l’opinion » – de personnalités du centre-gauche (Gérando, de Broglie, Barante) suffisamment proches de certains ministres pour percer « l’enceinte impénétrable qui entoure les monarques » (cité p. 94). La conjugaison des efforts emporte la grâce, mais pas la réhabilitation, politiquement inenvisageable ; plus largement, on peut constater qu’en dépit de multiples analogies possibles – celles de l’époque avec Calas, celles de l’historien avec Dreyfus – l’affaire Regnault n’est pas l’une de ces grandes et mémorables « affaires » susceptible de faire bouger les lignes et de faire date par elle-même. Sur le moment même, elle est éclipsée par l’affaire Fualdès, strictement concomitante, ou encore par le scandale du naufrage de la Méduse, dont diverses raisons peuvent expliquer le plus large retentissement (mesurable en nombre de pages produites, ou à travers l’inégal succès des souscriptions lancées par la presse libérale). Même s’il déplore ce qui lui paraît une injustice mémorielle, É. Hofmann confirme en réalité ce qu’a rappelé récemment Dominique Kalifa (cité p. 25) : il faut attendre l’installation de la IIIe République pour qu’une affaire Dreyfus puisse se produire, transcender dans une certaine mesure les clivages politiques, et contraindre l’État à reconnaître clairement une erreur judiciaire2. Les conditions pour cela ne sont pas réunies en 1817-1818, faute de stabilisation politique et d’autonomisation du champ littéraire : même si le « magistère » intellectuel et moral de « l’homme de lettres » est célébré par les libéraux, Constant ne peut se permettre un tonitruant « J’accuse ! » ; il se contente de défendre.

5 Ces limites n’en rendent évidemment pas moins utile et stimulante l’étude d’Étienne Hofmann, comme la documentation qu’il rend accessible, pour les historiens qui travaillent sur le premier XIXe siècle, et notamment sur le renforcement du libéralisme au lendemain de la terreur blanche. L’ouvrage met bien en lumière l’engrenage judiciaire – voire la « machination », si l’on suit Barrot – dans lequel se trouve pris Regnault, manifestement victime d’une « mauvaise réputation » sans grand fondement (mais durable), et de règlements de comptes locaux, puis d’une justice incapable de revenir sur « la chose jugée », même si des espaces de jeu, de débat, sont perceptibles. L’esprit de corps de la magistrature (et son inclination royaliste), la faiblesse flagrante des droits de la défense, le primat de la preuve testimoniale, mais aussi sa contestation naissante, se trouvent ici fort bien documentés. On peut regretter que demeurent en revanche assez flous, malgré les éléments tirés des archives de Constant, l’arrière-plan social de l’affaire, la biographie de Regnault, ses liens avec les notables libéraux de l’Eure, ou encore les conflits qui structurent la société villageoise, et leurs racines révolutionnaires ; mais sans doute les sources manquent-elles pour approfondir ces aspects, qui n’étaient pas au cœur du projet, de fait centré sur le mécanisme de l’erreur judiciaire et sur l’entreprise collective de mobilisation du « tribunal de l’opinion ».

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NOTES

1. Concernant l’enquête judiciaire, rectifions au passage la référence (p. 33) à J.-C. Farcy, D. Kalifa, J.-N. Luc (dir.), L’enquête judiciaire en Europe au XIXe siècle. Acteurs, imaginaires, pratiques, Paris, Créaphis, 2007. 2. Dominique Kalifa, « Qu’est-ce qu’une affaire au XIX e siècle? », in Boltanski L., Claverie É., Offenstadt N., Van Damme S. (dir.), Affaires, scandales et grandes causes. De Socrate à Pinochet, Paris, Stock, 2007, pp. 197-211.

AUTEURS

GILLES MALANDAIN Université de Poitiers [email protected]

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Indésirables – indesiderabili. Les camps de la France de Vichy et de l’Italie fasciste, Chroniques allemandes, Revue du Centre d’études et de recherches allemandes et autrichiennes contemporaines Université Stendhal-Grenoble 3, sous la direction de Carlo Saletti et Christian Eggers, n° 12, 2008, 274 pp., ISBN 978 82843 10167.

Jean-Marc Dreyfus

RÉFÉRENCE

Indésirables – indesiderabili. Les camps de la France de Vichy et de l’Italie fasciste, Chroniques allemandes, Revue du Centre d’études et de recherches allemandes et autrichiennes contemporaines, Université Stendhal-Grenoble 3, sous la direction de Carlo Saletti et Christian Eggers, n° 12, 2008, 274 pp. , ISBN 978 82843 10167.

1 Ce volume rassemble les actes du colloque de Vérone des 23 et 24 mars 2001. Si tant d’années se sont écoulées jusqu’à la publication, c’est, expliquent les éditeurs, non seulement pour des raisons financières mais aussi parce que le sujet de l’internement demeure difficile, dans une conjoncture politique en France et en Italie qui a vu la multiplication des lieux d’enfermement d’étrangers. La grande originalité de ce colloque fut de tenter une comparaison entre camps français et camps italiens, ce qui n’avait jamais été fait auparavant (les comparaisons, rares, qui avaient été tentées l’avaient toutes été avec les camps allemands) et les contributeurs ont exprimé leur

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étonnement de constater combien les similitudes étaient fréquentes. Dans une introduction fort éclairante, Christophe Eggers détaille les enjeux de la comparaison, qui va au delà de la simple histoire administrative de la mise à l’écart : elle interroge la nature des régimes en place (Vichy et le fascisme italien) et la place du racisme en leur sein, le rapport à l’Allemagne nazie et la place de ces lieux dans la Solution finale, la place de la violence coloniale dans la genèse des camps (elle aurait été plus grande en Italie qu’en France). Il est intéressant de noter que les deux historiographies, la française et l’italienne, ont été longtemps marginales au sein des systèmes universitaires respectifs et qu’elles ont toutes deux émergé à la faveur de recherches venues de l’extérieur : celle sur les exilés allemands et espagnols pour la France et celle sur les camps en Yougoslavie pour l’Italie. Dans les différentes contributions, de longueur et de densité inégales, le lecteur français familier avec l’histoire de l’enfermement dans son pays lira plus volontiers les contributions sur l’Italie : sur les camps italiens, rien ou presque n’existe en français. Les convergences entre les deux systèmes – malgré les différences politiques, ce qui incline à tenir compte de l’état de guerre – sont aussi nombreuses que les divergences. Pourtant, une différence majeure dans la genèse des deux systèmes d’enfermement fut que si en France, l’indésirable fut tout d’abord l’étranger, en Italie, il était Italien. Les deux systèmes de camps furent tous les deux basés sur des textes législatifs. Anne Grynberg décrit dans son article les textes de lois français et les ordonnances qui encadrèrent l’enfermement, à partir de 1938 (les premiers internés le furent en janvier 1939). Elle montre les différentes ruptures législatives, y compris sous la République finissante : le 18 novembre 1939, un décret-loi étendit les mesures d’internement. Ce fut une véritable « loi d’exception » puisque la décision de l’internement était transférée de l’autorité judiciaire à l’autorité administrative, en fait aux préfets. Elle conclut « Sans adhérer à l’idée parfois soutenue d’une continuité quasi ‘filiale’ entre Daladier et Pétain dans ce domaine, il importe néanmoins d’évaluer ce pernicieux héritage et de s’interroger sur les engrenages qui, en temps de crise économique, sociale et politique, peuvent conduire un État démocratique à déroger au droit et aux libertés fondamentales et à préparer les esprits au repli xénophobe et antisémite ». En Italie, explique Enzo Collotti, les deux tournants majeurs eurent lieu, le premier en novembre 1926, avec l’adoption de la loi de confinato, c’est-à-dire d’assignation à résidence, au moment de la promulgation des lois fascistissimes, et de la dérive autoritaire du régime et le second en 1938. Les lieux d’assignation ne furent pas tous originaux : la plupart avait déjà servi après l’unification du Royaume d’Italie, comme par exemple les îles Lipari. Probablement 10 000 personnes furent ainsi envoyées dans des îlots désolés de la côte adriatique. La plupart furent des opposants politiques mais il y eut aussi des membres de groupes religieux minoritaires (Témoins de Jehova, Pentecôtistes) et des ‘asociaux’. Le deuxième tournant eut lieu en 1938, avec la promulgation du « Texte unique des lois de guerre », qui organisait l’internement. Le 1er juin, les Juifs étrangers ressortissants d’États en guerre furent internés également. Si les conditions d’internement se maintinrent à un niveau décent en Italie même, elles se dégradèrent rapidement en Yougoslavie occupée. La plupart des camps d’Italie même étaient situés dans le sud de la péninsule. Paradoxalement, l’internement de Juifs dans ce même sud les protégea de la déportation, à partir de l’occupation allemande de l’automne 1943. La deuxième partie du volume rassemble les contributions sur les internés. Marie Rafaneau-Roj décrit les premiers internés des camps français, les réfugiés espagnols de la Retirada et détaille les différents types de camp : les camps disciplinaires, les plus durs, où furent internés les

