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Title: The Stranger Author: Albert Camus Date: 1942 Language: en Topics: existentialism, absurdism, fiction, philosophy, individualist anarchism Source: https://archive.org/details/CamusAlbertTheStranger
MOTHER died today. Or, maybe, yesterday; I can't be sure. The telegram
from the Home says: YOUR MOTHER PASSED AWAY. FUNERAL TOMORROW. DEEP
SYMPATHY. Which leaves the matter doubtful; it could have been
yesterday.
The Home for Aged Persons is at Marengo, some fifty miles from Algiers.
With the two o'clock bus I should get there well before nightfall. Then
I can spend the night there, keeping the usual vigil beside the body,
and be back here by tomorrow evening. I have fixed up with my employer
for two days' leave; obviously, under the circumstances, he couldn't
refuse. Still, I had an idea he looked annoyed, and I said, without
thinking: "Sorry, sir, but it's not my fault, you know."
Afterwards it struck me I needn't have said that. I had no reason to
excuse myself; it was up to him to express his sympathy and so forth.
Probably he will do so the day after tomorrow, when he sees me in black.
For the present, it's almost as if Mother weren't really dead. The
funeral will bring it home to me, put an official seal on it, so to
speak. ...
I took the two-o'clock bus. It was a blazing hot afternoon. I'd lunched,
as usual, at Celeste's restaurant. Everyone was most kind, and Celeste
said to me, "There's no one like a mother." When I left they came with
me to the door. It was something of a rush, getting away, as at the last
moment I had to call in at Emmanuel's place to borrow his black tie and
mourning band. He lost his uncle a few months ago.
I had to run to catch the bus. I suppose it was my hurrying like that,
what with the glare off the road and from the sky, the reek of gasoline,
and the jolts, that made me feel so drowsy. Anyhow, I slept most of the
way. When I woke I was leaning against a soldier; he grinned and asked
me if I'd come from a long way off, and I just nodded, to cut things
short. I wasn't in a mood for talking.
The Home is a little over a mile from the village. I went there on foot.
I asked to be allowed to see Mother at once, but the doorkeeper told me
I must see the warden first. He wasn't free, and I had to wait a bit.
The doorkeeper chatted with me while I waited; then he led me to the
office. The warden was a very small man, with gray hair, and a Legion of
Honor rosette in his buttonhole. He gave me a long look with his watery
blue eyes. Then we shook hands, and he held mine so long that I began to
feel embarrassed. After that he consulted a register on his table, and
said:
"Madame Meursault entered the Home three years ago. She had no private
means and depended entirely on you."
I had a feeling he was blaming me for something, and started to explain.
But he cut me short.
"There's no need to excuse yourself, my boy. I've looked up the record
and obviously you weren't in a position to see that she was properly
cared for. She needed someone to be with her all the time, and young men
in jobs like yours don't get too much pay. In any case, she was much
happier in the Home."
I said, "Yes, sir; I'm sure of that."
Then he added: "She had good friends here, you know, old folks like
herself, and one gets on better with people of one's own generation.
You're much too young; you couldn't have been much of a companion to
her."
That was so. When we lived together, Mother was always watching me, but
we hardly ever talked. During her first few weeks at the Home she used
to cry a good deal. But that was only because she hadn't settled down.
After a month or two she'd have cried if she'd been told to leave the
Home. Because this, too, would have been a wrench. That was why, during
the last year, I seldom went to see her. Also, it would have meant
losing my Sunday — not to mention the trouble of going to the bus,
getting my ticket, and spending two hours on the journey each way.
The warden went on talking, but I didn't pay much attention. Finally he
said:
"Now, I suppose you'd like to see your mother?"
I rose without replying, and he led the way to the door. As we were
going down the stairs he explained:
"I've had the body moved to our little mortuary — so as not to upset the
other old people, you understand. Every time there's a death here,
they're in a nervous state for two or three days. Which means, of
course, extra work and worry for our staff."
We crossed a courtyard where there were a number of old men, talking
amongst themselves in little groups. They fell silent as we came up with
them. Then, behind our backs, the chattering began again. Their voices
reminded me of parakeets in a cage, only the sound wasn't quite so
shrill. The warden stopped outside the entrance of a small, low
building.
"So here I leave you, Monsieur Meursault. If you want me for anything,
you'll find me in my office. We propose to have the funeral tomorrow
morning. That will enable you to spend the night beside your mother's
coffin, as no doubt you would wish to do. Just one more thing; I
gathered from your mother's friends that she wished to be buried with
the rites of the Church. I've made arrangements for this; but I thought
I should let you know."
I thanked him. So far as I knew, my mother, though not a professed
atheist, had never given a thought to religion in her life.
I entered the mortuary. It was a bright, spotlessly clean room, with
whitewashed walls and a big skylight. The furniture consisted of some
chairs and trestles. Two of the latter stood open in the center of the
room and the coffin rested on them. The lid
was in place, but the screws had been given only a few turns and their
nickeled heads stuck out above the wood, which was stained dark walnut.
An Arab woman — a nurse, I supposed — was sitting beside the bier; she
was wearing a blue smock and had a rather gaudy scarf wound round her
hair.
Just then the keeper came up behind me. He'd evidently been running, as
he was a little out of breath.
"We put the lid on, but I was told to unscrew it when you came, so that
you could see her."
While he was going up to the coffin I told him not to trouble.
"Eh? What's that?" he exclaimed. "You don't want me to ...?"
"No," I said.
He put back the screwdriver in his pocket and stared at me. I realized
then that I shouldn't have said, "No," and it made me rather
embarrassed. After eying me for some moments he asked:
"Why not?" But he didn't sound reproachful; he simply wanted to know.
"Well, really I couldn't say," I answered.
He began twiddling his white mustache; then, without looking at me, said
gently:
"I understand."
He was a pleasant-looking man, with blue eyes and ruddy cheeks. He drew
up a chair for me near the coffin, and seated himself just behind. The
nurse got up and moved toward the door. As she was going by, the keeper
whispered in my ear:
"It's a tumor she has, poor thing."
I looked at her more carefully and I noticed that she had a bandage
round her head, just below her eyes. It lay quite flat across the bridge
of her nose, and one saw hardly anything of her face except that strip
of whiteness.
As soon as she had gone, the keeper rose.
"Now I'll leave you to yourself."
I don't know whether I made some gesture, but instead of going he halted
behind my chair. The sensation of someone posted at my back made me
uncomfortable. The sun was getting low and the whole room was flooded
with a pleasant, mellow light. Two hornets were buzzing overhead,
against the skylight. I was so sleepy I could hardly keep my eyes open.
Without looking round, I asked the keeper how long he'd been at the
Home. "Five years." The answer came so pat that one could have thought
he'd been expecting my question.
That started him off, and he became quite chatty. If anyone had told him
ten years ago that he'd end his days as doorkeeper at a home at Marengo,
he'd never have believed it. He was sixty- four, he said, and hailed
from Paris.
When he said that, I broke in. "Ah, you don't come from here?"
I remembered then that, before taking me to the warden, he'd told me
something about Mother. He had said she'd have to be buried mighty
quickly because of the
heat in these parts, especially down in the plain. "At Paris they keep
the body for three days, sometimes four." After that he had mentioned
that he'd spent the best part of his life in Paris, and could never
manage to forget it. "Here," he had said, "things have to go with a
rush, like. You've hardly time to get used to the idea that someone's
dead, before you're hauled off to the funeral." "That's enough," his
wife had put in. "You didn't ought to say such things to the poor young
gentleman." The old fellow had blushed and begun to apologize. I told
him it was quite all right. As a matter of fact, I found it rather
interesting, what he'd been telling me; I hadn't thought of that before.
Now he went on to say that he'd entered the Home as an ordinary inmate.
But he was still quite hale and hearty, and when the keeper's job fell
vacant, he offered to take it on.
I pointed out that, even so, he was really an inmate like the others,
but he wouldn't hear of it. He was "an official, like." I'd been struck
before by his habit of saying "they" or, less often, "them old folks,"
when referring to inmates no older than himself. Still, I could see his
point of view. As doorkeeper he had a certain standing, and some
authority over the rest of them.
Just then the nurse returned. Night had fallen very quickly; all of a
sudden, it seemed, the sky went black above the skylight. The keeper
switched on the lamps, and I was almost blinded by the blaze of light.
He suggested I should go to the refectory for dinner, but I wasn't
hungry. Then he proposed bringing me a mug of cafe au lait. As I am very
partial to cafe au lait I said, "Thanks," and a few minutes later he
came back with a tray. I drank the coffee, and then I wanted a
cigarette. But I wasn't sure if I should smoke, under the circumstances
— in Mother's presence. I thought it over; really, it didn't seem to
matter, so I offered the keeper a cigarette, and we both smoked.
After a while he started talking again.
"You know, your mother's friends will be coming soon, to keep vigil with
you beside the body. We always have a 'vigil' here, when anyone dies.
I'd better go and get some chairs and a pot of black coffee."
The glare off the white walls was making my eyes smart, and I asked him
if he couldn't turn off one of the lamps. "Nothing doing," he said.
They'd arranged the lights like that; either one had them all on or none
at all. After that I didn't pay much more attention to him. He went out,
brought some chairs, and set them out round the coffin. On one he placed
a coffeepot and ten or a dozen cups. Then he sat down facing me, on the
far side of Mother. The nurse was at the other end of the room, with her
back to me. I couldn't see what she was doing, but by the way her arms
moved I guessed that she was knitting. I was feeling very comfortable;
the coffee had warmed me up, and through the open door came scents of
flowers and breaths of cool night air. I think I dozed off for a while.
I was wakened by an odd rustling in my ears. After having had my eyes
closed, I had a feeling that the light had grown even stronger than
before. There wasn't a trace of shadow anywhere, and every object, each
curve or angle, seemed to score its outline on one's eyes. The old
people, Mother's friends, were coming in. I counted ten in all, gliding
almost soundlessly through the bleak white glare. None of the chairs
creaked when they sat down. Never in my life had I seen anyone so
clearly as I saw these people; not a detail of their clothes or features
escaped me. And yet I couldn't hear them, and it was hard to believe
they really existed.
Nearly all the women wore aprons, and the strings drawn tight round
their waists made their big stomachs bulge still more. I'd never yet
noticed what big paunches old women usually have. Most of the men,
however, were as thin as rakes, and they all carried sticks. What struck
me most about their faces was that one couldn't see their eyes, only a
dull glow in a sort of nest of wrinkles.
On sitting down, they looked at me, and wagged their heads awkwardly,
their lips sucked in between their toothless gums. I couldn't decide if
they were greeting me and trying to say something, or if it was due to
some infirmity of age. I inclined to think that they were greeting me,
after their fashion, but it had a queer effect, seeing all those old
fellows grouped round the keeper, solemnly eying me and dandling their
heads from side to side. For a moment I had an absurd impression that
they had come to sit in judgment on me.
A few minutes later one of the women started weeping. She was in the
second row and I couldn't see her face because of another woman in
front. At regular intervals she emitted a little choking sob; one had a
feeling she would never stop. The others didn't seem to notice. They sat
in silence, slumped in their chairs, staring at the coffin or at their
walking sticks or any object just in front of them, and never took their
eyes off it. And still the woman sobbed. I was rather surprised, as I
didn't know who she was. I wanted her to stop crying, but dared not
speak to her. After a while the keeper bent toward her and whispered in
her ear; but she merely shook her head, mumbled something I couldn't
catch, and went on sobbing as steadily as before.
The keeper got up and moved his chair beside mine. At first he kept
silent; then, without looking at me, he explained.
"She was devoted to your mother. She says your mother was her only
friend in the world, and now she's all alone."
I had nothing to say, and the silence lasted quite a while. Presently
the woman's sighs and sobs became less frequent, and, after blowing her
nose and snuffling for some minutes, she, too, fell silent.
I'd ceased feeling sleepy, but I was very tired and my legs were aching
badly. And now I realized that the silence of these people was telling
on my nerves. The only sound was a rather queer one; it came only now
and then, and at first I was puzzled by it. However, after listening
attentively, I guessed what it was; the old men were sucking at the
insides of their cheeks, and this caused the odd, wheezing noises that
had mystified me. They were so much absorbed in their thoughts that they
didn't know what they were up to. I even had an impression that the dead
body in their midst meant nothing at all to them. But now I suspect that
I was mistaken about this.
We all drank the coffee, which the keeper handed round. After that, I
can't remember much; somehow the night went by. I can recall only one
moment; I had opened my eyes and I saw the old men sleeping hunched up
on their chairs, with one exception. Resting his chin on his hands
clasped round his stick, he was staring hard at me, as if he had been
waiting for me to wake. Then I fell asleep again. I woke up after a bit,
because the ache in my legs had developed into a sort of cramp.
There was a glimmer of dawn above the skylight. A minute or two later
one of the old men woke up and coughed repeatedly. He spat into a big
check handkerchief, and each time he spat it sounded as if he were
retching. This woke the others, and the keeper told them it was time to
make a move. They all got up at once. Their faces were ashen gray after
the long, uneasy vigil. To my surprise each of them shook hands with me,
as though this night together, in which we hadn't exchanged a word, had
created a kind of intimacy between us.
I was quite done in. The keeper took me to his room, and I tidied myself
up a bit. He gave me some more "white" coffee, and it seemed to do me
good. When I went out, the sun was up and the sky mottled red above the
hills between Marengo and the sea. A morning breeze was blowing and it
had a pleasant salty tang. There was the promise of a very fine day. I
hadn't been in the country for ages, and I caught myself thinking what
an agreeable walk I could have had, if it hadn't been for Mother.
As it was, I waited in the courtyard, under a plane tree. I sniffed the
smells of the cool earth and found I wasn't sleepy any more. Then I
thought of the other fellows in the office. At this hour they'd be
getting up, preparing to go to work; for me this was always the worst
hour of the day. I went on thinking, like this, for ten minutes or so;
then the sound of a bell inside the building attracted my attention. I
could see movements behind the windows; then all was calm again. The sun
had risen a little higher and was beginning to warm my feet. The keeper
came across the yard and said the warden wished to see me. I went to his
office and he got me to sign some document. I noticed that he was in
black, with pin-stripe trousers. He picked up the telephone receiver and
looked at me.
"The undertaker's men arrived some moments ago, and they will be going
to the mortuary to screw down the coffin. Shall I tell them to wait, for
you to have a last glimpse of your mother?"
"No," I said.
He spoke into the receiver, lowering his voice. "That's all right,
Figeac. Tell the men to go there now."
