by Victor Hugo
In accordance with Norman custom, an unmarried woman who becomes pregnant indicates the father of her child. She sometimes makes her own choice, and this may have inconvenient consequences.
The French spoken by the older inhabitants of the archipelago is not perhaps entirely their fault. Some fifteen years ago a number of Frenchmen arrived in Jersey, as we have already noted. (We may remark in passing that people could not understand why they had left their country: some of the inhabitants called them ces biaux revoltes, these handsome rebels). One of these Frenchmen was visited by a former teacher of French who had lived in the country, he said, for many years. He was an Alsatian, and was accompanied by his wife. He had little respect for the Norman French that is the language of the Channel. He once remarked, on entering a room: "J'ai pien de la beine a leur abrendre le vranzais. On barle ici badois." ("I have great difficulty in teaching them French. Here they speak a patois.")
"Comment badois?" ("What do you mean, badois?"), said someone.
"Oui, badois."
"Ah! Patois?"
"C'est ca, badois."
The professor continued his complaints about the Norman badois. When his wife spoke to him he turned to her, saying: "Ne me vaites bas ici te zenes gonchigales." ("Don't let us have any conjugal scenes here.")44
XVI
ANTIQUITIES AND ANTIQUES; CUSTOMS, LAWS, AND MANNERS
Nowadays, let us remark at the outset, the Norman islands, which have each their college and numerous schools, have excellent teachers, some of them French, others natives of Guernsey and Jersey.
As for the patois denounced by the Alsatian professor, it is a true language and by no means to be despised. This patois is a complete idiom, extremely rich and very distinctive. It throws an obscure but profound light on the origins of the French language. A number of scholars have devoted themselves to the patois, among them the translator of the Bible into the language of Guernsey, Monsieur Metivier, who is to the Celto-Norman language what Abbe Elicagaray was to the Hispano-Basque language. On the island of Guernsey there are a stone-roofed chapel of the eighth century and a Gallic statue of the sixth century, now serving as a jamb to the gateway of a cemetery; both are probably unique. Another unique specimen is a descendant of Rollo, a very worthy gentleman of whom we have already spoken. He consents to regard Queen Victoria as his cousin. His pedigree seems to be proven, and it is not at all improbable.
In the islands, as we have said, people are much attached to their coats of arms. We once heard a lady of the M family complaining about the Gs: "They have taken our coat of arms to put it on their tombs."
Fleursde-lys abound. England likes to take over fashions that France has discarded. Few members of the middle class with handsome houses and gardens are without railings ornamented with fleursde-lys.
People are very touchy, too, about misalliances. On one of the islands--Alderney, I think--when the son of a very ancient dynasty of wine merchants misallied himself with the daughter of a hatter of recent origin, there was universal indignation. The whole island cried out against the son, and a venerable dame exclaimed: "What a cup for parents to sup!" The Princess Palatine was not more tragically vexed when she reproached a cousin of hers who had married Prince de Tingry with lowering herself to wed a Montmorency. 45
On Guernsey if a man offers his arm to a woman it indicates that they are engaged. A new bride does not leave her house for a week after her marriage except to go to church: a taste of prison adds spice to the honeymoon. Besides, a certain modesty is in order. Marriage involves so few formalities that it is easily concealed. Cahaigne,46 on Jersey, once heard this exchange of question and answer between a mother, an old woman, and her daughter, a girl of fourteen: "Why do you not marry this Stevens?"--"Do you want me to get married twice, then, Mother?"--"What do you mean?"--"We were married four months ago."
On Guernsey, in October 1863, a girl was sentenced to six weeks in prison "for annoying her father."
XVII
PECULIARITIES (CONTINUED)
The Channel Islands have as yet only two statues, one on Guernsey of the Prince Consort and one on Jersey known as the Golden King, though no one knows what personage it represents and whom it immortalizes. 47 It stands in the center of the main square in St. Helier. An anonymous statue is still a statue: it flatters the self-esteem of the local people and probably celebrates the glory of someone. Nothing emerges more slowly from the earth than a statue, and nothing grows faster. When it is not an oak it is a mushroom. Shakespeare is still waiting for his statue in England; Beccaria is still waiting for his statue in Italy; but it seems that Monsieur Dupin is going to have his in France.48 It is gratifying to see such public homage being rendered to men who have been an honor to a country, as in London, for example, where emotion, admiration, regret, and the crowds of mourners reached successive crescendos at the funerals of Wellington, Palmerston, and the boxer Tom Sayers.