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réfugiés considérés comme suspects ou dangereux pour l’ordre public. Le plus documenté est celui du Vernet d’Ariège, grâce particulièrement au célèbre témoignage d’Alfred Koestler La lie de la terre, publié dès 1941 en Grande-Bretagne. Si nombreux furent les Espagnols à être soumis au travail obligatoire dans les CTE/GTE, les groupements de travailleurs étrangers (sur lesquels l’historiographie est restée pratiquement muette jusqu’à aujourd’hui), ils bénéficièrent aussi largement de libération – et de mesures de rapatriement et d’émigration, ou même d’engagement dans la Légion étrangère. Dans sa contribution, Diane Afoumado détaille les mesures concernant les biens des internés : elle montre comment la gabegie administrative mais aussi le simple vol par les gardiens, a conduit à la non-application des mesures de protection des biens des internés, dont l’argent devait être consigné à la filiale locale de la Banque de France et, après leur déportation, à la Caisse des dépôts et consignations. Les contributions de Marie-Christine Hubert et de Giovanna Boursier décrivent la persécution des tsiganes, montrant combien l’historiographie italienne est pauvre par rapport à la française. Tone Ferenc décrit les internés slovènes et croates déportés sur l’île d’Arbe et en Italie. Gianfranco Goretti décrit l’assignation à résidence, à partir de 1938, d’au moins 300 hommes homosexuels – alors que les archives du confinato « civil » ne sont pas encore ouvertes aux chercheurs. Liliana étudie enfin l’attitude du Saint-Siège face à l’internement. Celui-ci, attentif au phénomène (pour l’Italie tout au moins) décida de ne réagir que par des actions caritatives, pour des raisons principalement politiques – et aussi devant la « concurrence » sur ce terrain des Églises protestantes : « Dans l’optique de l’Église, écrit-elle, l’internement est né des calamités de la guerre, une guerre perçue à son tour comme une calamité naturelle dont les lois sont en quelque sorte indiscutables, soustraites au jugement. En la circonstance, l’Église pense ne pouvoir réagir qu’avec l’instrument de la charité ; exactement comme les ressortissants et les citoyens n’ont pas de capacité de jugement face à un conflit. L’internement n’est ni bon, ni mauvais : il est ». Il faut noter que la construction du volume est réellement faite autour de la comparaison entre les deux systèmes d’internement : les chapitres vont de pair, décrivant un aspect des camps après l’autre, même si une approche comparative plus chiffrée aurait probablement permis d’apporter d’utiles compléments.

AUTEUR

JEAN-MARC DREYFUS Université de Manchester, Royaume-Uni [email protected]

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Luc Keunings, Des polices si tranquilles. Une histoire de l’appareil policier belge au XIXe siècle Louvain, Presses Universitaires de Louvain, collection « Histoire, justice, sociétés », 2009, 299 pp. , ISBN 978 07546 5612 8.

Arnaud-Dominique Houte

RÉFÉRENCE

Luc Keunings, Des polices si tranquilles. Une histoire de l’appareil policier belge au XIXe siècle, Louvain, Presses Universitaires de Louvain, collection « Histoire, justice, sociétés », 2009, 299 pp. , ISBN 978 07546 5612 8.

1 Depuis ses premiers travaux, au début des années 1980, Luc Keunings est bien connu du petit milieu des spécialistes de l’histoire policière. Ses nombreux articles et son mémoire de licence resté inédit n’étaient cependant accessibles qu’aux chercheurs les mieux informés. Ils auraient pu sombrer dans l’oubli si une nouvelle génération de jeunes historiens n’avait pas repris le dossier de l’histoire de la sécurité. Citons ainsi, parmi les héritiers proches ou lointains de Luc Keunings, Margo De Koster et Axel Tixhon, pour le XIXe siècle, mais aussi Jonas Campion et Benoît Majerus pour le XX e siècle.

2 Si ces jeunes spécialistes de l’histoire policière et gendarmique belge ont pu fréquenter et prolonger les travaux de Luc Keunings, leurs camarades français ou suisses, pour ne citer qu’eux, connaissent très mal – c’est un euphémisme – un système policier belge qui emprunte pourtant beaucoup aux modèles étrangers et qui leur semblera étrangement familier.

3 Il faut donc saluer la publication, dans l’excellente collection dirigée par Xavier Rousseaux, de cette synthèse éminemment pédagogique. Disons-le tout de suite : l’ouvrage séduira tous les historiens du XIXe siècle, quelle que soit leur spécialité. Par la

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clarté de son plan et par l’exceptionnelle richesse de ses annexes, il constitue à bien des égards un modèle de manuel universitaire.

4 Le titre choisi fait écho à une certaine image traditionnelle de la Belgique, « pays si tranquille » dans lequel la police tiendrait une place quasiment négligeable. Luc Keunings fait immédiatement un sort à cette image d’Épinal qui ne résiste pas à l’examen des mutations du XIXe siècle. La Belgique, c’est le pays de la croissance urbaine et industrielle, de la contestation ouvrière et socialiste, des conflits religieux, des vagabonds et des mendiants, etc. Un pays où, c’est précisément la thèse maîtresse du livre, la police est appelée à jouer un rôle de plus en plus significatif.

5 Consacrée aux premières décennies du tout neuf État belge, la première partie offre une présentation générale d’un appareil policier très diversifié. Fille d’une révolution, la jeune monarchie fait le pari du libéralisme. Elle maintient un instrument de surveillance politique, la Sûreté, mais elle confie la gestion de la sécurité aux municipalités. Avec des résultats variés : si Bruxelles s’inspire du modèle londonien pour former une police moderne, de nombreuses villes restent dépourvues de véritables forces de sécurité. Sans parler des campagnes, où les gardes champêtres sont unanimement critiqués pour leur incompétence et pour leur partialité. Le choix libéral de la Belgique se manifeste encore plus clairement à travers la valorisation de la « garde civique ». Cette milice citoyenne rassemble les « bons pères de famille », selon l’expression consacrée. Garante de l’ordre et de la propriété, elle n’est cependant pas tout à fait fiable. Peu dynamique, inégalement organisée selon les lieux, elle manque de discipline.

