On The Punishment Of Death.
Chapter I.
Limits Of The Question.
It is not a philosophical question of which I wish to treat, neither do I solicit a change in legislation. This is not a time at once calm and active enough for the principles and reformation of the laws to be discussed: but prudence is necessary at all times; and at all times, whatever may be its perils, government may commit useless faults, and cause superfluous evils to society. It is in this point of view that I wish to consider capital punishment as a political question. I would know whether the government, which has the power of prosecuting and pardoning, acts wisely when it has recourse to it, whether it consults its own interest in doing so, and whether it is constrained thereto by necessity.
It will be admitted that this is still worth the trouble of examination. Conspiracies crowd upon us. One has just been brought under judgment at Tours, another at Marseilles, and another at Nantes; the same thing is to be done at Colmar, Rochelle, and Saumur; and if we may believe the authorities which have discovered them, there are many others ready for the law. Sirejean and Vallé have been executed. New condemnations, perhaps new executions, are preparing. If they should prove useless, nay, fatal to the power which commands them!—a mistake here would surely be a melancholy one: if we take life, we should at least be convinced of the necessity for doing so.
Let those who think there is no mistake, be not too hasty in saying so. I affirm that they do themselves doubt, and that without ceasing to think they must continue to doubt. The time has been when, in a struggle among factions, or between them and the governing power, the punishment of death was not only the habitual arm, but a recognised necessity of the conqueror. It is not from seeing this punishment written in the old laws that we know the impression it made upon men, for it is also written in ours; but it had then more foundation in the manners of the time. The justice of its application was sometimes questioned, but never its utility. Power made use of it with confidence, and none were shocked by the fact. Condemnations and executions might agonize the friends of the vanquished; but the iniquity of such steps not being evident to the public, they considered them as only natural; and power in taking them, firmly believed that it was merely exercising its right, and obeying the necessity of its situation. It was thought by all that government and established order could not be maintained but by the physical destruction of its enemies.
If we now examine the government and the public when capital punishment has been pronounced, or when an execution has just taken place, or is about to do so—if we listen to words, examine thoughts, and interrogate countenances, we shall find everywhere doubt and anxiety. Power has prosecuted: was it right in provoking this judgment? It has struck: has it proved its strength or increased its peril? It does not know itself what to think: it hesitates, and almost apologises for what has been done. And this is not from the fear of appearing cruel, but because it is not sure of having been, I will not say just, but wise. It sought security, and found fear. Thus all its proceedings on such occasions are full of irresolution and inconsistency. A political prosecution pressed forward to-day is held back tomorrow; now it will try to extend its meshes, and anon to contract them; the smallest respite, an application for pardon from the meanest prisoner who has been condemned, becomes an important affair, which calls for long deliberations, the responsibility of which is thought to be of fearful importance; and neither the ill success of the conspiracy, nor the firmest credit in the Chambers, can reassure power from feeling the inquietude which besets it when obliged to accomplish an act it declares to be necessary.
The same impression is made upon the public, which, however, is less moved, since it has nothing to decide. I do not speak of those men who, without conspiring or acting against the government, bear ill-will against it, or even of those whose habits of constitutional opposition render them suspicious of the acts and intentions of power. I address myself to that immense public who have neither political passions nor prejudices, but who desire the establishment of legal order and liberty, because these are necessary for their own wellbeing, for their business, and their daily interests. Are they inclined to imagine it justice which condemns a man to death for a political offence? Do they promise themselves more order and repose after such a consummation! Do they suppose this rigour wholesome, and does it appear necessary to their common sense? No: it startles them like a disorder, and they do not admit its urgency, or perhaps even its equity. It is difficult to persuade them that power is under any necessity of killing a man; and if there is a necessity, they will perhaps infer that the power itself must be evil. This proceeds neither from a bad feeling against authority, nor from effeminacy of manners, but solely from an unconscious but deep-rooted doubt of the usefulness as well as justice of the punishment. There is scarcely any person in our day out of the pale of faction who, after a political execution, believes the public peace more secure, or the government itself more firmly established; everybody, on the contrary, has less confidence in the strength of power, and in the future of society; and this is not by reason of the conspiracies, but of their punishment. This feeling does not surprise me, for I think it well-founded, and I shall proceed to state why. The government strikes, and the people behold the stroke, but neither the one nor the other is assured after the blow of having gained anything by it.
I have said enough, I think, to prove that there is here matter for debate. I do not suppose that government wishes to make a habit of killing only because this was done formerly, or that it acts solely to please its own passions, and satisfy its own vengeance. The use of the scaffold cannot become a mere routine; and as to the passions which it is pretended have something to say in it, I leave them out of the question, not only because they are not just, but because they are not true. It is not true that they are so strong, so persevering, and so imperious as they are made to appear. If, after having long suffered, they had sacrificed much; if they had refused themselves the consolations of life and the pleasures of the world; if they had shown themselves inflexible and incurable, nourishing in solitude their melancholy and their hope, I could comprehend, perhaps even excuse, their exigence. But they can be easily turned aside, or made to smile; and their violence has not been able to resist either the continuation of danger or the hope of security. As they do not, then, demand a satisfaction they are so well able to dispense with, they have not the right to appear ardent and severe. Such energy comes too late; and since they have no pretensions to depth, they may at least leave us the advantage of their frivolity.