He then informed me that he was going to attend the funeral, and I
thanked him. Sitting down behind his desk, he crossed his short legs and
leaned back. Besides the nurse on duty, he told me, he and I would be
the only mourners at the funeral. It was a rule of the Home that inmates
shouldn't attend funerals, though there was no objection to letting some
of them sit up beside the coffin, the night before.
"It's for their own sakes," he explained, "to spare their feelings. But
in this particular instance I've given permission to an old friend of
your mother to come with us. His name is Thomas Perez." The warden
smiled. "It's a rather touching little story in its way. He and your
mother had become almost inseparable. The other old people used to tease
Perez about having a fiancee. 'When are you going to marry her?' they'd
ask. He'd turn it with a laugh. It was a standing joke, in fact. So, as
you can guess, he feels very badly about your mother's death. I thought
I couldn't decently refuse him permission to attend the funeral. But, on
our medical officer's advice, I forbade him to sit up beside the body
last night."
For some time we sat there without speaking. Then the warden got up and
went to the window. Presently he said:
"Ah, there's the padre from Marengo. He's a bit ahead of time."
He warned me that it would take us a good three quarters of an hour,
walking to the church, which was in the village. Then we went
downstairs.
The priest was waiting just outside the mortuary door. With him were two
acolytes, one of whom had a censer. The priest was stooping over him,
adjusting the length of the silver chain on which it hung. When he saw
us he straightened up and said a few words to me, addressing me as, "My
son." Then he led the way into the mortuary.
I noticed at once that four men in black were standing behind the coffin
and the screws in the lid had now been driven home. At the same moment I
heard the warden remark that the hearse had arrived, and the priest
starting his prayers. Then everybody made a move. Holding a strip of
black cloth, the four men approached the coffin, while the priest, the
boys, and myself filed out. A lady I hadn't seen before was standing by
the door. "This is Monsieur Meursault," the warden said to her. I didn't
catch her name, but I gathered she was a nursing sister attached to the
Home. When I was introduced, she bowed, without the trace of a smile on
her long, gaunt face. We stood aside from the doorway to let the coffin
by; then, following the bearers down a corridor, we came to the front
entrance, where a hearse was waiting. Oblong, glossy, varnished black
all over, it vaguely reminded me of the pen trays in the office.
Beside the hearse stood a quaintly dressed little -man, whose duty it
was, I understood, to supervise the funeral, as a sort of master of
ceremonies. Near him, looking constrained, almost bashful, was old M.
Perez, my mother's special friend. He wore a soft felt hat with a
pudding-basin crown and a very wide brim — he whisked it off the moment
the coffin emerged from the doorway — trousers that concertina'd on his
shoes, a black tie much too small for his high white double collar.
Under a bulbous, pimply nose, his lips were trembling. But what caught
my attention most was his ears; pendulous, scarlet ears that showed up
like blobs of sealing wax on the pallor of his cheeks and were framed in
wisps of silky white hair.
The undertaker's factotum shepherded us to our places, with the priest
in front of the hearse, and the four men in black on each side of it.
The warden and myself came next, and, bringing up the rear, old Perez
and the nurse.
The sky was already a blaze of light, and the air stoking up rapidly. I
felt the first waves of heat lapping my back, and my dark suit made
things worse. I couldn't imagine why we waited so long for getting under
way. Old Perez, who had put on his hat, took it off again. I had turned
slightly in his direction and was looking at him when the warden started
telling me more about him. I remember his saying that old Perez and my
mother used often to have a longish stroll together in the cool of the
evening; sometimes they went as far as the village, accompanied by a
nurse, of course.
I looked at the countryside, at the long lines of cypresses sloping up
toward the skyline and the hills, the hot red soil dappled with vivid
green, and here and there a lonely house sharply outlined against the
light — and I could understand Mother's feelings. Evenings in these
parts must be a sort of mournful solace. Now, in the full glare of the
morning sun, with everything shimmering in the heat haze, there was
something inhuman, discouraging, about this landscape.
At last we made a move. Only then I noticed that Perez had a slight
limp. The old chap steadily lost ground as the hearse gained speed. One
of the men beside it, too, fell back and drew level with me. I was
surprised to see how quickly the sun was climbing up the sky, and just
then it struck me that for quite a while the air had been throbbing with
the hum of insects and the rustle of grass warming up. Sweat was running
down my face. As I had no hat I tried to fan myself with my
handkerchief.
The undertaker's man turned to me and said something that I didn't
catch. At that same time he wiped the crown of his head with a
handkerchief that he held in his left hand, while with his right he
tilted up his hat. I asked him what he'd said. He pointed upward.
"Sun's pretty bad today, ain't it?"
"Yes," I said.
After a while he asked: "Is it your mother we're burying?"
"Yes," I said again.
"What was her age?"
"Well, she was getting on." As a matter of fact, I didn't know exactly
how old she was.
After that he kept silent. Looking back, I saw Perez limping along some
fifty yards behind. He was swinging his big felt hat at arm's length,
trying to make the pace. I also had a look at the warden. He was walking
with carefully measured steps, economizing every gesture. Beads of
perspiration glistened on his forehead, but he didn't wipe them off.
I had an impression that our little procession was moving slightly
faster. Wherever I looked I saw the same sun-drenched countryside, and
the sky was so dazzling that I dared not raise my eyes. Presently we
struck a patch of freshly tarred road. A shimmer of heat played over it
and one's feet squelched at each step, leaving bright black gashes. In
front, the coachman's glossy black hat looked like a lump of the same
sticky substance, poised above the hearse. It gave one a queer,
dreamlike impression, that blue- white glare overhead and all this
blackness round one: the sleek black of the hearse, the dull black of
the men's clothes, and the silvery-black gashes in the road. And then
there were the smells, smells of hot leather and horse dung from the
hearse, veined with whiffs of incense smoke. What with these and the
hangover from a poor night's sleep, I found my eyes and thoughts growing
blurred.
I looked back again. Perez seemed very far away now, almost hidden by
the heat haze; then, abruptly, he disappeared altogether. After puzzling
over it for a bit, I guessed that he had turned off the road into the
fields. Then I noticed that there was a bend of the road a little way
ahead. Obviously Perez, who knew the district well, had taken a short
cut, so as to catch up with us. He rejoined us soon after we were round
the bend; then began to lose ground again. He took another short cut and
met us again farther on; in fact, this happened several times during the
next half-hour. But soon I lost interest in his movements; my temples
were throbbing and I could hardly drag myself along.
After that everything went with a rush; and also with such precision and
matter-of- factness that I remember hardly any details. Except that when
we were on the outskirts of the village the nurse said something to me.
Her voice took me by surprise; it didn't match her face at all; it was
musical and slightly tremulous. What she said was: "If you go too slowly
there's the risk of a heatstroke. But, if you go too fast, you perspire,
and the cold air in the church gives you a chill." I saw her point;
either way one was in for it.
Some other memories of the funeral have stuck in my mind. The old boy's
face, for instance, when he caught up with us for the last time, just
outside the village. His eyes were streaming with tears, of exhaustion
or distress, or both together. But because of the wrinkles they couldn't
flow down. They spread out, crisscrossed, and formed a smooth gloss on
the old, worn face.
And I can remember the look of the church, the villagers in the street,
the red geraniums on the graves, Perez's fainting fit — he crumpled up
like a rag doll — the tawny-red earth pattering on Mother's coffin, the
bits of white roots mixed up with it; then more people, voices, the wait
outside a cafe for the bus, the rumble of the engine, and my little
thrill of pleasure when we entered the first brightly lit streets of
Algiers, and I pictured myself going straight to bed and sleeping twelve
hours at a stretch.
ON WAKING I understood why my employer had looked rather cross when I
asked for my two days off; it's a Saturday today. I hadn't thought of
this at the time; it only struck me when I was getting out of bed.
Obviously he had seen that it would mean my getting four days' holiday
straight off, and one couldn't expect him to like that. Still, for one
thing, it wasn't my fault if Mother was buried yesterday and not today;
and then, again, I'd have had my Saturday and Sunday off in any case.
But naturally this didn't prevent me from seeing my employer's point.
Getting up was an effort, as I'd been really exhausted by the previous
day's experiences. While shaving, I wondered how to spend the morning,
and decided that a swim would do me good. So I caught the streetcar that
goes down to the harbor.
It was quite like old times; a lot of young people were in the swimming
pool, amongst them Marie Cardona, who used to be a typist at the office.
I was rather keen on her in those days, and I fancy she liked me, too.
But she was with us so short a time that nothing came of it.
While I was helping her to climb on to a raft, I let my hand stray over
her breasts. Then she lay flat on the raft, while I trod water. After a
moment she turned and looked at me. Her hair was over her eyes and she
was laughing. I clambered up on to the raft, beside her. The air was
pleasantly warm, and, half jokingly, I let my head sink back upon her
lap. She didn't seem to mind, so I let it stay there. I had the sky full
in my eyes, all blue and gold, and I could feel Marie's stomach rising
and falling gently under my head. We must have stayed a good half-hour
on the raft, both of us half asleep. When the sun got too hot she dived
off and I followed. I caught up with her, put my arm round her waist,
and we swam side by side. She was still laughing.
While we were drying ourselves on the edge of the swimming pool she
said: "I'm browner than you." I asked her if she'd come to the movies
with me that evening. She laughed again and said, "Yes," if I'd take her
to the comedy everybody was talking about, the one with Fernandel in it.
When we had dressed, she stared at my black tie and asked if I was in
mourning. I explained that my mother had died. "When?" she asked, and I
said, "Yesterday." She made no remark, though I thought she shrank away
a little. I was just going to explain to her that it wasn't my fault,
but I checked myself, as I remembered having said the same thing to my
employer, and realizing then it sounded rather foolish. Still, foolish
or not, somehow one can't help feeling a bit guilty, I suppose.
Anyhow, by evening Marie had forgotten all about it. The film was funny
in parts, but some of it was downright stupid. She pressed her leg
against mine while we were in the picture house, and I was fondling her
breast. Toward the end of the show I kissed her, but rather clumsily.
Afterward she came back with me to my place.
When I woke up, Marie had gone. She'd told me her aunt expected her
first thing in the morning. I remembered it was a Sunday, and that put
me off; I've never cared for Sundays. So I turned my head and lazily
sniffed the smell of brine that Marie's head had left on the pillow. I
slept until ten. After that I stayed in bed until noon, smoking
cigarettes. I decided not to lunch at Celeste's restaurant as I usually
did; they'd be sure to pester me with questions, and I dislike being
questioned. So I fried some eggs and ate them off the pan. I did without
bread as there wasn't any left, and I couldn't be bothered going down to
buy it.
After lunch I felt at loose ends and roamed about the little flat. It
suited us well enough when Mother was with me, but now that I was by
myself it was too large and I'd moved the dining table into my bedroom.
That was now the only room I used; it had all the furniture I needed: a
brass bedstead, a dressing table, some cane chairs whose seats had more
or less caved in, a wardrobe with a tarnished mirror. The rest of the
flat was never used, so I didn't trouble to look after it.
A bit later, for want of anything better to do, I picked up an old
newspaper that was lying on the floor and read it. There was an
advertisement of Kruschen Salts and I cut it out and pasted in into an
album where I keep things that amuse me in the papers. Then I washed my
hands and, as a last resource, went out on to the balcony.
My bedroom overlooks the main street of our district. Though it was a
fine afternoon, the paving blocks were black and glistening. What few
people were about seemed in an absurd hurry. First of all there came a
family, going for their Sunday- afternoon walk; two small boys in sailor
suits, with short trousers hardly down to their knees, and looking
rather uneasy in their Sunday best; then a little girl with a big pink
bow and black patent-leather shoes. Behind them was their mother, an
enormously fat woman in a brown silk dress, and their father, a dapper
little man, whom I knew by sight. He had a straw hat, a walking stick,
and a butterfly tie. Seeing him beside his wife, I understood why people
said he came of a good family and had married beneath him.
Next came a group of young fellows, the local "bloods," with sleek oiled
hair, red ties, coats cut very tight at the waist, braided pockets, and
square-toed shoes. I guessed they were going to one of the big theaters
in the center of the town. That was why they had started out so early
and were hurrying to the streetcar stop, laughing and talking at the top
of their voices.
After they had passed, the street gradually emptied. By this time all
the matinees must have begun. Only a few shopkeepers and cats remained
about. Above the sycamores bordering the road the sky was cloudless, but
the light was soft. The tobacconist on the other side of the street
brought a chair out on to the pavement in front of his door and sat
astride it, resting his arms on the back. The streetcars which a few
minutes before had been crowded were now almost empty. In the little
cafe, Chez Pierrot, beside the tobacconist's, the waiter was sweeping up
the sawdust in the empty restaurant. A typical Sunday afternoon. ...
I turned my chair round and seated myself like the tobacconist, as it
was more comfortable that way. After smoking a couple of cigarettes I
went back to the room, got a tablet of chocolate, and returned to the
window to eat it. Soon after, the sky clouded over, and I thought a
summer storm was coming. However, the clouds gradually lifted. All the
same, they had left in the street a sort of threat of rain, which made
it darker. I stayed watching the sky for quite a while.
At five there was a loud clanging of streetcars. They were coming from
the stadium in our suburb where there had been a football match. Even
the back platforms were crowded and people were standing on the steps.
Then another streetcar brought back the teams. I knew they were the
players by the little suitcase each man carried. They were bawling out
their team song, "Keep the ball rolling, boys." One of them looked up at
me and shouted, "We licked them!" I waved my hand and called back, "Good
work!" From now on there was a steady stream of private cars.
The sky had changed again; a reddish glow was spreading up beyond the
housetops. As dusk set in, the street grew more crowded. People were
returning from their walks, and I noticed the dapper little man with the
fat wife amongst the passers- by. Children were whimpering and trailing
wearily after their parents. After some minutes the local picture houses
disgorged their audiences. I noticed that the young fellows coming from
them were taking longer strides and gesturing more vigorously than at
ordinary times; doubtless the picture they'd been seeing was of the
wild- West variety. Those who had been to the picture houses in the
middle of the town came a little later, and looked more sedate, though a
few were still laughing. On the whole, however, they seemed languid and
exhausted. Some of them remained loitering in the street under my
window. A group of girls came by, walking arm in arm. The young men
under my window swerved so as to brush against them, and shouted
humorous remarks, which made the girls turn their heads and giggle. I
recognized them as girls from my part of the town, and two or three of
them, whom I knew, looked up and waved to me.