6 Aussi le maintien de l’ordre et la sécurité reposent-ils de plus en plus sur les institutions militaires, à commencer par la gendarmerie. Petite-fille de la gendarmerie impériale napoléonienne et fille de la maréchaussée néerlandaise, cette arme d’élite a été épurée et remodelée sur la base d’une stricte culture militaire et d’un puissant esprit de corps. Réputée pour son efficacité, elle reste néanmoins trop peu nombreuse pour satisfaire des besoins croissants. À raison d’un gendarme pour 3 329 habitants au milieu du siècle, le taux d’encadrement de la population est presque deux fois plus faible en Belgique qu’en France. La monarchie doit donc encore compter sur l’armée, qui garde un rôle central dans le maintien de l’ordre.

7 Cette première époque s’achève, selon Luc Keunings, au cours des années 1870. Les tensions entre catholiques et libéraux, l’émergence des socialistes et même des anarchistes, la montée en puissance du mouvement social, rendent beaucoup plus urgente la question du maintien de l’ordre, tandis que la crise économique, l’urbanisation et l’industrialisation font apparaître des « classes dangereuses » et un climat d’inquiétude qui renforce la demande de sécurité.

8 Les temps changent, les outils s’adaptent. Si aucune réforme d’envergure ne bouleverse un système policier très stable, la hiérarchie des polices se déplace. Préservée en tant que symbole politique, la garde civique est marginalisée dans les faits. Les gardes champêtres cèdent une bonne part de leurs prérogatives à une gendarmerie toujours plus puissante. Triplement des effectifs entre 1875 et 1914, quadruplement des dépenses budgétaires : l’arme devient hégémonique dans le domaine de la police rurale, mais elle tient également le haut du pavé dans les villes et dans le maintien de l’ordre.

9 Revers de la médaille, la gendarmerie cristallise sur son uniforme l’essentiel de la colère populaire. Plus que l’armée, qui reste également mobilisée lors des grands conflits sociaux, mais qui se tient plutôt en seconde ligne. Plus que la Sûreté, qui cède

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aux gendarmes « déguisés en bourgeois » le premier rôle dans les opérations de renseignement politique. Plus, enfin, que les polices urbaines, qui continuent à se développer, mais qui suivent désormais, pour la plupart d’entre elles, un modèle plus militaire que libéral.

10 Ébauche de centralisation, professionnalisation, militarisation... Voici quelques-unes des principales tendances qui traversent le XIXe siècle des polices belges. Mais Luc Keunings insiste à juste titre sur une autre caractéristique majeure : le sous- financement des questions de sécurité, qui restent un sujet secondaire dans la vie politique belge.

11 Aussi claire que dense, cette synthèse générale n’occupe qu’une petite centaine de pages. L’effort de concision est d’autant plus louable qu’il permet de publier, souvent dans leur intégralité, près de cent cinquante documents. Depuis la disparition déjà ancienne des vénérables collections « U2 » d’Armand Colin et « Archives Julliard », on avait rarement vu un tel foisonnement ! Des textes officiels, bien sûr, mais aussi des rapports, des courriers, quelques extraits de mémoires, ainsi que de nombreux articles de presse, discours politiques, etc. Quand on y ajoute de riches illustrations, on comprend mieux l’importance et l’originalité d’un ouvrage qui livre sa matière brute et qui offre ainsi une formidable occasion de revenir, textes en main, sur les hypothèses et sur les conclusions développées dans la première partie.

12 Quelques réflexions viennent ainsi à l’esprit du lecteur, qui pourra s’interroger sur la spécificité des différentes polices urbaines et sur l’originalité, en particulier, du modèle bruxellois. Les rapports des commissaires et des officiers livrent également des indications fort suggestives sur les techniques du maintien de l’ordre et sur les formes du renseignement politique. On trouvera ici des documents tout à fait passionnants – des mines d’or pour commentaires de documents.

13 Pour s’en tenir à un thème qui est rapidement esquissé, peut-être trop vite éludé, les annexes livrent une manne d’informations sur les représentations de la gendarmerie et sur sa culture professionnelle, telle qu’elle est révélée par un certain nombre de discours et de témoignages. Question centrale : si l’on comprend bien que les ouvriers s’indignent de la violence parfois meurtrière des gendarmes, il n’en faut pas moins remarquer qu’ils cohabitent les uns avec les autres. Confinés dans le « splendide isolement » de leurs casernes, les gendarmes sont-ils vraiment retranchés du monde extérieur ? Dans quelle mesure leur pratique professionnelle s’infléchit-elle loin du regard des officiers ? Quelle est l’importance du facteur linguistique dans cette histoire ? On voit que le livre de Luc Keunings ouvre de nombreuses pistes de recherches.

14 Ajoutons, pour faire bonne mesure, une chronologie qui ne pèche pas par excès de détail, une liste des différents ministres concernés par la sécurité au XIXe siècle et des principaux chefs de la police et de la gendarmerie. Même l’index des personnages cités dans le livre se prolonge par un précieux dictionnaire qui guidera en particulier les Français, généralement piètres connaisseurs de l’histoire politique belge. Répétons-le sans hésiter : cette passionnante « histoire de l’appareil policier belge » rendra bien des services à tous ceux qui s’intéressent à l’histoire du XIXe siècle européen et à ceux qui croisent, de près ou de loin, les questions de sécurité.

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AUTEURS

ARNAUD-DOMINIQUE HOUTE Université de Paris-Sorbonne [email protected]

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Barrie David G., Police in the Age of Improvement : Police development and the civic tradition in Scotland, 1775-1865 Cullompton, Willan, 2008, 307 pp. , ISBN 978 1 84392 266 7. Tables, biblio., index.

Chris A. Williams

REFERENCES

Barrie David G., Police in the Age of Improvement : Police development and the civic tradition in Scotland, 1775-1865, Cullompton, Willan, 2008, 307 pp. , ISBN 978 1 84392 266 7. Tables, biblio., index.

1 Scotland has long exercised a brooding off-stage presence in the evolution of the police institutions of the British Isles. England and Wales, as a coherent and relatively uniform administrative unit, have received the majority of the attention devoted to describing the history of the new police. In recent years, though, enough research has been done on Scotland for it to be possible to write this important book. Much of this has been done by David Barrie, and he had made an excellent job of expanding his doctoral theses into an analysis which deals with the whole of urban Scotland – with some limited coverage of its rural areas. The institutional site for this book is the existence in Scotland, between the mid-eighteenth century and the later nineteenth, of ‘police commissions’ for urban governance, which were not replaced by all-purpose local councils until much later than elsewhere in Britain.

2 The term ‘police’ itself retained its broader Continental meaning for longer, and Barrie manages, largely, to make clear that some of the perceived difference between Scotland and England has been derived from the use of different words to describe similar

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actions. Police – as in England – found themselves faced with a variety of tasks; he shows how the most significant of these in the nineteenth century was the control and containment of the poor, through the close supervision of vagrants and of the streets. Police also had a role in preventing major outbreaks of disorder, attempting to enforce evangelical moral norms, keeping the streets clear for traffic and commerce, and preventing and detecting crime. Some of the reasons for these preoccupations can be found in the fact that Scotland was poorer than England – although high levels of policing were funded – while others are linked to the relatively late decline in the community authority of Scotland’s established church in the eighteenth century. In Glasgow, major incidents of disorder in 1787 and 1820 accelerated and affected, but did not cause, subsequent police reforms. There was a degree of consensus about what the various police officers ought to be doing in the streets, even through the ways that they should be administered were the focus of debate.