Jersey has a Hangman's Hill, which Guernsey lacks. Sixty years ago a man was hanged on Jersey for taking twelve sous from a drawer-- though it must be said that about the same time in England a child of thirteen was hanged for stealing cakes and in France an innocent man, Lesurques, was guillotined. Such are the beauties of the death penalty.
Nowadays Jersey, more progressive than London, would not tolerate the gallows. The death penalty has been tacitly abolished.
In prison the inmates' reading is carefully watched. A prisoner has the right to read only the Bible. In 1830 a Frenchman condemned to death, named Beasse, was allowed to read the tragedies of Voltaire while waiting for the gallows. Such an enormity would not be tolerated nowadays. This Beasse was the second-last man to be hanged on Guernsey. Tapner 49 is, and will be, let us hope, the last.
Until 1825 the salary of the bailiff of Guernsey was thirty livres tournois, or about fifty francs--the same as in the time of Edward III. Now he gets three hundred pounds sterling. On Jersey the royal court is called the Cohue. A woman who goes to law is called the actrice. On Guernsey criminals are sentenced to be flogged; on Jersey the accused is put in an iron cage.
People laugh at the relics of saints, but venerate Charles II's old boots, which are respectfully preserved in St. Ouen's Manor. Tithes are still collected: as you go about the island you will come across the tithe-collectors' stores. Jambage seems to have been abolished, but poulage 50 is still strictly enforced. The author of these lines pays two hens a year to the queen of England.
Taxes, curiously, are assessed on the total fortune, actual or surmised, of the taxpayer. This has the disadvantage of not attracting great consumers to the island. Monsieur de Rothschild, if he owned a pretty cottage on Guernsey that had cost some 20,000 francs, would pay an annual 1.5 million francs in tax. It must be added that if he lived there only five months in the year he would pay nothing. It is the sixth month that is to be dreaded.
The climate is an extended spring. Winter there may be, and of course summer, but not in excess: never Senegal, never Siberia. The Channel Islands are England's Iles d'Hyeres. Albion's delicate chests are sent there. Such a Guernsey parish as St. Martin's, for example, ranks as a minor Nice. No Vale of Tempe, no Gemenos, no Val Suzon surpasses the Vallee des Vaux on Jersey or the Vallee des Talbots on Guernsey. On the southern slopes at least nothing can be greener, milder, and fresher than this archipelago.
High life is possible here; for these small islands have their own great world, their high society. They speak French, as we have noted; the best people say, for example: "Elle a-z-une rose a son chapeau" ("She has a rose in her hat").51 Apart from that their conversation is charming.
Jersey admires General Don; Guernsey admires General Doyle. These were governors in the early part of this century. Jersey has a Don Street, Guernsey a Doyle Road. In addition, Guernsey dedicated to its general a tall column standing above the sea that can be seen from the Casquets, while Jersey presented its general with a cromlech. It originally stood in St. Helier, on the hill now occupied by Fort Regent. General Don accep
ted the cromlech, had it carted, block by block, down to the shore and loaded onto a frigate, and carried it off. This monument was the marvel of the Channel Islands: it was the only round cromlech on the islands; it had seen the Cimmerians, who remembered Tubal Cain, just as the Eskimos remember Frobisher52; it had seen the Celts, whose brain, compared with the brain of the present day, was in the proportion of thirteen to eighteen; it had seen those strange timber towers (donjons) whose carcasses are found in sepulchral mounds, and make one hesitate between Du Cange's etymology, deriving the term from domgio, and Barleycourt's, deriving it from domijunctae; it had seen clubs made from flint and the axes of the druids; it had seen the great wickerwork figure of Teutates;53 it existed before the Roman wall; it contained four thousand years of history. At night sailors had seen from afar in the moonlight this huge crown of standing stones on the high cliffs of Jersey: now it is a pile of stones in some corner of Yorkshire.