Just then the street lamps came on, all together, and they made the
stars that were beginning to glimmer in the night sky paler still. I
felt my eyes getting tired, what with the lights and all the movement
I'd been watching in the street. There were little pools of brightness
under the lamps, and now and then a streetcar passed, lighting up a
girl's hair, or a smile, or a silver bangle.
Soon after this, as the streetcars became fewer and the sky showed
velvety black above the trees and lamps, the street grew emptier, almost
imperceptibly, until a time came when there was nobody to be seen and a
cat, the first of the evening, crossed, unhurrying, the deserted street.
It struck me that I'd better see about some dinner. I had been leaning
so long on the back of my chair, looking down, that my neck hurt when I
straightened myself up. I went down, bought some bread and spaghetti,
did my cooking, and ate my meal standing. I'd intended to smoke another
cigarette at my window, but the night had turned rather chilly and I
decided against it. As I was coming back, after shutting the window, I
glanced at the mirror and saw reflected in it a corner of my table with
my spirit lamp and some bits of bread beside it. It occurred to me that
somehow I'd got through another Sunday, that Mother now was buried, and
tomorrow I'd be going back to work as usual. Really, nothing in my life
had changed.
I HAD a busy morning in the office. My employer was in a good humor. He
even inquired if I wasn't too tired, and followed it up by asking what
Mother's age was. I thought a bit, then answered, "Round about sixty,"
as I didn't want to make a blunder. At which he looked relieved — why, I
can't imagine — and seemed to think that closed the matter.
There was a pile of bills of lading waiting on my desk, and I had to go
through them all. Before leaving for lunch I washed my hands. I always
enjoyed doing this at midday. In the evening it was less pleasant, as
the roller towel, after being used by so many people, was sopping wet. I
once brought this to my employer's notice. It was regrettable, he agreed
— but, to his mind, a mere detail. I left the office building a little
later than usual, at half-past twelve, with Emmanuel, who works in the
Forwarding Department. Our building overlooks the sea, and we paused for
a moment on the steps to look at the shipping in the. harbor. The sun
was scorching hot. Just then a big truck came up, with a din of chains
and backfires from the engine, and Emmanuel suggested we should try to
jump it. I started to run. The truck was well away, and we had to chase
it for quite a distance. What with the heat and the noise from the
engine, I felt half dazed. All I was conscious of was our mad rush along
the water front, amongst cranes and winches, with dark hulls of ships
alongside and masts swaying in the offing. I was the first to catch up
with the truck. I took a flying jump, landed safely, and helped Emmanuel
to scramble in beside me. We were both of us out of breath, and the
bumps of the truck on the roughly laid cobbles made things worse.
Emmanuel chuckled, and panted in my ear, "We've made it!"
By the time we reached Celeste's restaurant we were dripping with sweat.
Celeste was at his usual place beside the entrance, with his apron
bulging on his paunch, his white mustache well to the fore. When he saw
me he was sympathetic and "hoped I wasn't feeling too badly." I said,
"No," but I was extremely hungry. I ate very quickly and had some coffee
to finish up. Then I went to my place and took a short nap, as I'd drunk
a glass of wine too many.
When I woke I smoked a cigarette before getting off my bed. I was a bit
late and had to run for the streetcar. The office was stifling, and I
was kept hard at it all the afternoon. So it came as a relief when we
closed down and I was strolling slowly along the wharves in the
coolness. The sky was green, and it was pleasant to be out- of-doors
after the stuffy office. However, I went straight home, as I had to put
some potatoes on to boil.
The hall was dark and, when I was starting up the stairs, I almost
bumped into old Salamano, who lived on the same floor as I. As usual, he
had his dog with him. For eight years the two had been inseparable.
Salamano 's spaniel is an ugly brute, afflicted with some skin disease —
mange, I suspect; anyhow, it has lost all its hair and its body is
covered with brown scabs. Perhaps through living in one small room,
cooped up with his dog, Salamano has come to resemble it. His towy hair
has gone very thin, and he has reddish blotches on his face. And the dog
has developed something of its master's queer hunched-up gait; it always
has its muzzle stretched far forward and its nose to the ground. But,
oddly enough, though so much alike, they detest each other.
Twice a day, at eleven and six, the old fellow takes his dog for a walk,
and for eight years that walk has never varied. You can see them in the
rue de Lyon, the dog pulling his master along as hard as he can, till
finally the old chap misses a step and nearly falls. Then he beats his
dog and calls it names. The dog cowers and lags behind, and it's his
master's turn to drag him along. Presently the dog forgets, starts
tugging at the leash again, gets another hiding and more abuse. Then
they halt on the pavement, the pair of them, and glare at each other;
the dog with terror and the man with hatred in his eyes. Every time
they're out, this happens. When the dog wants to stop at a lamppost, the
old boy won't let him, and drags him on, and the wretched spaniel leaves
behind him a trail of little drops. But, if he does it in the room, it
means another hiding.
It's been going on like this for eight years, and Celeste always says
it's a "crying shame," and something should be done about it; but really
one can't be sure. When I met him in the hall, Salamano was bawling at
his dog, calling him a bastard, a lousy mongrel, and so forth, and the
dog was whining. I said, "Good evening," but the old fellow took no
notice and went on cursing. So I thought I'd ask him what the dog had
done. Again, he didn't answer, but went on shouting, "You bloody cur!"
and the rest of it. I couldn't see very clearly, but he seemed to be
fixing something on the dog's collar. I raised my voice a little.
Without looking round, he mumbled in a sort of suppressed fury: "He's
always in the way, blast him!" Then he started up the stairs, but the
dog tried to resist and flattened itself out on the floor, so he had to
haul it up on the leash, step by step.
Just then another man who lives on my floor came in from the street. The
general idea hereabouts is that he's a pimp. But if you ask him what his
job is, he says he's a warehouseman. One thing's sure: he isn't popular
in our street. Still, he often has a word for me, and drops in sometimes
for a short talk in my room, because I listen to him. As a matter of
fact, I find what he says quite interesting. So, really I've no reason
for freezing him off. His name is Sintes; Raymond Sintes. He's short and
thick-set, has a nose like a boxer's, and always dresses very sprucely.
He, too, once said to me, referring to Salamano, that it was "a damned
shame," and asked me if I wasn't disgusted by the way the old man served
his dog. I answered: "No."
We went up the stairs together, Sintes and I, and when I was turning in
at my door, he said:
"Look here! How about having some grub with me? I've a black pudding and
some wine."
It struck me that this would save my having to cook my dinner, so I
said, "Thanks very much."
He, too, has only one room, and a little kitchen without a window. I saw
a pink- and-white plaster angel above his bed, and some photos of
sporting champions and naked girls pinned to the opposite wall. The bed
hadn't been made and the room was dirty. He began by lighting a paraffin
lamp; then fumbled in his pocket and produced a rather grimy bandage,
which he wrapped round his right hand. I asked him what the trouble was.
He told me he'd been having a roughhouse with a fellow who'd annoyed
him.
"I'm not one who looks for trouble," he explained, "only I'm a bit
short-tempered. That fellow said to me, challenging-like, 'Come down off
that streetcar, if you're a man.' I says, 'You keep quiet, I ain't done
nothing to you.' Then he said I hadn't any guts. Well, that settled it.
I got down off the streetcar and I said to him, 'You better keep your
mouth shut, or I'll shut it for you.' 'I'd like to see you try! ' says
he. Then I gave him one across the face, and laid him out good and
proper. After a bit I started to help him get up, but all he did was to
kick at me from where he lay. So I gave him one with my knee and a
couple more swipes. He was bleeding like a pig when I'd done with him. I
asked him if he'd had enough, and he said, 'Yes.' "
Sintes was busy fixing his bandage while he talked, and I was sitting on
the bed.
"So you see," he said, "it wasn't my fault; he was asking for it, wasn't
he?"
I nodded, and he added:
"As a matter of fact, I rather want to ask your advice about something;
it's connected with this business. You've knocked about the world a bit,
and I daresay you can help me. And then I'll be your pal for life; I
never forget anyone who does me a good turn."
When I made no comment, he asked me if I'd like us to be pals. I replied
that I had no objection, and that appeared to satisfy him. He got out
the black pudding, cooked it in a frying pan, then laid the table,
putting out two bottles of wine. While he was doing this he didn't
speak.
We started dinner, and then he began telling me the whole story,
hesitating a bit at first.
"There's a girl behind it — as usual. We slept together pretty regular.
I was keeping her, as a matter of fact, and she cost me a tidy sum. That
fellow I knocked down is her brother."
Noticing that I said nothing, he added that he knew what the neighbors
said about him, but it was a filthy lie. He had his principles like
everybody else, and a job in a warehouse.
"Well," he said, "to go on with my story ... I found out one day that
she was letting me down." He gave her enough money to keep her going,
without extravagance, though; he paid the rent of her room and twenty
francs a day for food. "Three hundred francs for rent, and six hundred
for her grub, with a little present thrown in now and then, a pair of
stockings or whatnot. Say, a thousand francs a month. But that wasn't
enough for my fine lady; she was always grumbling that she couldn't make
both ends meet with what I gave her. So one day I says to her, 'Look
here, why not get a job for a few hours a day? That'd make things easier
for me, too. I bought you a new dress this month, I pay your rent and
give you twenty francs a day. But you go and waste your money at the
cafe with a pack of girls. You give them coffee and sugar. And, of
course, the money comes out of my pocket. I treat you on the square, and
that's how you pay me back.' But she wouldn't hear of working, though
she kept on saying she couldn't make do with what I gave her. And then
one day I found out she was doing me dirt."
He went on to explain that he'd found a lottery ticket in her bag, and,
when he asked where the money 'd come from to buy it, she wouldn't tell
him. Then, another time, he'd found a pawn ticket for two bracelets that
he'd never set eyes on.
"So I knew there was dirty work going on, and I told her I'd have
nothing more to do with her. But, first, I gave her a good hiding, and I
told her some home truths. I said that there was only one thing
interested her and that was getting into bed with men whenever she'd the
chance. And I warned her straight, 'You'll be sorry one day, my girl,
and wish you'd got me back. All the girls in the street, they're jealous
of your luck in having me to keep you. ' "
He'd beaten her till the blood came. Before that he'd never beaten her.
"Well, not hard, anyhow; only affectionately-like. She'd howl a bit, and
I had to shut the window. Then, of course, it ended as per usual. But
this time I'm done with her. Only, to my mind, I ain't punished her
enough. See what I mean?"
He explained that it was about this he wanted my advice. The lamp was
smoking, and he stopped pacing up and down the room, to lower the wick.
I just listened, without speaking. I'd had a whole bottle of wine to
myself and my head was buzzing. As I'd used up my cigarettes I was
smoking Raymond's. Some late streetcars passed, and the last noises of
the street died off with them. Raymond went on talking. What bored him
was that he had "a sort of lech on her" as he called it. But he was
quite determined to teach her a lesson.
His first idea, he said, had been to take her to a hotel, and then call
in the special police. He'd persuade them to put her on the register as
a "common prostitute," and that would make her wild. Then he'd looked up
some friends of his in the underworld, fellows who kept tarts for what
they could make out of them, but they had practically nothing to
suggest. Still, as he pointed out, that sort of thing should have been
right up their street; what's the good of being in that line if you
don't know how to treat a girl who's let you down? When he told them
that, they suggested he should "brand" her. But that wasn't what he
wanted, either. It would need a lot of thinking out. ... But, first,
he'd like to ask me something. Before he asked it, though, he'd like to
have my opinion of the story he'd been telling, in a general way.
I said I hadn't any, but I'd found it interesting.
Did I think she really had done him dirt?
I had to admit it looked like that. Then he asked me if I didn't think
she should be punished and what I'd do if I were in his shoes. I told
him one could never be quite sure how to act in such cases, but I quite
understood his wanting her to suffer for it.
I drank some more wine, while Raymond lit another cigarette and began
explaining what he proposed to do. He wanted to write her a letter, "a
real stinker, that'll get her on the raw," and at the same time make her
repent of what she'd done. Then, when she came back, he'd go to bed with
her and, just when she was "properly primed up," he'd spit in her face
and throw her out of the room. I agreed it wasn't a bad plan; it would
punish her, all right.
But, Raymond told me, he didn't feel up to writing the kind of letter
that was needed, and that was where I could help. When I didn't say
anything, he asked me if I'd mind doing it right away, and I said, "No,"
I'd have a shot at it.
He drank off a glass of wine and stood up. Then he pushed aside the
plates and the bit of cold pudding that was left, to make room on the
table. After carefully wiping the oilcloth, he got a sheet of squared
paper from the drawer of his bedside table; after that, an envelope, a
small red wooden penholder, and a square inkpot with purple ink in it.
The moment he mentioned the girl's name I knew she was a Moor.
I wrote the letter. I didn't take much trouble over it, but I wanted to
satisfy Raymond, as I'd no reason not to satisfy him. Then I read out
what I'd written. Puffing at his cigarette, he listened, nodding now and
then. "Read it again, please," he said. He seemed delighted. "That's the
stuff," he chuckled. "I could tell you was a brainy sort, old boy, and
you know what's what."
At first I hardly noticed that "old boy." It came back to me when he
slapped me on the shoulder and said, "So now we're pals, ain't we?" I
kept silence and he said it again. I didn't care one way or the other,
but as he seemed so set on it, I nodded and said, "Yes."
He put the letter into the envelope and we finished off the wine. Then
both of us smoked for some minutes, without speaking. The street was
quite quiet, except when now and again a car passed. Finally, I remarked
that it was getting late, and Raymond agreed. "Time's gone mighty fast
this evening," he added, and in a way that was true. I wanted to be in
bed, only it was such an effort making a move. I must have looked tired,
for Raymond said to me, "You mustn't let things get you down." At first
I didn't catch his meaning. Then he explained that he had heard of my
mother's death; anyhow, he said, that was something bound to happen one
day or another. I appreciated that, and told him so.
When I rose, Raymond shook hands very warmly, remarking that men always
understood each other. After closing the door behind me I lingered for
some moments on the landing. The whole building was as quiet as the
grave, a dank, dark smell rising from the well hole of the stairs. I
could hear nothing but the blood throbbing in my ears, and for a while I
stood still, listening to it. Then the dog began to moan in old
Salamano's room, and through the sleep-bound house the little plaintive
sound rose slowly, like a flower growing out of the silence and the
darkness.