3 Scotland’s many local police acts were not solely locally defined: the Lord Advocate in Edinburgh as well as the Parliament in Westminster could and did wield a veto power over them. But they were the product of local concerns, about both the problems of crime and disorder, and the best institutions to repress them. Barry shows that it was the police commissions rather than the councils which were the focus of local debates about the best balance between democracy and oligarchy, as well the focus of increasing central government interference during the nineteenth century, which culminated in the virtual homogenisation of Scottish police governance with its English counterpart by 1900.

4 Scotland was also different in the role played by civic humanism in providing an ‘intellectual climate’ for reform. Barrie here argues that the work of Lord Kames, Adam Ferguson, David Hume and John Millar – as well as the better-known Adam Smith – had an impact on Scottish police institutions, such that Glasgow’s Police Commission was: ‘designed to provide men of property with access to local office and establish a forum for public debate and self-direction … [and] to form an important bridge between the local state and the civil sector, which was designed to ensure the rule of law, the defence of property, and urban improvement.’ [p. 81] He is unable to find the kind of direct evidence which would unequivocally prove this to be the case, but offers convincing circumstantial evidence that this was so.

5 One of the main ways that Scottish police history has hitherto been approached is through claims about the primacy of various innovations, notably in the arrival of the new police. Barrie avoids joining in the circular argument in which certain innovations in a particular area are first defined as the essence of police ‘newness’ and then identified as having taken place. Instead, he criticises this type of analysis, concluding convincingly that: ‘debates over whether modern policing emerged first in Scotland, England or Ireland are futile and pointless given the level of continuity between the old and the new police, and the inherent difficulties in defining and assessing which policing model should be used as a yardstick’ [p. 163].

6 Police in the Age of Improvement shows how a variety of local studies can be used in concert to trace common themes and set them in a broader context over a significant historical period. Thus, as well as the content of its conclusions, it also offers a model for ongoing research into the connection between police reform and local and national governance in this period. Rather than bring the history of Scottish policing into the ‘mainstream’ of police history, Barrie has performed a more useful task by including

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Scotland in a reconstituted historical analysis of the mainstream of urban governance. His conclusions about the nature and extent of the specifically Scottish elements in this development – notably the role of local initiative, the impact of an influential advocacy of the power of civil society, and the extreme variation in local institutions – thus add to our general picture of how policing evolved in Europe as a whole.

AUTHORS

CHRIS A. WILLIAMS The Open University [email protected]

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Colao, Floriana, Luigi Lacchè, and Claudia Storti (eds.), Processo penale e opinione pubblica in Italia tra Otto e Novecento Bologna, Il Mulino, 2008, 481 pp. , ISBN 978 8815 12 4814.

Mary Gibson

REFERENCES

Colao, Floriana, Luigi Lacchè, and Claudia Storti (eds.), Processo penale e opinione pubblica in Italia tra Otto e Novecento, Bologna, Il Mulino, 2008, 481 pp. , ISBN 978 8815 12 4814.

1 This volume of essays, entitled The Criminal Trial and Public Opinion in late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Italy, makes an important contribution to the expanding literature on the criminal court as theater. With the transition from the European old regime to the liberal state, punishment became invisible as confinement within prison walls replaced the public spectacle of shaming, mutilation, and execution. Concurrently, the courtroom emerged out of the shadows, becoming the center of legal drama after Enlightenment principles condemned secrecy in penal procedure as detrimental to the rights of defendants. The consequences of opening up criminal trials to public scrutiny have been little studied in modern Italy, where legal historians have traditionally focused primarily on legal doctrines and jurisprudence while social historians have largely ignored the field of criminal justice history. Only a few studies, like Patrizia Guarnieri’s micro-history of the case of the infamous child-killer, Carlo Grandi, have analyzed courtroom practices and how they were interpreted by journalists for the general public. Therefore, the editors of this collection of essays – Floriana Colao, Luigi Lacchè, and Claudia Storti – must be thanked for bringing together an eminent group of legal historians to address an issue that has previously received much more attention in the historiography of northern Europe and northern America.

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2 As legal historians, the authors of these essays focus on several specific aspects of Italian penal procedure that mediated the relationship between the courtroom and the public during the liberal and fascist periods. During this time-span, three different codes of criminal procedure regulated the courtroom drama: that of 1865, which was based on Piedmontese precedent; that of 1913, which expanded the rights of the defense in line with the democratizing politics of the period; and that of 1930, which reversed this liberalization as incompatible with the totalitarian objectives of the Mussolini’s state. Despite these legislative shifts, however, several themes draw the essays together over the longer period. First, several authors explore the tension within Italy’s system of the “mixed trial” between its two stages: the “examination,” or the gathering of evidence which was carried out in secret according to the inquisitorial method; and the “debate,” or the public trial which offered a larger role to the defense. Popular opinion had much more impact on the second stage because the courtroom was open to spectators and the press. Secondly, public opinion influenced criminal trials through the jury, an institution transferred from the Kingdom of Piedmont to the rest of the peninsula after unification. Composed of lay judges who shared the bench with their professional colleagues, the Italian “jury” differed from the Anglo-American model, but had a similar goal of bringing the voice of the people into the legal process. Yet many members of the legal profession, especially the adherents of the positivist school like Enrico Ferri, wanted to abolish the jury, deploring the lack of expertise among its lay judges. Finally, newspapers helped to shape public opinion about specific cases and more generally about the functioning of a legal system that was not held in high public esteem. After a useful introduction by Giulio Cianferotti, the essays are divided into two sections: “the ‘logic’ of the criminal trial and public opinion” and “the ‘logic’ of public opinion in the criminal trial.”

3 The first section, which focuses on specific aspects of criminal procedure, begins with an essay by Ettore Dezza on the combative role taken by the Venetian journal, L’Eco dei Tribunali, to advance liberal ideas of legal reform after the revolutions of 1848. A supporter of the accusatory method of legal procedure, the newspaper called for public trials and the introduction of juries, neither of which was incorporated into the reactionary Austrian codes of the early 1850s. Luigi Lacchè offers an innovative analysis of the assize courts in the context of Italian state-building as they turned the citizenry into a national audience for a series of spectacular trials. Lacchè argues for the primacy of the assize courts in any discussion of public opinion because they had jurisdiction over the most heinous crimes and were open, during the second phase of the criminal procedure, to spectators and the press. He cautions, however, that the independence of the jury, and therefore its role as representative of the common citizen, was severely circumscribed by the powerful role of the “president” or lead judge in each trial over his lay colleagues on the bench. The article by Claudia Storti focuses on the Supreme Court of Cassation and specifically on its rulings related to the initial “examining” stage of the criminal process, whose procedures were strictly inquisitorial, that is, characterized by secrecy, written rather than oral evidence, and the virtual exclusion of defense attorneys. She finds a surprising penetration of public opinion into this closed preparatory phase, sometimes directly through journalistic revelations of secret evidence. Furthermore, the rulings of the Cassation appear to have been sensitive to political trends, thus favoring the defense during the liberal years of the early twentieth century and subsequently strengthening state power in the subsequent epoch of nationalism and fascism. These shifts in the philosophy of the high court

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paved the way for legislators to approve new versions of the Code of Criminal Procedure in 1913 and 1930.