XVIII
COMPATIBILITY OF EXTREMES
The right of primogeniture exists; the tithe exists; the parish exists; the seigneur exists, both the seigneur of a fief and the seigneur of a manor; crying haro exists, as witness "The case of crying haro between Nicolle, esquire, and Godfrey, seigneur of Meleches, was heard by the justices, after the court had been opened by the customary prayer" (Jersey, 1864). The livre tournois exists; seisin and disseisin exist; the right of forfeiture exists; feudal tenure exists; the redemption of family property exists; the past exists. There is the style of messire. There are the bailiff, the seneschal, centeniers, vingteniers, and douzeniers. There are the vingtaine at St. Savior's and the cueillette at St. Ouen's.54 Every year there is the "constables' ride" to survey the state of the roads. It is headed by the viscount, 55 "bearing in his hand the royal staff." There is the canonical hour, before noon. Christmas, Easter, Midsummer, and Michaelmas are the legal quarter days. Property is not sold, it is granted on lease. A dialogue like this may be heard in court: "Provost, is this the day, the place, and the hour at which the pleadings of the court of the fief and seigneurie have been published?"--"Yes."--"Amen."-- "Amen."
The case of "the villager who denies that his holding is in the enclaves" is provided for.
There are "casualties, treasure troves, marriages, etc., from which the seigneur may profit."
There is "the seigneur's entitlement as guardian until a proper party presents himself." There are adjournment and act of vassalage, record and double record; there are the court of chief pleas, enfoeffments, acts of seisin, allodial tenure, and rights of regality. All very medieval, you may say. No: this is true liberty. Come here; live; exist. Go where you will, do what you will, be what you will. No one has the right to know your name. If you have a God of your own, preach his faith. If you have a flag of your own, fly it. Where? In the street. It is white: very well. It is blue: all right. It is red: red is a color like any other. Do you want to denounce the government? Stand on a boundary stone and say whatever you want. Do you want to form an association? By all means. Of how many members? As many as you want. What limit is there? None. Do you want to hold a meeting? Carry on. Where? In the public square. Suppose I want to attack royalty? That is no concern of ours. What if I want to put up a poster? There are the walls. You may think, speak, write, print, make a speech on anything you like: that is your own affair. You are free to hear anything and read anything, and that implies that you are also free to say anything and write anything. And so there is absolute freedom of speech and of the press. Anyone who wants can be a printer, an apostle, a pontiff. If you want to be pope, that is up to you. For that you have only to invent a religion. Imagine a new form of God, of whom you will be the prophet. No one has any right to interfere. If necessary the police will help you. There are no restrictions. Absolute freedom: it is a magnificent spectacle. You can argue about a judicial decision. Just as you can preach to the priest, you can judge the judge. The papers can say: "Yesterday the court reached an iniquitous decision." A possible judicial error, surprisingly, has no claim to respect. Human justice is open to dispute just as is divine revelation. Individual independence can scarcely go further. Each man is his own sovereign, not by law but by custom. This is sovereignty so complete and so intrinsic to life that it is no longer felt. Law has become breathable: it is as colorless, imperceptible, and as necessary as air. At the same time people are "loyal." They are citizens who allow themselves the vanity of being subjects.
All in all, the nineteenth century rules and governs; it finds its way in through all the windows in this medieval world. The old Norman legality is shot through with liberty. This old house is full of the light of liberty. Never was an anachronism so little troublesome.
History makes this archipelago Gothic, but industry and intelligence make it modern. It avoids falling into immobility thanks to the lungs of the people--though this does not prevent there being a seigneur of Meleches. Feudalism de jure, a republic de facto: such is the phenomenon of the Channel Islands.