I HAD a busy time in the office throughout the week. Raymond dropped in
once to tell me he'd sent off the letter. I went to the pictures twice
with Emmanuel, who doesn't always understand what's happening on the
screen and asks me to explain it. Yesterday was Saturday, and Marie came
as we'd arranged. She had a very pretty dress, with red and white
stripes, and leather sandals, and I couldn't take my eyes off her. One
could see the outline of her firm little breasts, and her sun-tanned
face was like a velvety brown flower. We took the bus and went to a
beach I know, some miles out of Algiers. It's just a strip of sand
between two rocky spurs, with a line of rushes at the back, along the
tide line. At four o'clock the sun wasn't too hot, but the water was
pleasantly tepid, and small, languid ripples were creeping up the sand.
Marie taught me a new game. The idea was, while one swam, to suck in the
spray off the waves and, when one's mouth was full of foam, to lie on
one's back and spout it out against the sky. It made a sort of frothy
haze that melted into the air or fell back in a warm shower on one's
cheeks. But very soon my mouth was smarting with all the salt I'd drawn
in; then Marie came up and hugged me in the water, and pressed her mouth
to mine. Her tongue cooled my lips, and we let the waves roll us about
for a minute or two before swimming back to the beach.
When we had finished dressing, Marie looked hard at me. Her eyes were
sparkling. I kissed her; after that neither of us spoke for quite a
while. I pressed her to my side as we scrambled up the foreshore. Both
of us were in a hurry to catch the bus, get back to my place, and tumble
on to the bed. I'd left my window open, and it was pleasant to feel the
cool night air flowing over our sunburned bodies.
Marie said she was free next morning, so I proposed she should have
luncheon with me. She agreed, and I went down to buy some meat. On my
way back I heard a woman's voice in Raymond's room. A little later old
Salamano started grumbling at his dog and presently there was a sound of
boots and paws on the wooden stairs; then, "Filthy brute! Get on, you
cur!" and the two of them went out into the street. I told Marie about
the old man's habits, and it made her laugh. She was wearing one of my
pajama suits, and had the sleeves rolled up. When she laughed I wanted
her again. A moment later she asked me if I loved her. I said that sort
of question had no meaning, really; but I supposed I didn't. She looked
sad for a bit, but when we were getting our lunch ready she brightened
up and started laughing, and when she laughs I always want to kiss her.
It was just then that the row started in Raymond's room.
First we heard a woman saying something in a high-pitched voice; then
Raymond bawling at her, "You let me down, you bitch! I'll learn you to
let me down!" There came some thuds, then a piercing scream — it made
one's blood run cold — and in a moment there was a crowd of people on
the landing. Marie and I went out to see. The woman was still screaming
and Raymond still knocking her about. Marie said, wasn't it horrible! I
didn't answer anything. Then she asked me to go and fetch a policeman,
but I told her I didn't like policemen. However, one turned up
presently; the lodger on the second floor, a plumber, came up, with him.
When he banged on the door the noise stopped inside the room. He knocked
again, and, after a moment, the woman started crying, and Raymond opened
the door. He had a cigarette dangling from his underlip and a rather
sickly smile.
"Your name?" Raymond gave his name. "Take that cigarette out of your
mouth when you're talking to me," the policeman said gruffly. Raymond
hesitated, glanced at me, and kept the cigarette in his mouth. The
policeman promptly swung his arm and gave him a good hard smack on the
left cheek. The cigarette shot from his lips and dropped a yard away.
Raymond made a wry face, but said nothing for a moment. Then in a humble
tone he asked if he mightn't pick up his cigarette.
The officer said, "Yes," and added: "But don't you forget next time that
we don't stand for any nonsense, not from guys like you."
Meanwhile the girl went on sobbing and repeating: "He hit me, the
coward. He's a pimp."
"Excuse me, officer," Raymond put in, "but is that in order, calling a
man a pimp in the presence of witnesses?"
The policeman told him to shut his trap.
Raymond then turned to the girl. "Don't you worry, my pet. We'll meet
again."
"That's enough," the policeman said, and told the girl to go away.
Raymond was to stay in his room till summoned to the police station.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," the policeman added, "getting so
tight you can't stand steady. Why, you're shaking all over!"
"I'm not tight," Raymond explained. "Only when I see you standing there
and looking at me, I can't help trembling. That's only natural."
Then he closed his door, and we all went away. Marie and I finished
getting our lunch ready. But she hadn't any appetite, and I ate nearly
all. She left at one, and then I had a nap.
Toward three there was a knock at my door and Raymond came in. He sat
down on the edge of my bed and for a minute or two said nothing. I asked
him how it had gone off. He said it had all gone quite smoothly at
first, as per program; only then she'd slapped his face and he'd seen
red, and started thrashing her. As for what happened after that, he
needn't tell me, as I was there.
"Well," I said, "you taught her a lesson, all right, and that's what you
wanted, isn't it?"
He agreed, and pointed out that whatever the police did, that wouldn't
change the fact she'd had her punishment. As for the police, he knew
exactly how to handle them. But he'd like to know if I'd expected him to
return the blow when the policeman hit him.
I told him I hadn't expected anything whatsoever and, anyhow, I had no
use for the police. Raymond seemed pleased and asked if I'd like to come
out for a stroll with him. I got up from the bed and started brushing my
hair. Then Raymond said that what he really wanted was for me to act as
his witness. I told him I had no objection; only I didn't know what he
expected me to say.
"It's quite simple," he replied. "You've only got to tell them that the
girl had let me down."
So I agreed to be his witness.
We went out together, and Raymond stood me a brandy in a cafe. Then we
had a game of billiards; it was a close game and I lost by only a few
points. After that he proposed going to a brothel, but I refused; I
didn't feel like it. As we were walking slowly back he told me how
pleased he was at having paid out his mistress so satisfactorily. He
made himself extremely amiable to me, and I quite enjoyed our walk.
When we were nearly home I saw old Salamano on the doorstep; he seemed
very excited. I noticed that his dog wasn't with him. He was turning
like a teetotum, looking in all directions, and sometimes peering into
the darkness of the hall with his little bloodshot eyes. Then he'd
mutter something to himself and start gazing up and down the street
again.
Raymond asked him what was wrong, but he didn't answer at once. Then I
heard him grunt, "The bastard! The filthy cur!" When I asked him where
his dog was, he scowled at me and snapped out, "Gone!" A moment later,
all of a sudden, he launched out into it.
"I'd taken him to the Parade Ground as usual. There was a fair on, and
you could hardly move for the crowd. I stopped at one of the booths to
look at the Handcuff King. When I turned to go, the dog was gone. I'd
been meaning to get a smaller collar, but I never thought the brute
could slip it and get away like that."
Raymond assured him the dog would find its way home, and told him
stories of dogs that had traveled miles and miles to get back to their
masters. But this seemed to make the old fellow even more worried than
before.
"Don't you understand, they'll do away with him; the police, I mean.
It's not likely anyone will take him in and look after him; with all
those scabs he puts everybody off."
I told him that there was a pound at the police station, where stray
dogs are taken. His dog was certain to be there and he could get it back
on payment of a small charge. He asked me how much the charge was, but
there I couldn't help him. Then he flew into a rage again.
"Is it likely I'd give money for a mutt like that? No damned fear! They
can kill him, for all I care." And he went on calling his dog the usual
names.
Raymond gave a laugh and turned into the hall. I followed him upstairs,
and we parted on the landing. A minute or two later I heard Salamano's
footsteps and a knock on my door.
When I opened it, he halted for a moment in the doorway.
"Excuse me ... I hope I'm not disturbing you."
I asked him in, but he shook his head. He was staring at his toe caps,
and the gnarled old hands were trembling. Without meeting my eyes, he
started talking.
"They won't really take him from me, will they, Monsieur Meursault?
Surely they wouldn't do a thing like that. If they do — I don't know
what will become of me."
I told him that, so far as I knew, they kept stray dogs in the pound for
three days, waiting for their owners to call for them. After that they
disposed of the dogs as they thought fit.
He stared at me in silence for a moment, then said, "Good evening."
After that I heard him pacing up and down his room for quite a while.
Then his bed creaked. Through the wall there came to me a little
wheezing sound, and I guessed that he was weeping. For some reason, I
don't know what, I began thinking of Mother. But I had to get up early
next day; so, as I wasn't feeling hungry, I did without supper, and went
straight to bed.
RAYMOND rang me up at the office. He said that a friend of his — to whom
he'd spoken about me — invited me to spend next Sunday at his little
seaside bungalow just outside Algiers. I told him I'd have been
delighted; only I had promised to spend Sunday with a girl. Raymond
promptly replied that she could come, too. In fact, his friend's wife
would be very pleased not to be the only woman in a party of men.
I'd have liked to hang up at once, as my employer doesn't approve of my
using the office phone for private calls. But Raymond asked me to hold
on; he had something else to tell me, and that was why he'd rung me up,
though he could have waited till the evening to pass on the invitation.
"It's like this," he said. "I've been shadowed all the morning by some
Arabs. One of them's the brother of that girl I had the row with. If you
see him hanging round the house when you come back, pass me the word."
I promised to do so.
Just then my employer sent for me. For a moment I felt uneasy, as I
expected he was going to tell me to stick to my work and not waste time
chattering with friends over the phone. However, it was nothing of the
kind. He wanted to discuss a project he had in view, though so far he'd
come to no decision. It was to open a branch at Paris, so as to be able
to deal with the big companies on the spot, without postal delays, and
he wanted to know if I'd like a post there.
"You're a young man," he said, "and I'm pretty sure you'd enjoy living
in Paris. And, of course, you could travel about France for some months
in the year."
I told him I was quite prepared to go; but really I didn't care much one
way or the other.
He then asked if a "change of life," as he called it, didn't appeal to
me, and I answered that one never changed his way of life; one life was
as good as another, and my present one suited me quite well.
At this he looked rather hurt, and told me that I always
shilly-shallied, and that I lacked ambition — a grave defect, to his
mind, when one was in business.
I returned to my work. I'd have preferred not to vex him, but I saw no
reason for "changing my life." By and large it wasn't an unpleasant one.
As a student I'd had plenty of ambition of the kind he meant. But, when
I had to drop my studies, I very soon realized all that was pretty
futile.
Marie came that evening and asked me if I'd marry her. I said I didn't
mind; if she was keen on it, we'd get married.
Then she asked me again if I loved her. I replied, much as before, that
her question meant nothing or next to nothing — but I supposed I didn't.
"If that's how you feel," she said, "why marry me?"
I explained that it had no importance really, but, if it would give her
pleasure, we could get married right away. I pointed out that, anyhow,
the suggestion came from her; as for me, I'd merely said, "Yes."
Then she remarked that marriage was a serious matter.
To which I answered: "No."
She kept silent after that, staring at me in a curious way. Then she
asked:
"Suppose another girl had asked you to marry her — I mean, a girl you
liked in the same way as you like me — would you have said 'Yes' to her,
too?"
"Naturally."
Then she said she wondered if she really loved me or not. I, of course,
couldn't enlighten her as to that. And, after another silence, she
murmured something about my being "a queer fellow." "And I daresay
that's why I love you," she added. "But maybe that's why one day I'll
come to hate you."
To which I had nothing to say, so I said nothing.
She thought for a bit, then started smiling and, taking my arm, repeated
that she was in earnest; she really wanted to marry me.
"All right," I answered. "We'll get married whenever you like." I then
mentioned the proposal made by my employer, and Marie said she'd love to
go to Paris.
When I told her I'd lived in Paris for a while, she asked me what it was
like.
"A dingy sort of town, to my mind. Masses of pigeons and dark
courtyards. And the people have washed-out, white faces."
Then we went for a walk all the way across the town by the main streets.
The women were good-lookers, and I asked Marie if she, too, noticed
this. She said, "Yes," and that she saw what I meant. After that we said
nothing for some minutes. However, as I didn't want her to leave me, I
suggested we should dine together at Celeste's. She'd have loved to dine
with me, she said, only she was booked up for the evening. We were near
my place, and I said, "Au revoir, then."
She looked me in the eyes.
"Don't you want to know what I'm doing this evening?"
I did want to know, but I hadn't thought of asking her, and I guessed
she was making a grievance of it. I must have looked embarrassed, for
suddenly she started laughing and bent toward me, pouting her lips for a
kiss.
I went by myself to Celeste's. When I had just started my dinner an
odd-looking little woman came in and asked if she might sit at my table.
Of course she might. She had a chubby face like a ripe apple, bright
eyes, and moved in a curiously jerky way, as if she were on wires. After
taking off her closefitting jacket she sat down and started studying the
bill of fare with a sort of rapt attention. Then she called Celeste and
gave her order, very fast but quite distinctly; one didn't lose a word.
While waiting for the hors d'oeuvre she opened her bag, took out a slip
of paper and a pencil, and added up the bill in advance. Diving into her
bag again, she produced a purse and took from it the exact sum, plus a
small tip, and placed it on the cloth in front of her.
Just then the waiter brought the hors d'oeuvre, which she proceeded to
wolf down voraciously. While waiting for the next course, she produced
another pencil, this time a blue one, from her bag, and the radio
magazine for the coming week, and started making ticks against almost
all the items of the daily programs. There were a dozen pages in the
magazine, and she continued studying them closely throughout the meal.
When I'd finished mine she was still ticking off items with the same
meticulous attention. Then she rose, put on her jacket again with the
same abrupt, robot-like gestures, and walked briskly out of the
restaurant.
Having nothing better to do, I followed her for a short distance.
Keeping on the curb of the pavement, she walked straight ahead, never
swerving or looking back, and it was extraordinary how fast she covered
the ground, considering her smallness. In fact, the pace was too much
for me, and I soon lost sight of her and turned back homeward. For a
moment the "little robot" (as I thought of her) had much impressed me,
but I soon forgot about her.
As I was turning in at my door I ran into old Salamano. I asked him into
my room, and he informed me that his dog was definitely lost. He'd been
to the pound to inquire, but it wasn't there, and the staff told him it
had probably been run over. When he asked them whether it was any use
inquiring about it at the police station, they said the police had more
important things to attend to than keeping records of stray dogs run
over in the streets. I suggested he should get another dog, but,
reasonably enough, he pointed out that he'd become used to this one, and
it wouldn't be the same thing.
I was seated on my bed, with my legs up, and Salamano on a chair beside
the table, facing me, his hands spread on his knees. He had kept on his
battered felt hat and was mumbling away behind his draggled yellowish
mustache. I found him rather boring, but I had nothing to do and didn't
feel sleepy. So, to keep the conversation going, I asked some questions
about his dog — how long he had had it and so forth. He told me he had
got it soon after his wife's death. He'd married rather late in life.