4 Massimo Meccarelli traces the lively debate among eminent Italian jurists like Luigi Lucchini over the definition of the appropriate roles for lay and professional judges in relation to the technical distinction between “fact” and “law” in forming a verdict. Should the jury rule only on the “facts” of the case (the guilt or innocence of the suspect) and the professional judge on the “law” (the severity of punishment)? They also disagreed over the purpose of the jury and thus the appropriate breadth of its jurisdiction. Like Lacchè, Meccarelli concludes that in practice, even under the “liberal” code of 1913, the president of the assize court retained ample power to “direct” the jury toward the decision favored by the state. In her essay on judicial reform, Cristina Danusso explores the several ways in which public opinion contributed to the failure of a 1903 proposal by the Minister of Justice, Giuseppe Zanardelli, to stream-line the national judicial system and particularly the local courts of the pretori, which handled the least serious but far more numerous cases. Reaction to the proposed legislation came from learned jurists, municipalities that risked losing their local courts, and newspapers, which Danusso points out not only reflected but also shaped public opinion. Despite the intent of the reform, which was to improve the tarnished reputation of the legal system in the eyes of Italian citizens, a change in government ultimately prevented its passage. Finally, Marco Nicola Miletti compares the codes of 1913 and 1930, showing how provisions to restrict the “internal secrecy” of the examination phase and thus open certain types of evidence to the defense in 1913 were reversed by the later fascist legislation of 1930. Laying the groundwork for Rocco Code’s re-assertion of the state over the individual – and thus the judge and public prosecutor over the defense attorney – were a series of legal opinions stretching back to 1913 in which both eminent jurists and, more importantly, the Court of Cassation attacked the “democratic-liberal sentimentalism” of the 1913 Code. Because the Rocco Code remained in effect after World War II, special legislation and intervention by the Constitutional Court was necessary to re-integrate the defense attorney into the early stages of criminal trials.

5 The second section of the book focuses for the most part on famous trials and the ways in which public pressure shaped their verdicts. The exception is an essay by Elisabetta D’Amico on the brilliant oratory of the defense attorney Ferri, better known outside Italy as the leader, with , of the positivist school of criminology. Disdainful of the role of both the jury and public opinion in the judicial process, Ferri nevertheless crafted his summations for the defense so that they would teach the new approaches of criminal anthropology to lay judges and, through the press, to the public more generally. In her analysis of the Martignoni-Borgomanero case of the early 1860s, Raffaella Bianchi Riva shows how the “public voice” in a small town of Lombardy convinced a local jury to convict the two defendants, a decision that was soon understood to be faulty and overturned on appeal in the Court of Cassation in Turin. The case occasioned denunciations by eminent jurists like Pietro Ellero of the institution of the jury, which had recently been transferred from Piedmont to the entire peninsula in 1865. In her reconstruction of the “Carnago case” of the late 1880s, Alessandra Fusco also argues that public opinion was not just a social but also an important legal factor in the conviction of two defendants, in this case a married couple. To secure a conviction, the president of the court used the pressure of public opinion, embodied in the crowded courtroom, to shape the opinions of the jury. In her

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analysis of the De Medici case of 1904, Enrika Daggunagher instead portrays a presiding judge who outraged public opinion by making use of legal technicalities to call into question the verdict of the jury. In subsequent preparations for the code of 1913, such technicalities were defended as necessary arms in the implicit battle between professional judges and inept juries.

6 The final essays explore the relation between politics and law as mediated by public opinion. Paolo Passaniti places the famous case of “La Boje!,” the prosecution of Mantovanian peasants for inciting “local civil war” in 1886, within the larger context of parliamentary debates over the legality of strikes. The defendants were absolved after Ferri used his summation to condemn the political nature of the trial, a view championed by the public and many journalists. Similarly, Monica Stronati emphasizes the force of public opinion, culminating in petitions from local citizens, in convincing the national government to grant a pardon in 1888 to Amilcare Cipriani, a radical democrat convicted of homicide. Signed by the king, the act of pardon allowed the royal house to increase its popularity by identifying itself with the will of the people. Finally, Floriana Colao revisits the trial of “Scimula Sonzini,” the names of two nationalists killed by left-wing workers during the famous factory occupations in Turin following World War I. Rather than placing the murders within the political context of the extreme class conflict of these years, the newspapers, conservative politicians and even some liberal jurists used the case to blame socialism for the breakdown of the rule of law, thus helping to prepare the way for Mussolini’s March on Rome.

7 In conclusion, this volume is extremely valuable for tracing the complexities among three factors shaping the modern trial: judge/jury/public opinion. While the essays in the first section tend to emphasize the power of the judge to steer the jury toward a verdict favored by the state, the second section illustrates that high-profile cases could be swayed by the influence of public opinion on the judge, jury, or ultimately parliament. Although juries were originally introduced into Italy for the purpose of democratizing trials, they did not always represent “the public voice” and in fact could become targets of vociferous criticism by the press or the citizenry. This volume also emphasizes the importance of understanding the technicalities of legal procedure which could be manipulated by judges and defense attorneys but ultimately defined the rules of the courtroom theater. Such a rich and learned collection of essays deserves wide dissemination and translation into a language accessible to a wider community of legal and criminal justice historians.

AUTHORS

MARY GIBSON Professor of History John Jay College and the Graduate Center City University of New York [email protected]

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James, Joy (ed.), Warfare in the American Homeland : Policing and Prison in a Penal Democracy Durham and London, Duke University Press, 2007, 351 pp. , ISBN 978 08223 3923 6.

J. Robert Lilly

REFERENCES

James, Joy (ed.), Warfare in the American Homeland : Policing and Prison in a Penal Democracy, Durham and London, Duke University Press, 2007, 351 pp. , ISBN 978 08223 3923 6.

1 According to some observers of the ‘American scene’, much that once characterized it as good changed dramatically after the bombing of the Twin Towers, 9/11/2001. Since then it has been said that the country has given up much of its respect and sanctity of privacy, its emphasis and adherence to individual autonomy, its pursuit of peace, due process and liberalism in general. For observers with these opinions, the United States is now hardly recognizable from just a few years ago. Surveillance, off-the-scale imprisonment, extraordinary and unnecessary imprisonment, xenophobia, grid locked government, and state-sponsored torture are for them the new descriptors of the ‘land of the free.’

2 Others have rejected this description as unfair and inaccurate. They point to the election of Obama, the nation’s first African-American, and assert that the country is now in a post-race era where tolerance and a wider acceptance of ‘others’ is just the latest indication that America’s largeness remains largely unchanged since 9/11.

3 In early 2010 this positive perspective was bolstered by the news federal legislation endorsing national health care – a significant legislative accomplishment by Obama

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that had eluded presidents for more than seventy-five years – as evidence that the nation is increasingly a compassionate citizen-oriented country.

4 This interpretation was severely tarnished during the 2010 summer. High profile race- baiting blog/journalists (and commentators), for example, posted a selectively edited speech by a female African-American federal employee that inaccurately depicted her as a racist who discriminated against a poor white farmer. Without checking the facts the bumbling Obama administration fired the woman, only to soon apologize for their errors. This incident was almost immediately followed by a number of high profile politicians, including former presidential candidate Senator John McCain, who called for the repeal of 19th century juristic reasoning that give American citizenship to anyone born within its borders. The proposed change was aimed at American-born children of illegal immigrants. These incidents – and others including highly politicized objections to a new mosque that has been approved to be built near the 9/11 attack site – in no uncertain way revealed an ugly underbelly within the United States that, except perhaps for the most observant, has remained largely hidden since the early days of jubilation that celebrated the hope for change when Obama took office as President.

5 The book reviewed here is a timely antidote to the idea that the United States has entered a post-discriminatory age, especially within its criminal justice system. Drawing on what was originally the name of the Soviet government agency that administered its forced penal labor camps, made famous by Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago (1973),today these same words are used by Amnesty International’s director and others to describe what the editor of this anthology and many of the contributors see as tendencies within the United States toward developing total control over a number of groups of disenfranchised people including poor people, people of color, women, queers and the incarcerated.