There is one exception to this liberty: only one, which we have already noted. The tyrant of England has the same name as Don Juan's creditor: it is Sunday. The English are the people for whom time is money, but Sunday, the tyrant, reduces the working week to six days: that is, it deprives them of a seventh of their capital. And there is no possibility of resistance. Sunday rules by custom, which is more despotic than law. Sunday, that king of England, has as his Prince of Wales the dullness known as spleen. He has the power to create boredom. He closes workshops, laboratories, libraries, museums, and theaters, and almost closes gardens and forests, too. We must not omit to notice, however, that the English Sunday is less oppressive on Jersey than on Guernsey. On Guernsey a poor woman who keeps a tavern serves a glass of beer to a customer on a Sunday: fifteen days in prison. An exile from France, a bootmaker, decides to work on Sunday to feed his wife and children, and closes his shutters so that his hammering will not be heard: if anyone hears him, a fine. One Sunday a painter just arrived from Paris stops in the road to draw a tree; a centenier speaks to him and tells him to cease this scandalous activity, but is merciful enough not to report him to the gre fe (record office). A barber from Southampton shaves someone on Sunday: he pays three pounds sterling to the public treasury. The reason is quite simple: God rested on that day. Fortunate, however, is a people that is free six days out of seven. If Sunday is regarded as a synonym of servitude, we can think of countries where the week has seven Sundays.
Sooner or later these last restrictions will be swept away. No doubt the spirit of orthodoxy is tenacious. No doubt the trial of Bishop Colenso, for example, is a serious matter. But consider the progress that England has made in liberty since the days when Elliott56 was brought before the assizes for saying that the sun was inhabited.
There is an autumn for the fall of prejudices. It is the time for the decline of monarchies.
That time has now arrived.
The civilization of the Norman archipelago is moving forward and will not stop. That civilization is autochthonous, which does not prevent it from being hospitable and cosmopolitan. In the seventeenth century it felt the effects of the English revolution, and in the nineteenth century of the French revolution. It has twice felt the profound emotions of independence.
Besides, all archipelagos are free countries. It is the mysterious work of the sea and the wind.
XIX
A PLACE OF ASYLUM
These islands, formerly to be dreaded, have become gentler. Once they were mere reefs: now they are refuges. These places of distress have become havens of rescue. Those who have escaped from disaster emerge here. All those who have suffered shipwreck, whether in a storm or in a revolution, come here. These men, the sailor and the exile, wet with different kinds of foam, dry themselves together in this warm sun. Chateaubriand,57 young, poor, obscure, and without a country, was sitting on a stone on the old wharf on Guernsey, when a good woman said to him: "What do you want, my friend?" It is very sweet--almost a mysterious relief--for one banis
hed from France to hear in the Channel Islands the language that is civilization itself, the accents of our provinces, the cries to be heard in our ports, the songs of our streets and countryside: reminiscitur Argos. 58 Louis XIV thrust into this ancient Norman community a valuable band of good Frenchmen speaking pure French: the revocation of the Edict of Nantes 59 revitalized the French language in the islands.
Frenchmen who have been exiled from France like to spend their time in this archipelago in the Channel, dreaming, as they walk about amid the rocks, the dreams of men who are waiting for something-- drawn by the charm of hearing their native tongue. The marquis de Riviere--the same man to whom Charles X said: "By the way, I forgot to tell you that I had made you a duke"--wept at the sight of the apple trees in Jersey, and preferred Pier Road in St. Helier to London's Oxford Street. The duc d'Anville, who was a Rohan and a La Rochefoucauld, also lived in Pier Road. One day Monsieur d'Anville, who had an old basset hound, had occasion to consult a doctor in St. Helier about his health and thought that the doctor would be able to do something for his dog. He asked him, therefore, for a prescription for his basset. The doctor gave his advice, and the following day the duke received a bill in the following terms:
Two consultations:
for the duke, one louis
for his dog, ten louis.
These islands have offered shelter to men afflicted by destiny. All kinds of misfortunes have passed this way, from Charles II fleeing from Cromwell to the duc de Berry on his way to encounter Louvel.60 Two thousand years ago Caesar, who was to meet his fate at the hands of Brutus, came here. Since the seventeenth century these islands have had fraternal feelings for the whole world; they glory in hospitality. They have the impartiality of a place of asylum.