When a young man, he wanted to go on the stage; during his military
service he'd often played in the regimental theatricals and acted rather
well, so everybody said. However, finally, he had taken a job in the
railway, and he didn't regret it, as now he had a small pension. He and
his wife had never hit it off very well, but they'd got used to each
other, and when she died he felt lonely. One of his mates on the railway
whose bitch had just had pups had offered him one, and he had taken it,
as a companion. He'd had to feed it from the bottle at first. But, as a
dog's life is shorter than a man's, they'd grown old together, so to
speak.
"He was a cantankerous brute," Salamano said. "Now and then we had some
proper set-tos, he and I. But he was a good mutt all the same."
I said he looked well bred, and that evidently pleased the old man.
"Ah, but you should have seen him before his illness!" he said. "He had
a wonderful coat; in fact, that was his best point, really. I tried hard
to cure him; every mortal night after he got that skin disease I rubbed
an ointment in. But his real trouble was old age, and there's no curing
that."
Just then I yawned, and the old man said he'd better make a move. I told
him he could stay, and that I was sorry about what had happened to his
dog. He thanked me, and mentioned that my mother had been very fond of
his dog. He referred to her as "your poor mother," and was afraid I must
be feeling her death terribly. When I said nothing he added hastily and
with a rather embarrassed air that some of the people in the street said
nasty things about me because I'd sent my mother to the Home. But he, of
course, knew better; he knew how devoted to my mother I had always been.
I answered — why, I still don't know — that it surprised me to learn I'd
produced such a bad impression. As I couldn't afford to keep her here,
it seemed the obvious thing to do, to send her to a home. "In any case,"
I added, "for years she'd never had a word to say to me, and I could see
she was moping, with no one to talk to."
"Yes," he said, "and at a home one makes friends, anyhow."
He got up, saying it was high time for him to be in bed, and added that
life was going to be a bit of a problem for him, under the new
conditions. For the first time since I'd known him he held out his hand
to me — rather shyly, I thought — and I could feel the scales on his
skin. Just as he was going out of the door, he turned and, smiling a
little, said:
"Let's hope the dogs won't bark again tonight. I always think it's mine
I hear. ..."
IT was an effort waking up that Sunday morning; Marie had to jog my
shoulders and shout my name. As we wanted to get into the water early,
we didn't trouble about breakfast. My head was aching slightly and my
first cigarette had a bitter taste. Marie told me I looked like a
mourner at a funeral, and I certainly did feel very limp. She was
wearing a white dress and had her hair loose. I told her she looked
quite ravishing like that, and she laughed happily.
On our way out we banged on Raymond's door, and he shouted that he'd be
with us in a jiffy. We went down to the street and, because of my being
rather under the weather and our having kept the blind down in my room,
the glare of the morning sun hit me in the eyes like a clenched fist.
Marie, however, was almost dancing with delight, and kept repeating,
"What a heavenly day!" After a few minutes I was feeling better, and
noticed that I was hungry. I mentioned this to Marie, but she paid no
attention. She was carrying an oilcloth bag in which she had stowed our
bathing kit and a towel. Presently we heard Raymond shutting his door.
He was wearing blue trousers, a short-sleeved white shirt, and a straw
hat. I noticed that his forearms were rather hairy, but the skin was
very white beneath. The straw hat made Marie giggle. Personally, I was
rather put off by his getup. He seemed in high spirits and was whistling
as he came down the stairs. He greeted me with, "Hello, old boy!" and
addressed Marie as "Mademoiselle."
On the previous evening we had visited the police station, where I gave
evidence for Raymond — about the girl's having been false to him. So
they let him off with a warning. They didn't check my statement.
After some talk on the doorstep we decided to take the bus. The beach
was within easy walking distance, but the sooner we got there the
better. Just as we were starting for the bus stop, Raymond plucked my
sleeve and told me to look across the street. I saw some Arabs lounging
against the tobacconist's window. They were staring at us silently, in
the special way these people have — as if we were blocks of stone or
dead trees. Raymond whispered that the second Arab from the left was
"his man," and I thought he looked rather worried However, he assured me
that all that was ancient history. Marie, who hadn't followed his
remarks, asked, "What is it?"
I explained that those Arabs across the way had a grudge against
Raymond. She insisted on our going at once. Then Raymond laughed, and
squared his shoulders. The young lady was quite right, he said. There
was no point in hanging about here. Halfway to the bus stop he glanced
back over his shoulder and said the Arabs weren't following. I, too,
looked back. They were exactly as before, gazing in the same vague way
at the spot where we had been.
When we were in the bus, Raymond, who now seemed quite at ease, kept
making jokes to amuse Marie. I could see he was attracted by her, but
she had hardly a word for him. Now and again she would catch my eye and
smile.
We alighted just outside Algiers. The beach is not far from the bus
stop; one has only to cross a patch of highland, a sort of plateau,
which overlooks the sea and shelves down steeply to the sands. The
ground here was covered with yellowish pebbles and wild lilies that
showed snow-white against the blue of the sky, which had already the
hard, metallic glint it gets on very hot days. Marie amused herself
swishing her bag against the flowers and sending the petals showering in
all directions. Then we walked between two rows of little houses with
wooden balconies and green or white palings. Some of them were half
hidden in clumps of tamarisks; others rose naked from the stony plateau.
Before we came to the end of it, the sea was in full view; it lay smooth
as a mirror, and in the distance a big headland jutted out over its
black reflection. Through the still air came the faint buzz of a motor
engine and we saw a fishing boat very far out, gliding almost
imperceptibly across the dazzling smoothness.
Marie picked some rock irises. Going down the steep path leading to the
sea, we saw some bathers already on the sands.
Raymond's friend owned a small wooden bungalow at the near end of the
beach. Its back rested against the cliffside, while the front stood on
piles, which the water was already lapping. Raymond introduced us to his
friend, whose name was Masson. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and
thick-set; his wife was a plump, cheerful little woman who spoke with a
Paris accent.
Masson promptly told us to make ourselves at home. He had gone out
fishing, he said, first thing in the morning, and there would be fried
fish for lunch. I congratulated him on his little bungalow, and he said
he always spent his week ends and holidays here. "With the missus,
needless to say," he added. I glanced at her, and noticed that she and
Marie seemed to be getting on well together; laughing and chattering
away. For the first time, perhaps, I seriously considered the
possibility of my marrying her.
Masson wanted to have a swim at once, but his wife and Raymond were
disinclined to move. So only the three of us, Marie, Masson, and myself,
went down to the beach. Marie promptly plunged in, but Masson and I
waited for a bit. He was rather slow of speech and had, I noticed, a
habit of saying "and what's more" between his phrases — even when the
second added nothing really to the first. Talking of Marie, he said:
"She's an awfully pretty girl, and what's more, charming."
But I soon ceased paying attention to this trick of his; I was basking
in the sunlight, which, I noticed, was making me feel much better. The
sand was beginning to stoke up underfoot and, though I was eager for a
dip, I postponed it for a minute or two more. At last I said to Masson:
"Shall we go in now?" and plunged. Masson walked in gingerly and only
began to swim when he was out of his depth. He swam hand over hand and
made slow headway, so I left him behind and caught up with Marie. The
water was cold and I felt all the better for it. We swam a long way out,
Marie and I, side by side, and it was pleasant feeling how our movements
matched, hers and mine, and how we were both in the same mood, enjoying
every moment.
Once we were out in the open, we lay on our backs and, as I gazed up at
the sky, I could feel the sun drawing up the film of salt water on my
lips and cheeks. We saw Masson swim back to the beach and slump down on
the sand under the sun. In the distance he looked enormous, like a
stranded whale. Then Marie proposed that we should swim tandem. She went
ahead and I put my arms round her waist, from behind, and while she drew
me forward with her arm strokes, I kicked out behind to help us on.
That sound of little splashes had been in my ears for so long that I
began to feel I'd had enough of it. So I let go of Marie and swam back
at an easy pace, taking long, deep breaths. When I made the beach I
stretched myself belly downward beside Masson, resting my face on the
sand. I told him "it was fine" here, and he agreed. Presently Marie came
back. I raised my head to watch her approach. She was glistening with
brine and holding her hair back. Then she lay down beside me, and what
with the combined warmth of our bodies and the sun, I felt myself
dropping off to sleep.
After a while Marie tugged my arm. and said Masson had gone to his
place; it must be nearly lunchtime. I rose at once, as I was feeling
hungry, but Marie told me I hadn't kissed her once since the early
morning. That was so — though I'd wanted to, several times. "Let's go
into the water again," she said, and we ran into the sea and lay flat
amongst the ripples for a moment. Then we swam a few strokes, and when
we were almost out of our depth she flung her arms round me and hugged
me. I felt her legs twining round mine, and my senses tingled.
When we got back, Masson was on the steps of his bungalow, shouting to
us to come. I told him I was ravenously hungry, and he promptly turned
to his wife and said he'd taken quite a fancy to me. The bread was
excellent, and I had my full share of the fish. Then came some steak and
potato chips. None of us spoke while eating. Masson drank a lot of wine
and kept refilling my glass the moment it was empty. By the time coffee
was handed round I was feeling slightly muzzy, and I started smoking one
cigarette after another. Masson, Raymond, and I discussed a plan of
spending the whole of August on the beach together, sharing expenses.
Suddenly Marie exclaimed: "I say! Do you know the time? It's only
half-past eleven!"
We were all surprised at that, and Masson remarked that we'd had a very
early lunch, but really lunch was a movable feast, you had it when you
felt like it.
This set Marie laughing, I don't know why. I suspect she'd drunk a bit
too much.
Then Masson asked if I'd like to come with him for a stroll on the
beach.
"My wife always has a nap after lunch," he said. "Personally I find it
doesn't agree with me; what I need is a short walk. I'm always telling
her it's much better for the health. But, of course, she's entitled to
her own opinion."
Marie proposed to stay and help with the washing up. Mme Masson smiled
and said that, in that case, the first thing was to get the men out of
the way. So we went out together, the three of us.
The light was almost vertical and the glare from the water seared one's
eyes. The beach was quite deserted now. One could hear a faint tinkle of
knives and forks and crockery in the shacks and bungalows lining the
foreshore. Heat was welling up from the rocks, and one could hardly
breathe.
At first Raymond and Masson talked of things and people I didn't know. I
gathered that they'd been acquainted for some time and had even lived
together for a while. We went down to the water's edge and walked along
it; now and then a longer wave wet our canvas shoes. I wasn't thinking
of anything, as all that sunlight beating down on my bare head made me
feel half asleep.
Just then Raymond said something to Masson that I didn't quite catch.
But at the same moment I noticed two Arabs in blue dungarees a long way
down the beach, coming in our direction. I gave Raymond a look and he
nodded, saying, "That's him." We walked steadily on. Masson wondered how
they'd managed to track us here. My impression was that they had seen us
taking the bus and noticed Marie's oilcloth bathing bag; but I didn't
say anything.
Though the Arabs walked quite slowly, they were much nearer already. We
didn't change our pace, but Raymond said:
"Listen! If there's a roughhouse, you, Masson, take on the second one.
I'll tackle the fellow who's after me. And you, Meursault, stand by to
help if another one comes up, and lay him out."
I said, "Right," and Masson put his hands in his pockets.
The sand was as hot as fire, and I could have sworn it was glowing red.
The distance between us and the Arabs was steadily decreasing. When we
were only a few steps away the Arabs halted. Masson and I slowed down,
while Raymond went straight up to his man. I couldn't hear what he said,
but I saw the native lowering his head, as if to butt him in the chest.
Raymond lashed out promptly and shouted to Masson to come. Masson went
up to the man he had been marking and struck him twice with all his
might. The fellow fell flat into the water and stayed there some seconds
with bubbles coming up to the surface round his head. Meanwhile Raymond
had been slogging the other man, whose face was streaming with blood. He
glanced at me over his shoulder and shouted:
"Just you watch! I ain't finished with him yet!"
"Look out!" I cried. "He's got a knife."
I spoke too late. The man had gashed Raymond's arm and his mouth as
well.
Masson sprang forward. The other Arab got up from the water and placed
himself behind the fellow with the knife. We didn't dare to move. The
two natives backed away slowly, keeping us at bay with the knife and
never taking their eyes off us. When they were at a safe distance they
swung round and took to their heels. We stood stock-still, with the
sunlight beating down on us. Blood was dripping from Raymond's wounded
arm, which he was squeezing hard above the elbow.
Masson remarked that there was a doctor who always spent his Sundays
here, and Raymond said: "Good. Let's go to him at once." He could hardly
get the words out, as the blood from his other wound made bubbles in his
mouth.
We each gave him an arm and helped him back to the bungalow. Once we
were there he told us the wounds weren't so very deep and he could walk
to where the doctor was. Marie had gone quite pale, and Mme Masson was
in tears.
Masson and Raymond went off to the doctor's while I was left behind at
the bungalow to explain matters to the women. I didn't much relish the
task and soon dried up and started smoking, staring at the sea.
Raymond came back at about half-past one, accompanied by Masson. He had
his arm bandaged and a strip of sticking plaster on the corner of his
mouth. The doctor had assured him it was nothing serious, but he was
looking very glum. Masson tried to make him laugh, but without success.
Presently Raymond said he was going for a stroll on the beach. I asked
him where he proposed to go, and he mumbled something about "wanting to
take the air." We — Masson and I — then said we'd go with him, but he
flew into a rage and told us to mind our own business. Masson said we
mustn't insist, seeing the state he was in. However, when he went out, I
followed him.
It was like a furnace outside, with the sunlight splintering into flakes
of fire on the sand and sea. We walked for quite a while, and I had an
idea that Raymond had a definite idea where he was going; but probably I
was mistaken about this.
At the end of the beach we came to a small stream that had cut a channel
in the sand, after coming out from behind a biggish rock. There we found
our two Arabs again, lying on the sand in their blue dungarees. They
looked harmless enough, as if they didn't bear any malice, and neither
made any move when we approached. The man who had slashed Raymond stared
at him without speaking. The other man was blowing down a little reed
and extracting from it three notes of the scale, which he played over
and over again, while he watched us from the corner of an eye.
For a while nobody moved; it was all sunlight and silence except for the
tinkle of the stream and those three little lonely sounds. Then Raymond
put his hand to his revolver pocket, but the Arabs still didn't move. I
noticed the man playing on the reed had his big toes splayed out almost
at right angles to his feet.