6 Based on fifteen entries from diverse sources and organized in two large sections (I. Insurgent Knowledge and II: Policing and Prison Technologies), the book contains only five original contributions. The other pieces are from a pantheon of original thinkers on repression and human exploitation. These include among others, Michel Foucault on the assassination of George Jackson in San Quenten Prison (1970), George Jackson on imprisonment, Oscar Lopez Rivera on Puerto Rican resistance to colonialism, Dylan Rodriquez on the ship passage of slaves, and Laura Whitehorn – self-described political prisoner who spent over fourteen years in federal prison.

7 According to James, collectively the chapters examine the sensibilities and structures that enable a police and penal democracy to survive, an assessment that I share. The reprinted material will be familiar to older, mature scholars already familiar with academic, journalistic and autobiographical accounts of repression and resistance as central elements of policing and prisons. For readers just becoming interested in these topics the book is a valuable and very timely resource. It will shed some understanding on the inherent contradictions that exist in the political structure of the United States, including President Obama’s commitment to hope and change while approving increased federal expenditures for new prisons because they will provide jobs. This book deserves to be in every library in the world where there is an interest in the United States’ criminal justice system.

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AUTHORS

J. ROBERT LILLY Northern Kentucky University [email protected]

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Anne Logan, Feminism and Criminal Justice. A Historical Perspective Basingstoke, Palgrave Macmillan, 2008, ISBN 978 0 230 57254 6.

Louise A. Jackson

REFERENCES

Anne Logan, Feminism and Criminal Justice. A Historical Perspective, Basingstoke, Palgrave Macmillan, 2008, ISBN 978 0 230 57254 6.

1 Far from emerging in academic departments in the 1970s/80s, Anne Logan’s book demonstrates extremely convincingly that what can be termed a feminist criminological critique was alive, kicking and increasingly influential in England from the mid-nineteenth century onwards. It was located in women’s associational culture and its social significance lay in the real successes achieved by its campaigns for criminal justice reform. The origins of this movement are of course well-charted; Logan’s introductory chapter offers a brief overview of the contributions of J.S. Mill, Elizabeth Fry, Frances Power Cobbe and Josephine Butler in opposing the sexual double standard engrained within the criminal and civil law, and in shaping middle-class women’s philanthropic activity in rescue work and prison visiting. The work of Sheila Jeffreys, Lucy Bland and Susan Kingsley-Kent has drawn attention to suffragette campaigns to highlight the inadequate treatment of women and child victims of assault in the courts. The substantial contribution of Logan’s book lies in its coverage of the period 1920-1960, adding to a growing historiography that has blown out of the water the assumption that feminism simply ebbed away between so-called ‘first’ and ‘second’ waves.

2 Central to Logan’s thesis is the concept of the ‘feminist-criminal-justice-reform- network’, which she clearly demonstrates to have been operational across the twentieth century – with its origins in the nineteenth. She offers us an exhaustive mapping – based on meticulous archival research – of the individuals and lobby groups that cohered together, through informal and semi-formal connections, to bring

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together women’s politics and criminal justice reform. Key to this story are the Howard League for Penal Reform, the National Council of Women (formerly the National Union of Women Workers or NUWW), and the National Union of Societies for Equal Citizenship; arguably their ability to influence was stepped up as they mobilised those women who moved into new roles as Members of Parliament (MPs) and Justice of the Peace (JPs) following the Sex Disqualification (Removal) Act of 1919. The sheer determination, agency and energy of key individuals comes across in the narrative, exemplified in the life and work of Margery Fry, who was active in the NUWW and the Howard League, a JP and a founder member of the Magistrates’ Association, an education advisor at Holloway prison, a campaigner to end the death penalty, and an architect of the idea of victim compensation. The book also highlights the contributions made by Cicely Craven, Winifred Elkin, Marjorie Franklin, Geraldine Cadbury, Clara Rackham, Mary Stocks, Theodora Calvert and many others. This is not merely an important exercise in retrieving women, but an analysis of the ‘micro- politics’ that shaped criminal justice reform as a collaborative project. Logan demonstrates, firstly, that women were significant movers and shakers within the wider reform movement. Secondly, she shows that the broader women’s movement of the early and mid twentieth century was centrally concerned with the treatment of women (and children) within the penal and justice systems, as well as with other aspects of welfare policy. Ultimately, she argues that our understanding of ‘penal- welfarism’ as a concept – associated with the work of David Garland – needs to be revisited to acknowledge the contribution made by feminism to its design and promotion.

3 Individual chapters focus on many significant aspects of both justice reform campaigning and women’s participation within the criminal justice system. Logan has already published a number of important articles, linked to her 2002 PhD thesis, on the role of women within the magistracy in the years after 1919. An overview of these findings is also presented here, including the argument that women were able to effect significant change as JPs, particularly in promoting scientific and rehabilitative treatment for offending and in developing a specialism in juvenile justice. Her work on women magistrates is, however, just one aspect of this book, as it is joined by considerable new research on women’s involvement in prison reform, in campaigns against the death penalty, and, in a chapter entitled ‘Feminism and the care of victims’, with an important re-evaluation of Margery Fry’s work on victim compensation – which led, after her death, to the establishment of the Criminal Injuries Compensation Board in 1964. Fry, she argues, possessed considerable ‘originality as a theoretician of justice’, her 1951 book Arms of the Law providing a ‘holistic conception of the interests of the community and of justice’ in its promotion of restorative models (pp. 148-149).

4 The role of jurors has received surprisingly little attention within criminal justice history, so it is particularly refreshing to see an important discussion here of campaigns for women jury members. Logan reminds us of the loop-holes in the law that still marginalised women until the late twentieth century although, technically, they could be called to serve on juries after 1919. They might be excluded on account of their sex, given the residual power of judges to call for an all-male jury, or at the request of the defence under the peremptory challenge system. Barristers regularly assumed that women would be tougher on defendants than men, particularly in cases involving violence. One of the lesser-known aspects of the 1966 trial of ‘Moors

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Murderers’ Ian Brady and Myra Hindley is that it took place before an all-male jury after defence counsel objected to each of the four women originally sworn in.

5 The work of the Association for Moral and Social Hygiene (AMSH) in opposing the solicitation laws, which continued to operate a sexual double standard, may be known to readers through the published research of Helen Self. Logan reviews these campaigns further, charting the links between AMSH and other pressure groups; she then highlights the continued work of women MPs (both Labour and Conservative), including Barbara Castle, Joan Vickers, Eirene White and Maureen Colquhoun in opposing the laws that criminalised women engaged in prostitution in the 1960s and 1970s. She thus shows how women of different generations as well as political parties worked together in their criticism of gender inequality in the law, again bridging the divide between ‘first’ and ‘second’ waves of feminist activism. Whilst popular memory (in line with contemporary opinion on the Left) has assumed that ‘Tory’ women of the 1950s-60s ‘screamed for the rope and the cat’ (p. 156), Logan has trawled through the minutes of Conservative Party conferences to show that both men and women could be found on either side of the debates on the introduction of capital and corporal sentences.

6 A perennial problem for historians of women’s activism lies in how to formulate a workable definition of ‘feminist’ as an analytical category. Logan defines it broadly as ‘people (not necessarily women) whose words or actions indicate that they perceived gendered inequalities in social relationships and in access to power, and who consciously decided to take some action, however small, to improve the status or condition of women’ (p. 5). Thus ‘some who actively refused to describe themselves as “feminist”’ earn ‘that label’ (p. 4). One effect of this broad brush approach can be a flattening of positions. However, whilst more might have been done to develop discussions of the differences of opinion between women – both across and within organisations – Logan handles her material expertly and with finesse and nuance. She is generally mindful of steering away from a simplistic default position that assumes women’s participation to be at least benign if not progressive, and she is careful to show that the organisations on which she focuses incorporated those with a wide variety of viewpoints. Thus one member of Gloucestershire Women’s Magistrates’ Society proposed a contentious motion in 1930 that the ‘mentally unfit’ should be ‘sterilised’ (p. 38); tantalisingly, the minutes do not appear to reveal how this was resolved. In the 1950s the National Federation of Women Institutes debated the reintroduction of corporal punishment; both ‘progressive’ and ‘reactionary’ views were voiced and no firm policy conclusion emerged. Within the NCW the anti-flogging lobby easily won a majority at national conference, despite concerns that it would be a hard- fought contest.

7 The ‘feminism’ that Logan is discussing combined a liberal rights feminism concerned with equality before the law with a ‘welfare’ feminism that was concerned about the treatment of women within the existing system; it further encompassed a broader humanitarian position, best illustrated by campaigns against the death penalty. A sense of unease with the existing system was most obviously exposed as women such as Fry and Franklin engaged in prison reform: ‘well acquainted with the problems and paradoxes of the penal system’, they ‘never felt able to offer any easy solutions to them’ and often appeared to concentrate instead ‘on the amelioration of seemingly small details of prison life’ (p. 125). As governor of Aylesbury Girls’ Borstal, Lilian Barker,

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sought to replace a culture of penal discipline with ‘tutelage’ as a means through which girls would learn ‘how to use [their] freedom’ through ‘a system of self-government’ (p. 123); Logan herself notes this can be viewed as simply another approach to social control, and it certainly fits neatly with Foucauldian interpretations of regulation in modern liberal states. Probation and other forms of rehabilitation were clearly promoted by these women as an alternative to prison. Yet the unease also comes through again in the writings of former juvenile court magistrate Barbara Wootton, who described feeling ‘more and more as if we were all enacting scenes from Dickens’ in the latter stages of her life on the bench (p. 169). Logan’s subjects were not amongst those who promoted a shift away from justice models altogether, and she does not examine debates around juvenile justice which intensified in the early 1960s as proposals emerged for the replacement of the court system with ‘family councils’ run by local authorities. Missing from Logan’s account, then, is the tussle that emerged between social work and criminal justice practitioners as the mid-century ‘penal- welfare’ consensus began to fall apart. The Magistrates Association, which Logan associates with progressive views in the earlier part of the century, lobbied persistently and successfully for the retention of the juvenile courts in England and Wales; Fry herself opposed welfare councils when suggestions were first mooted in the 1940s (p. 150).

8 Nevertheless this is undoubtedly an extremely rich and valuable contribution to research on criminal justice history and to histories of women, gender and feminism in the twentieth century. Logan’s conceptualisation of the feminist-criminal-justice- network is a suggestive one that should stimulate further research not merely on other comparative national contexts, but also on the transnational and international aspects of feminist networking. Logan herself highlights the transatlantic influence of Jane Addams’ Hull House project in Chicago and also of Van Waters’ Los Angeles court, which was visited by Geraldine Cadbury in the 1920s. Limited work has already been done on women’s involvement in the League of Nations, on campaigns against the emotively-titled ‘white slave trade’ (trafficking of women), and on Eleanor Rathbone’s campaigns against ‘child marriage’ in British India. Clearly, however, there is much to be done in mapping and analysing further networks of knowledge transmission, collaboration and campaigning on a broader range of criminal justice issues, whether we choose to label them as ‘feminist’, ‘woman-centred’, ‘gender-related’ or simply ‘progressive’.

AUTHORS

LOUISE A. JACKSON University of Edinburgh [email protected]

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Clive Emsley, Haia Shpayer-Makov (eds), Police Detectives in History, 1750-1950 Hants (England) et Burlington (USA), Ashgate, 2006, 255 pp., ISBN 07546 39487.

Frédéric Chauvaud

RÉFÉRENCE

Clive Emsley, Haia Shpayer-Makov (eds), Police Detectives in History, 1750-1950, Hants (England) et Burlington (USA), Ashgate, 2006, 255 pp., ISBN 07546 39487.

1 Tandis que les recherches se multiplient sur la police au point que le chercheur peut être pris de vertige devant le foisonnement des approches et des problématiques1, que des ouvrages fondamentaux sur les mémoires policiers2 ou le métier de policier voient le jour3, que des travaux universitaires importants sont proposés à la communauté scientifique4, que des livres de souvenirs et des autobiographies de policiers sont réédités et proposés à un large public5, l’ouvrage collectif Police Detectives vient à son heure. Il ne s’agit ni d’un manuel, ni d’un livre de synthèse, ni des actes d’un congrès, mais d’un ouvrage divisé en dix chapitres qui se propose d’explorer, souvent avec bonheur, des aspects de l’histoire de la police d’investigation. Les deux maîtres d’œuvre, spécialistes bien connus, inscrivent, dans une introduction solide et stimulante, les travaux recueillis pour le présent ouvrage dans le renouvellement considérable de l’historiographie de ces dernières années, le livre publié par Clive Emsley, à qui on doit de belles analyses sur la professionnalisation de la police, et par Haia Shpayer-Makov qui a signé une étude de référence sur l’histoire sociale de la police londonienne, fera incontestablement date. En effet, il s’agit bien de situer dans l’historiographie d’un domaine particulièrement dynamique un ensemble de contributions de qualité.

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2 De cet ouvrage qui ouvre de multiples pistes, il est possible de faire de nombreuses lectures. La plus pertinente sans doute concerne les images de la police, entre détectives privés et enquêteurs de l’ordre public. De la sorte, pour bien saisir le projet des maîtres d’œuvre de ce volume, il importe de présenter d’abord trois contributions qui se situent au cœur de l’entreprise éditoriale. En premier lieu, celle de Haia Shpayer- Makow explorant les mémoires de policiers. De l’ordre d’une douzaine, ils sont disponibles sous la forme d’un livre, trouvent une place dans des collections d’éditeurs prestigieux comme Hutchinson, George Rouledge & Sons. L’auteur entend retracer l’émergence d’une littérature spécifique dont les titres comme Détective et Services secrets (1939) attestent de la volonté de rencontrer un public beaucoup plus large que le seul cercle des spécialistes. Très professionnels dans leur passage à l’écriture, ils adoptent les codes de l’écriture romanesque. Si dès 1829, avec la création de la police métropolitaine de Londres, la figure du détective s’impose, celle-ci est réactivée en 1842 au moment de la constitution d’une unité de détectives à Scotland Yard. Très tôt, en 1794, la littérature de fiction a imposé la figure du détective avec les aventures de Caleb Williams, relatées par William Godwin dans Things as they are. Toutefois, c’est à peu près au moment où Sherlock Holmes est proposé aux lecteurs, que Gaboriau est traduit en anglais (1887), que les premiers mémoires de policiers sont publiés : Scotland Yard. Passé et présent (1893) ou Histoires de Scotland Yard (1890). Dans cette passionnante étude, il s’agit de se demander pourquoi ces hommes écrivent. Très peu de mémorialistes sont sergents ou de grade subalterne. Ce sont des inspecteurs, des chefs inspecteurs, voire des superintendants. La démonstration argumentée, qu’il faut suivre dans le détail, entraîne la conviction du lecteur. Les pages consacrées à la distorsion, à la représentation et à la recomposition des images s’avèrent particulièrement stimulantes. Sans doute l’offensive des mémorialistes se brise sur les clichés et les personnages de fiction dont les héros sont assurés d’une ample popularité.