Still keeping his eyes on his man, Raymond said to me: "Shall I plug him
one?"
I thought quickly. If I told him not to, considering the mood he was in,
he might very well fly into a temper and use his gun. So I said the
first thing that came into my head.
"He hasn't spoken to you yet. It would be a lowdown trick to shoot him
like that, in cold blood."
Again, for some moments one heard nothing but the tinkle of the stream
and the flute notes weaving through the hot, still air.
"Well," Raymond said at last, "if that's how you feel, I'd better say
something insulting, and if he answers back I'll loose off."
"Right," I said. "Only, if he doesn't get out his knife you've no
business to fire."
Raymond was beginning to fidget. The Arab with the reed went on playing,
and both of them watched all our movements.
"Listen," I said to Raymond. "You take on the fellow on the right, and
give me your revolver. If the other one starts making trouble or gets
out his knife, I'll shoot."
The sun glinted on Raymond's revolver as he handed it to me. But nobody
made a move yet; it was just as if everything had closed in on us so
that we couldn't stir. We could only watch each other, never lowering
our eyes; the whole world seemed to have come to a standstill on this
little strip of sand between the sunlight and the sea, the twofold
silence of the reed and stream. And just then it crossed my mind that
one might fire, or not fire — and it would come to absolutely the same
thing.
Then, all of a sudden, the Arabs vanished; they'd slipped like lizards
under cover of the rock. So Raymond and I turned and walked back. He
seemed happier, and began talking about the bus to catch for our return.
When we reached the bungalow Raymond promptly went up the wooden steps,
but I halted on the bottom one. The light seemed thudding in my head and
I couldn't face the effort needed to go up the steps and make myself
amiable to the women. But the heat was so great that it was just as bad
staying where I was, under that flood of blinding light falling from the
sky. To stay, or to make a move — it came to much the same. After a
moment I returned to the beach, and started walking.
There was the same red glare as far as eye could reach, and small waves
were lapping the hot sand in little, flurried gasps. As I slowly walked
toward the boulders at the end of the beach I could feel my temples
swelling under the impact of the light. It pressed itself on me, trying
to check my progress. And each time I felt a hot blast strike my
forehead, I gritted my teeth, I clenched my fists in my trouser pockets
and keyed up every nerve to fend off the sun and the dark befuddlement
it was pouring into me. Whenever a blade of vivid light shot upward from
a bit of shell or broken glass lying on the sand, my jaws set hard. I
wasn't going to be beaten, and I walked steadily on.
The small black hump of rock came into view far down the beach. It was
rimmed by a dazzling sheen of light and feathery spray, but I was
thinking of the cold, clear stream behind it, and longing to hear again
the tinkle of running water. Anything to be rid of the glare, the sight
of women in tears, the strain and effort — and to retrieve the pool of
shadow by the rock and its cool silence!
But when I came nearer I saw that Raymond's Arab had returned. He was by
himself this time, lying on his back, his hands behind his head, his
face shaded by the rock while the sun beat on the rest of his body. One
could see his dungarees steaming in the heat. I was rather taken aback;
my impression had been that the incident was closed, and I hadn't given
a thought to it on my way here.
On seeing me, the Arab raised himself a little, and his hand went to his
pocket. Naturally, I gripped Raymond's revolver in the pocket of my
coat. Then the Arab let himself sink back again, but without taking his
hand from his pocket. I was some distance off, at least ten yards, and
most of the time I saw him as a blurred dark form wobbling in the heat
haze. Sometimes, however, I had glimpses of his eyes glowing between the
half-closed lids. The sound of the waves was even lazier, feebler, than
at noon. But the light hadn't changed; it was pounding as fiercely as
ever on the long stretch of sand that ended at the rock. For two hours
the sun seemed to have made no progress; becalmed in a sea of molten
steel. Far out on the horizon a steamer was passing; I could just make
out from the corner of an eye the small black moving patch, while I kept
my gaze fixed on the Arab.
It struck me that all I had to do was to turn, walk away, and think no
more about it. But the whole beach, pulsing with heat, was pressing on
my back. I took some steps toward the stream. The Arab didn't move.
After all, there was still some distance between us. Perhaps because of
the shadow on his face, he seemed to be grinning at me.
I waited. The heat was beginning to scorch my cheeks; beads of sweat
were gathering in my eyebrows. It was just the same sort of heat as at
my mother's funeral, and I had the same disagreeable sensations —
especially in my forehead, where all the veins seemed to be bursting
through the skin. I couldn't stand it any longer, and took another step
forward. I knew it was a fool thing to do; I wouldn't get out of the sun
by moving on a yard or so. But I took that step, just one step, forward.
And then the Arab drew his knife and held it up toward me, athwart the
sunlight.
A shaft of light shot upward from the steel, and I felt as if a long,
thin blade transfixed my forehead. At the same moment all the sweat that
had accumulated in my eyebrows splashed down on my eyelids, covering
them with a warm film of moisture. Beneath a veil of brine and tears my
eyes were blinded; I was conscious only of the cymbals of the sun
clashing on my skull, and, less distinctly, of the keen blade of light
flashing up from the knife, scarring my eyelashes, and gouging into my
eyeballs.
Then everything began to reel before my eyes, a fiery gust came from the
sea, while the sky cracked in two, from end to end, and a great sheet of
flame poured down through the rift. Every nerve in my body was a steel
spring, and my grip closed on the revolver. The trigger gave, and the
smooth underbelly of the butt jogged my palm. And so, with that crisp,
whipcrack sound, it all began. I shook off my sweat and the clinging
veil of light. I knew I'd shattered the balance of the day, the spacious
calm of this beach on which I had been happy. But I fired four shots
more into the inert body, on which they left no visible trace. And each
successive shot was another loud, fateful rap on the door of my undoing.
I was questioned several times immediately after my arrest. But they
were all formal examinations, as to my identity and so forth. At the
first of these, which took place at the police station, nobody seemed to
have much interest in the case. However, when I was brought before the
examining magistrate a week later, I noticed that he eyed me with
distinct curiosity. Like the others, he began by asking my name,
address, and occupation, the date and place of my birth. Then he
inquired if I had chosen a lawyer to defend me. I answered, "No," I
hadn't thought about it, and asked him if it was really necessary for me
to have one.
"Why do you ask that?" he said. I replied that I regarded my case as
very simple. He smiled. "Well, it may seem so to you. But we've got to
abide by the law, and, if you don't engage a lawyer, the court will have
to appoint one for you."
It struck me as an excellent arrangement that the authorities should see
to details of this kind, and I told him so. He nodded, and agreed that
the Code was all that could be desired.
At first I didn't take him quite seriously. The room in which he
interviewed me was much like an ordinary sitting room, with curtained
windows, and a single lamp standing on the desk. Its light fell on the
armchair in which he'd had me sit, while his own face stayed in shadow.
I had read descriptions of such scenes in books, and at first it all
seemed like a game. After our conversation, however, I had a good look
at him. He was a tall man with clean-cut features, deep-set blue eyes, a
big gray mustache, and abundant, almost snow-white hair, and he gave me
the impression of being highly intelligent and, on the whole, likable
enough. There was only one thing that put one off: his mouth had now and
then a rather ugly twist; but it seemed to be only a sort of nervous
tic. When leaving, I very nearly held out my hand and said, "Good-by";
just in time I remembered that I'd killed a man.
Next day a lawyer came to my cell; a small, plump, youngish man with
sleek black hair. In spite of the heat — I was in my shirt sleeves — he
was wearing a dark suit, stiff collar, and a rather showy tie, with
broad black and white stripes. After depositing his brief case on my
bed, he introduced himself, and added that he'd perused the record of my
case with the utmost care. His opinion was that it would need cautious
handling, but there was every prospect of my getting off, provided I
followed his advice. I thanked him, and he said: "Good. Now let's get
down to it."
Sitting on the bed, he said that they'd been making investigations into
my private life. They had learned that my mother died recently in a
home. Inquiries had been conducted at Marengo and the police informed
that I'd shown "great callousness" at my mother's funeral.
"You must understand," the lawyer said, "that I don't relish having to
question you about such a matter. But it has much importance, and,
unless I find some way of answering the charge of 'callousness,' I shall
be handicapped in conducting your defense. And that is where you, and
only you, can help me."
He went on to ask if I had felt grief on that "sad occasion." The
question struck me as an odd one; I'd have been much embarrassed if I'd
had to ask anyone a thing like that.
I answered that, of recent years, I'd rather lost the habit of noting my
feelings, and hardly knew what to answer. I could truthfully say I'd
been quite fond of Mother — but really that didn't mean much. All normal
people, I added as on afterthought, had more or less desired the death
of those they loved, at some time or another.
Here the lawyer interrupted me, looking greatly perturbed.
"You must promise me not to say anything of that sort at the trial, or
to the examining magistrate."
I promised, to satisfy him, but I explained that my physical condition
at any given moment often influenced my feelings. For instance, on the
day I attended Mother's funeral, I was fagged out and only half awake.
So, really, I hardly took stock of what was happening. Anyhow, I could
assure him of one thing: that I'd rather Mother hadn't died.
The lawyer, however, looked displeased. "That's not enough," he said
curtly.
After considering for a bit he asked me if he could say that on that day
I had kept my feelings under control.
"No," I said. "That wouldn't be true."
He gave me a queer look, as if I slightly revolted him; then informed
me, in an almost hostile tone, that in any case the head of the Home and
some of the staff would be cited as witnesses.
"And that might do you a very nasty turn," he concluded.
When I suggested that Mother's death had no connection with the charge
against me, he merely replied that this remark showed I'd never had any
dealings with the law.
Soon after this he left, looking quite vexed. I wished he had stayed
longer and I could have explained that I desired his sympathy, not for
him to make a better job of my defense, but, if I might put it so,
spontaneously. I could see that I got on his nerves; he couldn't make me
out, and, naturally enough, this irritated him. Once or twice I had a
mind to assure him that I was just like everybody else; quite an
ordinary person. But really that would have served no great purpose, and
I let it go — out of laziness as much as anything else.
Later in the day I was taken again to the examining magistrate's office.
It was two in the afternoon and, this time, the room was flooded with
light — there was only a thin curtain on the window — and extremely hot.
After inviting me to sit down, the magistrate informed me in a very
polite tone that, "owing to unforeseen circumstances," my lawyer was
unable to be present. I should be quite entitled, he added, to reserve
my answers to his questions until my lawyer could attend.
To this I replied that I could answer for myself. He pressed a bell push
on his desk and a young clerk came in and seated himself just behind me.
Then we — I and the magistrate — settled back in our chairs and the
examination began. He led off by remarking that I had the reputation of
being a taciturn, rather self-centered person, and he'd like to know
what I had to say to that. I answered:
"Well, I rarely have anything much to say. So, naturally I keep my mouth
shut."
He smiled as on the previous occasion, and agreed that that was the best
of reasons. "In any case," he added, "it has little or no importance."
After a short silence he suddenly leaned forward, looked me in the eyes,
and said, raising his voice a little:
"What really interests me is — you!"
I wasn't quite clear what he meant, so I made no comment.
"There are several things," he continued, "that puzzle me about your
crime. I feel sure that you will help me to understand them."
When I replied that really it was quite simple, he asked me to give him
an account of what I'd done that day. As a matter of fact, I had already
told him at our first interview — in a summary sort of way, of course —
about Raymond, the beach, our swim, the fight, then the beach again, and
the five shots I'd fired. But I went over it all again, and after each
phrase he nodded. "Quite so, quite so." When I described the body lying
on the sand, he nodded more emphatically, and said, "Good!" I was tired
of repeating the same story; I felt as if I'd never talked so much in
all my life before.
After another silence he stood up and said he'd like to help me; I
interested him, and, with God's help, he would do something for me in my
trouble. But, first, he must put a few more questions.
He began by asking bluntly if I'd loved my mother.
"Yes," I replied, "like everybody else." The clerk behind me, who had
been typing away at a steady pace, must just then have hit the wrong
keys, as I heard him pushing the carrier back and crossing something
out.
Next, without any apparent logical connection, the magistrate sprang
another question.
"Why did you fire five consecutive shots?"
I thought for a bit; then explained that they weren't quite consecutive.
I fired one at first, and the other four after a short interval.
"Why did you pause between the first and second shot?"
I seemed to see it hovering again before my eyes, the red glow of the
beach, and to feel that fiery breath on my cheeks — and, this time, I
made no answer.
During the silence that followed, the magistrate kept fidgeting, running
his fingers through his hair, half rising, then sitting down again.
Finally, planting his elbows on the desk, he bent toward me with a queer
expression.
"But why, why did you go on firing at a prostrate man?"
Again I found nothing to reply.
The magistrate drew his hand across his forehead and repeated in a
slightly different tone:
"I ask you ' WhyV I insist on your telling me." I still kept silent.
Suddenly he rose, walked to a file cabinet standing against the opposite
wall, pulled a drawer open, and took from it a silver crucifix, which he
was waving as he came back to the desk.
"Do you know who this is?" His voice had changed completely; it was
vibrant with emotion.
"Of course I do," I answered.
That seemed to start him off; he began speaking at a great pace. He told
me he believed in God, and that even the worst of sinners could obtain
forgiveness of Him. But first he must repent, and become like a little
child, with a simple, trustful heart, open to conviction. He was leaning
right across the table, brandishing his crucifix before my eyes.
As a matter of fact, I had great difficulty in following his remarks,
as, for one thing, the office was so stiflingly hot and big flies were
buzzing round and settling on my cheeks; also because he rather alarmed
me. Of course, I realized it was absurd to feel like this, considering
that, after all, it was I who was the criminal. However, as he continued
talking, I did my best to understand, and I gathered that there was only
one point in my confession that badly needed clearing up — the fact that
I'd waited before firing a second time. All the rest was, so to speak,
quite in order; but that completely baffled him.
I started to tell him that he was wrong in insisting on this; the point
was of quite minor importance. But, before I could get the words out, he
had drawn himself up to his full height and was asking me very earnestly
if I believed in God. When I said, "No," he plumped down into his chair
indignantly.
That was unthinkable, he said; all men believe in God, even those who
reject Him. Of this he was absolutely sure; if ever he came to doubt it,
his life would lose all meaning. "Do you wish," he asked indignantly,
"my life to have no meaning?" Really I couldn't see how my wishes came
into it, and I told him as much.