3 Ce changement des images, c’est aussi l’approche retenue par Dean Wilson et Mark Finname. Ils montrent comment la notion même de déduction s’impose et devient le symbole de la capacité de l’individu à résoudre une question. Tandis que se constitue une petite force de détectives en 1842, ceux-sont regardés avec ambivalence à Victoria. Presque immédiatement s’impose un personnage singulier, devenant un héros : Christie. Lui-même se présente comme le maître du déguisement. Une photo le montre grimé en jardinier, derrière une palissade, parfaitement identifié à son personnage, cultivant l’art de l’illusion parfaite et du travestissement exemplaire, contribuant ainsi à assurer sa propre promotion dans la mémoire collective. Toutefois, les relations entre la « science » et les détectives réinventent la figure de l’expert, le métamorphosant en spécialiste dans le champ de l’investigation criminelle. La revue Argus reflète particulièrement bien les changements à l’œuvre entre 1912 et 1936, transformant les perceptions des images qui désormais s’accompagnent de critiques radicales. En 1936, par exemple, le chef de la justice de la cour suprême de Victoria n’hésite pas à blâmer les méthodes de la police criminelle alliant informations hasardeuses et contraintes physiques, malmenant ainsi les perceptions de la police. De la sorte, c’est bien un ensemble de représentations contrastées qui s’imposent, dont certaines s’avèrent ambivalentes puisqu’elles assurent la promotion d’un groupe de policiers bénéficiant d’une technicité plus grande, mais situés en marge de la loi.

4 En Nouvelle-Zélande, les images de détectives prennent vite leurs distances avec le modèle idéalisé de la police métropolitaine londonienne. Graeme Dunstall a suivi le

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système de représentation qui s’impose au début du XXe siècle, lui-même hérité de la culture coloniale des années 1840. Des influences venues de Londres, à l’établissement d’un véritable statut en 1919 les changements sont importants. Les années d’entre- deux-guerres, puis la succession d’innovations, et de crises qui culminent entre 1952 et 1955, la mise en place d’une commission d’enquête qui montre l’usage d’écoutes téléphoniques illégales, et l’interrogatoire de deux jeunes maoris, brouillent les perceptions des détectives d’Auckland. En effet, après une longue période d’inertie ou de stagnation, la réorganisation des services repose sur d’incontestables méthodes technologiques sophistiquées, pour autant elle ne parvient pas à lever l’ambiguïté des images.

5 Clive Emsley et Haia Shpayer ont opté pour une présentation chronologique. L’ouvrage s’ouvre ainsi par une étude argumentée de J.M. Beattie sur la jeunesse de la détection policière à Londres, s’attachant à l’émergence d’un bureau à Bow Street dont John Fielding fut l’artisan essentiel au milieu du XVIIIe siècle. Elle se poursuit par la mise au point de Howard G. Brown sur la période post-révolutionnaire à Paris. L’auteur examine les coulisses à l’ombre de Fouché et de Vidocq, s’intéresse plus particulièrement à la bande à Baudoin et donne une analyse fine des « bandits and bureaucrats ». Clive Emsley nous donne ensuite une étude stimulante sur la place des détectives dans le système policier français et offre une synthèse relative aux images littéraires, de Vidocq à Maxime du Camp. À son tour, R. M. Morris, à partir d’un « titre ironique, « Le crime ne paye pas », examine minutieusement le premier siècle d’existence de la Metropolitan Police, montrant comment vers 1850 une grande attention est portée à Charles Dickens qui a publié The Detective Police. Après les trois contributions présentées supra, Eric A. Johnson livre, un peu brièvement, les résultats d’une enquête passionnante sur les représentations de la Gestapo à partir d’interviews d’Allemands ordinaires. Changeant de perspective et de terrain, Georgina Sinclair s’est intéressée aux enquêtes criminelles relatives à la vie politique et à la sécurité à la fin de l’empire britannique, choisissant les années 1945-50 mais privilégiant l’année 1948 qui constitue manifestement un tournant. Enfin, John Drabble signe une étude majeure sur les relations, aux États-Unis, entre les Vigilantes et les agents fédéraux du FBI. Il reprend la notion de panique morale, propose une chronologie fine, distingue une première période allant de 1915 à 1964, puis une seconde se refermant en 1972, utilise aussi des caricatures et des dessins de presse, montrant par exemple Edgar Hoover infiltré dans une réunion du Ku Klux Klan, tous les participants sont revêtus d’une cagoule, mais l’un d’eux fume un cigare. On lira aussi un développement pertinent sur les partisans « White Hate », la mouvance anticommuniste et la contribution du FBI dans la construction d’un consensus politique au tournant des années 1960.

6 Au total, un ouvrage stimulant par bien des aspects qui montrent la dimension internationale de la police d’investigation dans des espaces variés, (Paris, Londres, Berlin, les États-Unis, La Nouvelle-Zélande…), à des moments différents, du milieu du XVIIIe siècle au mitan du XXe siècle. L’intérêt du livre est bien de proposer une sorte de panorama des études en cours et des problématiques actuelles pour traiter des « Detectives », abordant aussi bien les enjeux de cette police que les errements et les régressions. Il constitue aussi un plaidoyer pour entreprendre une histoire comparée de la police nécessitant de créer des réseaux, de confronter les recherches les plus inventives et les acquis les plus solides.

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NOTES

1. John Merriman, Police stories. Bulding the French State, 1815-1851, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2006, 254 pp. 2. Vincent Milliot (dir.), Les mémoires policiers. 1750-1850. Écritures et pratiques policières du Siècle des Lumières au Second Empire, Rennes, PUR, coll. « Histoire », 2006, 415 pp. 3. Dominique Kalifa, Pierre Karila-Cohen (dir.), Le commissaire de police au XIXe siècle , Paris, Publications de la Sorbonne, 2008, 285 pp. ; Jean-Marc Berlière, Catherine Denys, Dominique Kalifa, Vincent Milliot (dir.), Métiers de police. Être policier en Europe, XVIIIe-XXe siècles, Rennes, PUR, 2008, 560 pp. 4. Voir par exemple Marco Cicchini, La police de la République. Construire un ordre public à Genève au XVIIIe siècle, thèse de doctorat, Université de Genève, mars 2010, 579 f. 5. Voir les Mémoires de Canler ou les Mémoires de M. Claude publiés chez Mercure de France, coll. « Le Temps retrouvé ».

AUTEURS

FRÉDÉRIC CHAUVAUD Université de Poitiers [email protected]

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Informations diverses

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Poncet (Olivier), Storez-Brancourt (Isabelle) (Études réunies par), Une histoire de la mémoire judiciaire de l’Antiquité nos jours, Paris, École Nationale des Chartes, 2009, 418 pp. ISBN 978 2 357 23004 0. Porret (Michel), Cicchini (Marco), Fontana (Vincent), Maugué (Ludovic), Vernhes Rappaz (Sonia), La chaîne du pénal. Crimes et châtiments dans la république de Genève sous l’Ancien Régime, Genève, Georg, 2010, 125 pp. ISBN 978 2 8257 0988 7. Prétou (Pierre), Crime et justice en Gascogne à la fin du Moyen-Âge, Rennes, Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2010. ISBN 978 2 7535 1233 7. Salomé (Karine), L’ouragan homicide. L’attentat politique en France au XIXe siècle, Seyssel, Champ Vallon, 2010, 320 pp. ISBN 978 2 876 73538 5. Wilf (Steven), Law’s Imagined Republic. Popular Politics and Criminal Justice in Revolutionary America, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 239 pp. ISBN 978 0 521 14528 2.

Crime, Histoire & Sociétés / Crime, History & Societies, Vol. 15, n°1 | 2011