While I was talking, he thrust the crucifix again just under my nose and
shouted: "I, anyhow, am a Christian. And I pray Him to forgive you for
your sins. My poor young man, how can you not believe that He suffered
for your sake?"
I noticed that his manner seemed genuinely solicitous when he said, "My
poor young man" — but I was beginning to have enough of it. The room was
growing steadily hotter.
As I usually do when I want to get rid of someone whose conversation
bores me, I pretended to agree. At which, rather to my surprise, his
face lit up.
"You see! You see! Now won't you own that you believe and put your trust
in Him?"
I must have shaken my head again, for he sank back in his chair, looking
limp and dejected.
For some moments there was a silence during which the typewriter, which
had been clicking away all the time we talked, caught up with the last
remark. Then he looked at me intently and rather sadly.
"Never in all my experience have I known a soul so case-hardened as
yours," he said in a low tone. "All the criminals who have come before
me until now wept when they saw this symbol of our Lord's sufferings."
I was on the point of replying that was precisely because they were
criminals. But then I realized that I, too, came under that description.
Somehow it was an idea to which I never could get reconciled.
To indicate, presumably, that the interview was over, the magistrate
stood up. In the same weary tone he asked me a last question: Did I
regret what I had done?
After thinking a bit, I said that what I felt was less regret than a
kind of vexation — I couldn't find a better word for it. But he didn't
seem to understand. ... This was as far as things went at that day's
interview.
I came before the magistrate many times more, but on these occasions my
lawyer always accompanied me. The examinations were confined to asking
me to amplify my previous statements. Or else the magistrate and my
lawyer discussed technicalities. At such times they took very little
notice of me, and, in any case, the tone of the examinations changed as
time went on. The magistrate seemed to have lost interest in me, and to
have come to some sort-of decision about my case. He never mentioned God
again or displayed any of the religious fervor I had found so
embarrassing at our first interview. The result was that our relations
became more cordial. After a few questions, followed by an exchange of
remarks with the lawyer, the magistrate closed the interview. My case
was "taking its course," as he put it. Sometimes, too, the conversation
was of a general order, and the magistrate and lawyer encouraged me to
join in it. I began to breathe more freely. Neither of the two men, at
these times, showed the least hostility toward me, and everything went
so smoothly, so amiably, that I had an absurd impression of being "one
of the family." I can honestly say that during the eleven months these
examinations lasted I got so used to them that I was almost surprised at
having ever enjoyed anything better than those rare moments when the
magistrate, after escorting me to the door of the office, would pat my
shoulder and say in a friendly tone: "Well, Mr. Antichrist, that's all
for the present!" After which I was made over to my jailers.
THERE are some things of which I've never cared to talk. And, a few days
after I'd been sent to prison, I decided that this phase of my life was
one of them. However, as time went by, I came to feel that this aversion
had no real substance. In point of fact, during those early days, I was
hardly conscious of being in prison; I had always a vague hope that
something would turn up, some agreeable surprise.
The change came soon after Marie's first and only visit. From the day
when I got her letter telling me they wouldn't let her come to see me
any more, because she wasn't my wife — it was from that day that I
realized that this cell was my last home, a dead end, so to speak.
On the day of my arrest they put me in a biggish room with several other
prisoners, mostly Arabs. They grinned when they saw me enter, and asked
me what I'd done. I told them I'd killed an Arab, and they kept mum for
a while. But presently night began to fall, and one of them explained to
me how to lay out my sleeping mat. By rolling up one end one makes a
sort of bolster. All night I felt bugs crawling over my face.
Some days later I was put by myself in a cell, where I slept on a plank
bed hinged to the wall. The only other furniture was a latrine bucket
and a tin basin. The prison stands on rising ground, and through my
little window I had glimpses of the sea. One day when I was hanging on
the bars, straining my eyes toward the sunlight playing on the waves, a
jailer entered and said I had a visitor. I thought it must be Marie, and
so it was.
To go to the Visitors' Room, I was taken along a corridor, then up a
flight of steps, then along another corridor. It was a very large room,
lit by a big bow window, and divided into three compartments by high
iron grilles running transversally. Between the two grilles there was a
gap of some thirty feet, a sort of no man's land between the prisoners
and their friends. I was led to a point exactly opposite Marie, who was
wearing her striped dress. On my side of the rails were about a dozen
other prisoners, Arabs for the most part. On Marie's side were mostly
Moorish women. She was wedged between a small old woman with tight-set
lips and a fat matron, without a hat, who was talking shrilly and
gesticulated all the time. Because of the distance between the visitors
and prisoners I found I, too, had to raise my voice.
When I came into the room the babel of voices echoing on the bare walls,
and the sunlight streaming in, flooding everything in a harsh white
glare, made me feel quite dizzy. After the relative darkness and the
silence of my cell it took me some moments to get used to these
conditions. After a bit, however, I came to see each face quite clearly,
lit up as if a spotlight played on it.
I noticed a prison official seated at each end of the no man's land
between the grilles. The native prisoners and their relations on the
other side were squatting opposite each other. They didn't raise their
voices and, in spite of the din, managed to converse almost in whispers.
This murmur of voices coming from below made a sort of accompaniment to
the conversations going on above their heads. I took stock of all this
very quickly and moved a step forward toward Marie. She was pressing her
brown, sun-tanned face to the bars and smiling as hard as she could. I
thought she was looking very pretty, but somehow couldn't bring myself
to tell her so.
"Well?" she asked, pitching her voice very high. "What about it? Are you
all right, have you everything you want?"
"Oh, yes. I've everything I want."
We were silent for some moments; Marie went on smiling. The fat woman
was bawling at the prisoner beside me, her husband presumably, a tall,
fair, pleasant- looking man.
"Jeanne refused to have him," she yelled.
"That's just too bad," the man replied.
"Yes, and I told her you'd take him back the moment you got out; but she
wouldn't hear of it."
Marie shouted across the gap that Raymond sent me his best wishes, and I
said, "Thanks." But my voice was drowned by my neighbor's, asking "if he
was quite fit."
The fat woman gave a laugh. "Fit? I should say he is! The picture of
health."
Meanwhile the prisoner on my left, a youngster with thin, girlish hands,
never said a word. His eyes, I noticed, were fixed on the little old
woman opposite him, and she returned his gaze with a sort of hungry
passion. But I had to stop looking at them as Marie was shouting to me
that we mustn't lose hope.
"Certainly not," I answered. My gaze fell on her shoulders, and I had a
sudden longing to squeeze them, through the thin dress. Its silky
texture fascinated me, and I had a feeling that the hope she spoke of
centered on it, somehow. I imagine something of the same sort was in
Marie's mind, for she went on smiling, looking straight at me.
"It'll all come right, you'll see, and then we shall get married."
All I could see of her now was the white flash of her teeth, and the
little puckers round her eyes. I answered: "Do you really think so?" but
chiefly because I felt it up to me to answer something.
She started talking very fast in the same high-pitched voice.
"Yes, you'll be acquitted, and we'll go bathing again, Sundays."
The woman beside me was still yelling away, telling her husband that
she'd left a basket for him in the prison office. She gave a list of the
things she'd brought and told him to mind and check them carefully, as
some had cost quite a lot. The youngster on my other side and his mother
were still gazing mournfully at each other, and the murmur of the Arabs
droned on below us. The light outside seemed to be surging up against
the window, seeping through, and smearing the faces of the people facing
it with a coat of yellow oil.
I began to feel slightly squeamish, and wished I could leave. The
strident voice beside me was jarring on my ears. But, on the other hand,
I wanted to have the most I could of Marie's company. I've no idea how
much time passed. I remember Marie's describing to me her work, with
that set smile always on her face. There wasn't a moment's letup in the
noise — shouts, conversations, and always that muttering undertone. The
only oasis of silence was made by the young fellow and the old woman
gazing into each other's eyes.
Then, one by one, the Arabs were led away; almost everyone fell silent
when the first one left. The little old woman pressed herself against
the bars and at the same moment a jailer tapped her son's shoulder. He
called, "Au revoir, Mother," and, slipping her hand between the bars,
she gave him a small, slow wave with it.
No sooner was she gone than a man, hat in hand, took her place. A
prisoner was led up to the empty place beside me, and the two started a
brisk exchange of remarks — not loud, however, as the room had become
relatively quiet. Someone came and called away the man on my right, and
his wife shouted at him — she didn't seem to realize it was no longer
necessary to shout — "Now, mind you look after yourself, dear, and don't
do anything rash!"
My turn came next. Marie threw me a kiss. I looked back as I walked
away. She hadn't moved; her face was still pressed to the rails, her
lips still parted in that tense, twisted smile.
Soon after this I had a letter from her. And it was then that the things
I've never liked to talk about began. Not that they were particularly
terrible; I've no wish to exaggerate and I suffered less than others.
Still, there was one thing in those early days that was really irksome:
my habit of thinking like a free man. For instance, I would suddenly be
seized with a desire to go down to the beach for a swim. And merely to
have imagined the sound of ripples at my feet, the smooth feel of the
water on my body as I struck out, and the wonderful sensation of relief
it gave brought home still more cruelly the narrowness of my cell.
Still, that phase lasted a few months only. Afterward, I had prisoner's
thoughts. I waited for the daily walk in the courtyard or a visit from
my lawyer. As for the rest of the time, I managed quite well, really.
I've often thought that had I been compelled to live in the trunk of a
dead tree, with nothing to do but gaze up at the patch of sky just
overhead, I'd have got used to it by degrees. I'd have learned to watch
for the passing of birds or drifting clouds, as I had come to watch for
my lawyer's odd neckties, or, in another world, to wait patiently till
Sunday for a spell of love-making with Marie. Well, here, anyhow, I
wasn't penned in a hollow tree trunk. There were others in the world
worse off than I. I remembered it had been one of Mother's pet ideas —
she was always voicing it — that in the long run one gets used to
anything.
Usually, however, I didn't think things out so far. Those first months
were trying, of course; but the very effort I had to make helped me
through them. For instance, I was plagued by the desire for a woman —
which was natural enough, considering my age. I never thought of Marie
especially. I was obsessed by thoughts of this woman or that, of all the
ones I'd had, all the circumstances under which I'd loved them; so much
so that the cell grew crowded with their faces, ghosts of my old
passions. That unsettled me, no doubt; but, at least, it served to kill
time.
I gradually became quite friendly with the chief jailer, who went the
rounds with the kitchen hands at mealtimes. It was he who brought up the
subject of women. "That's what the men here grumble about most," he told
me.
I said I felt like that myself. "There's something unfair about it," I
added, "like hitting a man when he's down."
"But that's the whole point of it," he said; "that's why you fellows are
kept in prison."
"I don't follow."
"Liberty," he said, "means that. You're being deprived of your liberty."
It had never before struck me in that light, but I saw his point.
"That's true," I said. "Otherwise it wouldn't be a punishment."
The jailer nodded. "Yes, you're different, you can use your brains. The
others can't. Still, those fellows find a way out; they do it by
themselves." With which remark the jailer left my cell. Next day I did
like the others.
The lack of cigarettes, too, was a trial. When I was brought to the
prison, they took away my belt, my shoelaces, and the contents of my
pockets, including my cigarettes. Once I had been given a cell to myself
I asked to be given back, anyhow, the cigarettes. Smoking was forbidden,
they informed me. That, perhaps, was what got me down the most; in fact,
I suffered really badly during the first few days. I even tore off
splinters from my plank bed and sucked them. All day long I felt faint
and bilious. It passed my understanding why I shouldn't be allowed even
to smoke; it could have done no one any harm. Later on, I understood the
idea behind it; this privation, too, was part of my punishment. But, by
the time I understood, I'd lost the craving, so it had ceased to be a
punishment.
Except for these privations I wasn't too unhappy. Yet again, the whole
problem was: how to kill time. After a while, however, once I'd learned
the trick of remembering things, I never had a moment's boredom.
Sometimes I would exercise my memory on my bedroom and, starting from a
corner, make the round, noting every object I saw on the way. At first
it was over in a minute or two. But each time I repeated the experience,
it took a little longer. I made a point of visualizing every piece of
furniture, and each article upon or in it, and then every detail of each
article, and finally the details of the details, so to speak: a tiny
dent or incrustation, or a chipped edge, and the exact grain and color
of the woodwork. At the same time I forced myself to keep my inventory
in mind from start to finish, in the right order and omitting no item.
With the result that, after a few weeks, I could spend hours merely in
listing the objects in my bedroom. I found that the more I thought, the
more details, half-forgotten or malobserved, floated up from my memory.
There seemed no end to them.
So I learned that even after a single day's experience of the outside
world a man could easily live a hundred years in prison. He'd have laid
up enough memories never to be bored. Obviously, in one way, this was a
compensation.
Then there was sleep. To begin with, I slept badly at night and never in
the day. But gradually my nights became better, and I managed to doze
off in the daytime as well. In fact, during the last months, I must have
slept sixteen or eighteen hours out of the twenty-four. So there
remained only six hours to fill — with meals, relieving nature, my
memories ... and the story of the Czech.
One day, when inspecting my straw mattress, I found a bit of newspaper
stuck to its underside. The paper was yellow with age, almost
transparent, but I could still make out the letter print. It was the
story of a crime. The first part was missing, but I gathered that its
scene was some village in Czechoslovakia. One of the villagers had left
his home to try his luck abroad. After twenty-five years, having made a
fortune, he returned to his country with his wife and child. Meanwhile
his mother and sister had been running a small hotel in the village
where he was born. He decided to give them a surprise and, leaving his
wife and child in another inn, he went to stay at his mother's place,
booking a room under an assumed name. His mother and sister completely
failed to recognize him. At dinner that evening he showed them a large
sum of money he had on him, and in the course of the night they
slaughtered him with a hammer. After taking the money they flung the
body into the river. Next morning his wife came and, without thinking,
betrayed the guest's identity. His mother hanged herself. His sister
threw herself into a well. I must have read that story thousands of
times. In one way it sounded most unlikely; in another, it was plausible
enough. Anyhow, to my mind, the man was asking for trouble; one
shouldn't play fool tricks of that sort.
So, what with long bouts of sleep, my memories, readings of that scrap
of newspaper, the tides of light and darkness, the days slipped by. I'd
read, of course, that in jail one ends up by losing track of time. But
this had never meant anything definite to me. I hadn't grasped how days
could be at once long and short. Long, no doubt, as periods to live
through, but so distended that they ended up by overlapping on each
other. In fact, I never thought of days as such; only the words
"yesterday" and "tomorrow" still kept some meaning.
When, one morning, the jailer informed me I'd now been six months in
jail, I believed him — but the words conveyed nothing to my mind. To me
it seemed like one and the same day that had been going on since I'd
been in my cell, and that I'd been doing the same thing all the time.
After the jailer left me I shined up my tin pannikin and studied my face
in it. My expression was terribly serious, I thought, even when I tried
to smile. I held the pannikin at different angles, but always my face
had the same mournful, tense expression.
The sun was setting and it was the hour of which I'd rather not speak —
"the nameless hour," I called it — when evening sounds were creeping up
from all the floors of the prison in a sort of stealthy procession. I
went to the barred window and in the last rays looked once again at my
reflected face. It was as serious as before; and that wasn't surprising,
as just then I was feeling serious. But, at the same time, I heard
something that I hadn't heard for months. It was the sound of a voice;
my own voice, there was no mistaking it. And I recognized it as the
voice that for many a day of late had been sounding in my ears. So I
knew that all this time I'd been talking to myself.
And something I'd been told came back; a remark made by the nurse at
Mother's funeral. No, there was no way out, and no one can imagine what
the evenings are like in prison.
ON THE whole I can't say that those months passed slowly; another summer
was on its way almost before I realized the first was over. And I knew
that with the first really hot days something new was in store for me.
My case was down for the last sessions of the Assize Court, and those
sessions were due to end some time in June.
The day on which my trial started was one of brilliant sunshine. My
lawyer assured me the case would take only two or three days. "From what
I hear," he added, "the court will dispatch your case as quickly as
possible, as it isn't the most important one on the Cause List. There's
a case of parricide immediately after, which will take them some time."
They came for me at half-past seven in the morning and I was conveyed to
the law courts in a prison van. The two policemen led me into a small
room that smelled of darkness. We sat near a door through which came
sounds of voices, shouts, chairs scraping on the floor; a vague hubbub
which reminded me of one of those small- town "socials" when, after the
concert's over, the hall is cleared for dancing.
One of my policemen told me the judges hadn't arrived yet, and offered
me a cigarette, which I declined. After a bit he asked me if I was
feeling nervous. I said, "No," and that the prospect of witnessing a
trial rather interested me; I'd never had occasion to attend one before.
"Maybe," the other policeman said. "But after an hour or two one's had
enough of it."
After a while a small electric bell purred in the room. They unfastened
my handcuffs, opened the door, and led me to the prisoner's dock.
There was a great crowd in the courtroom. Though the Venetian blinds
were down, light was filtering through the chinks, and the air
stiflingly hot already. The windows had been kept shut. I sat down, and
the police officers took their stand on each side of my chair.
It was then that I noticed a row of faces opposite me. These people were
staring hard at me, and I guessed they were the jury. But somehow I
didn't see them as individuals. I felt as you do just after boarding a
streetcar and you're conscious of all the people on the opposite seat
staring at you in the hope of finding something in your appearance to
amuse them. Of course, I knew this was an absurd comparison; what these
people were looking for in me wasn't anything to laugh at, but signs of
criminality. Still, the difference wasn't so very great, and, anyhow,
that's the idea I got.
What with the crowd and the stuffiness of the air I was feeling a bit
dizzy. I ran my eyes round the courtroom but couldn't recognize any of
the faces. At first I could hardly believe that all these people had
come on my account. It was such a new experience, being a focus of
interest; in the ordinary way no one ever paid much attention to me.
"What a crush!" I remarked to the policeman on my left, and he explained
that the newspapers were responsible for it.
He pointed to a group of men at a table just below the jury box. "There
they are!"
"Who?" I asked, and he replied, "The press." One of them, he added, was
an old friend of his.
A moment later the man he'd mentioned looked our way and, coming to the
dock, shook hands warmly with the policeman. The journalist was an
elderly man with a rather grim expression, but his manner was quite
pleasant. Just then I noticed that almost all the people in the
courtroom were greeting each other, exchanging remarks and forming
groups — behaving, in fact, as in a club where the company of others of
one's own tastes and standing makes one feel at ease. That, no doubt,
explained the odd impression I had of being de trop here, a sort of
gate-crasher.
However, the journalist addressed me quite amiably, and said he hoped
all would go well for me. I thanked him, and he added with a smile:
"You know, we've been featuring you a bit. We're always rather short of
copy in the summer, and there's been precious little to write about
except your case and the one that's coming on after it. I expect you've
heard about it; it's a case of parricide."
He drew my attention to one of the group at the press table, a plump,
small man with huge black-rimmed glasses, who made me think of an
overfed weasel.
"That fellow's the special correspondent of one of the Paris dailies. As
a matter of fact, he didn't come on your account. He was sent for the
parricide case, but they've asked him to cover yours as well."
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, "That was very kind of them," but
then I thought it would sound silly. With a friendly wave of his hand he
left us, and for some minutes nothing happened.
Then, accompanied by some colleagues, my lawyer bustled in, in his gown.
He went up to the press table and shook hands with the journalists. They
remained laughing and chatting together, all seemingly very much at home
here, until a bell rang shrilly and everyone went to his place. My
lawyer came up to me, shook hands, and advised me to answer all the
questions as briefly as possible, not to volunteer information, and to
rely on him to see me through.
I heard a chair scrape on my left, and a tall, thin man wearing
pince-nez settled the folds of his red gown as he took his seat. The
Public Prosecutor, I gathered. A clerk of the court announced that Their
Honors were entering, and at the same moment two big electric fans
started buzzing overhead. Three judges, two in black and the third in
scarlet, with brief cases under their arms, entered and walked briskly
to the bench, which was several feet above the level of the courtroom
floor. The man in scarlet took the central, high-backed chair, placed
his cap of office on the table, ran a handkerchief over his small bald
crown, and announced that the hearing would now begin.
The journalists had their fountain pens ready; they all wore the same
expression of slightly ironical indifference, with the exception of one,
a much younger man than his colleagues, in gray flannels with a blue
tie, who, leaving his pen on the table, was gazing hard at me. He had a
plain, rather chunky face; what held my attention were his eyes, very
pale, clear eyes, riveted on me, though not betraying any definite
emotion. For a moment I had an odd impression, as if I were being
scrutinized by myself. That — and the fact that I was unfamiliar with
court procedure — may explain why I didn't follow very well the opening
phases: the drawing of lots for the jury, the various questions put by
the presiding judge to the Prosecutor, the foreman of the jury, and my
counsel (each time he spoke all the jurymen's heads swung round together
toward the bench), the hurried reading of the charge sheet, in the
course of which I recognized some familiar names of people and places;
then some supplementary questions put to my lawyer.
Next, the Judge announced that the court would call over the witness
list. Some of the names read out by the clerk rather surprised me. From
amongst the crowd, which until now I had seen as a mere blur of faces,
rose, one after the other, Raymond, Masson, Salamano, the doorkeeper
from the Home, old Perez, and Marie, who gave me a little nervous wave
of her hand before following the others out by a side door. I was
thinking how strange it was I hadn't noticed any of them before when I
heard the last name called, that of Celeste. As he rose, I noticed
beside him the quaint little woman with a mannish coat and brisk,
decided air, who had shared my table at the restaurant. She had her eyes
fixed on me, I noticed. But I hadn't time to wonder about her; the Judge
had started speaking again.
He said that the trial proper was about to begin, and he need hardly say
that he expected the public to refrain from any demonstration
whatsoever. He explained that he was there to supervise the proceedings,
as a sort of umpire, and he would take a scrupulously impartial view of
the case. The verdict of the jury would be interpreted by him in a
spirit of justice. Finally, at the least sign of a disturbance he would
have the court cleared.
The day was stoking up. Some of the public were fanning themselves with
newspapers, and there was a constant rustle of crumpled paper. On a sign
from the presiding judge the clerk of the court brought three fans of
plaited straw, which the three judges promptly put in action.
My examination began at once. The Judge questioned me quite calmly and
even, I thought, with a hint of cordiality. For the «th time I was asked
to give particulars of my identity and, though heartily sick of this
formality, I realized that it was natural enough; after all, it would be
a shocking thing for the court to be trying the wrong man.
The Judge then launched into an account of what I'd done, stopping after
every two or three sentences to ask me, "Is that correct?" To which I
always replied, "Yes, sir," as my lawyer had advised me. It was a long
business, as the Judge lingered on each detail. Meanwhile the
journalists scribbled busily away. But I was sometimes conscious of the
eyes of the youngest fixed on me; also those of the queer little robot
woman. The jurymen, however, were all gazing at the red-robed judge, and
I was again reminded of the row of passengers on one side of a tram.
Presently he gave a slight cough, turned some pages of his file, and,
still fanning his face, addressed me gravely.
He now proposed, he said, to trench on certain matters which, on a
superficial view, might seem foreign to the case, but actually were
highly relevant. I guessed that he was going to talk about Mother, and
at the same moment realized how odious I would find this. His first
question was: Why had I sent my mother to an institution? I replied that
the reason was simple; I hadn't enough money to see that she was
properly looked after at home. Then he asked if the parting hadn't
caused me distress. I explained that neither Mother nor I expected much
of one another — or, for that matter, of anybody else; so both of us had
got used to the new conditions easily enough. The Judge then said that
he had no wish to press the point, and asked the Prosecutor if he could
think of any more questions that should be put to me at this stage.
The Prosecutor, who had his back half turned to me, said, without
looking in my direction, that, subject to His Honor's approval, he would
like to know if I'd gone back to the stream with the intention of
killing the Arab. I said, "No." In that case, why had I taken a revolver
with me, and why go back precisely to that spot? I said it was a matter
of pure chance. The Prosecutor then observed in a nasty tone: "Very
good. That will be all for the present."
I couldn't quite follow what came next. Anyhow, after some palavering
among the bench, the Prosecutor, and my counsel, the presiding judge
announced that the court would now rise; there was an adjournment till
the afternoon, when evidence would be taken.
Almost before I knew what was happening I was rushed out to the prison
van, which drove me back, and I was given my midday meal. After a short
time, just enough for me to realize how tired I was feeling, they came
for me. I was back in the same room, confronting the same faces, and the
whole thing started again. But the heat had meanwhile much increased,
and by some miracle fans had been procured for everyone: the jury, my
lawyer, the Prosecutor, and some of the journalists, too. The young man
and the robot woman were still at their places. But they were not
fanning themselves and, as before, they never took their eyes off me.
I wiped the sweat from my face, but I was barely conscious of where or
who I was until I heard the warden of the Home called to the witness
box. When asked if my mother had complained about my conduct, he said,
"Yes," but that didn't mean much; almost all the inmates of the Home had
grievances against their relatives. The Judge asked him to be more
explicit; did she reproach me with having sent her to the Home, and he
said, "Yes," again. But this time he didn't qualify his answer.
To another question he replied that on the day of the funeral he was
somewhat surprised by my calmness. Asked to explain what he meant by "my
calmness," the warden lowered his eyes and stared at his shoes for a
moment. Then he explained that I hadn't wanted to see Mother's body, or
shed a single tear, and that I'd left immediately the funeral ended,
without lingering at her grave. Another thing had surprised him. One of
the undertaker's men told him that I didn't know my mother's age. There
was a short silence; then the Judge asked him if he might take it that
he was referring to the prisoner in the dock. The warden seemed puzzled
by this, and the Judge explained: "It's a formal question. I am bound to
put it."
The Prosecutor was then asked if he had any questions to put, and he
answered loudly: "Certainly not! I have all I want." His tone and the
look of triumph on his face, as he glanced at me, were so marked that I
felt as I hadn't felt for ages. I had a foolish desire to burst into
tears. For the first time I'd realized how all these people loathed me.
After asking the jury and my lawyer if they had any questions, the Judge
heard the doorkeeper's evidence. On stepping into the box the man threw
a glance at me, then looked away. Replying to questions, he said that
I'd declined to see Mother's body, I'd smoked cigarettes and slept, and
drunk cafe au lait. It was then I felt a sort of wave of indignation
spreading through the courtroom, and for the first time I understood
that I was guilty. They got the doorkeeper to repeat what he had said
about the coffee and my smoking.
The Prosecutor turned to me again, with a gloating look in his eyes. My
counsel asked the doorkeeper if he, too, hadn't smoked. But the
Prosecutor took strong exception to this. "I'd like to know," he cried
indignantly, "who is on trial in this court. Or does my friend think
that by aspersing a witness for the prosecution he will shake the
evidence, the abundant and cogent evidence, against his client?" None
the less, the Judge told the doorkeeper to answer the question.
The old fellow fidgeted a bit. Then, "Well, I know I didn't ought to
have done it," he mumbled, "but I did take a cigarette from the young
gentleman when he offered it — just out of politeness."
The Judge asked me if I had any comment to make. "None," I said, "except
that the witness is quite right. It's true I offered him a cigarette."
The doorkeeper looked at me with surprise and a sort of gratitude. Then,
after hemming and hawing for a bit, he volunteered the statement that it
was he who'd suggested I should have some coffee.
My lawyer was exultant. "The jury will appreciate," he said, "the
importance of this admission."
The Prosecutor, however, was promptly on his feet again. "Quite so," he
boomed above our heads. "The jury will appreciate it. And they will draw
the conclusion that, though a third party might inadvertently offer him
a cup of coffee, the prisoner, in common decency, should have refused
it, if only out of respect for the dead body of the poor woman who had
brought him into the world."
After which the doorkeeper went back to his seat.
When Thomas Perez was called, a court officer had. to help him to the
box. Perez stated that, though he had been a great friend of my mother,
he had met me once only, on the day of the funeral. Asked how I had
behaved that day, he said:
"Well, I was most upset, you know. Far too much upset to notice things.
My grief sort of blinded me, I think. It had been a great shock, my dear
friend's death; in fact, I fainted during the funeral. So I didn't
hardly notice the young gentleman at all."
The Prosecutor asked him to tell the court if he'd seen me weep. And
when Perez answered, "No," added emphatically: "I trust the jury will
take note of this reply."
My lawyer rose at once, and asked Perez in a tone that seemed to me
needlessly aggressive:
"Now, think well, my man! Can you swear you saw he didn't shed a tear?"
Perez answered, "No."
At this some people tittered, and my lawyer, pushing back one sleeve of
his gown, said sternly:
"That is typical of the way this case is being conducted. No attempt is
being made to elicit the true facts."
The Prosecutor ignored this remark; he was making dabs with his pencil
on the cover of his brief, seemingly quite indifferent.
There was a break of five minutes, during which my lawyer told me the
case was going very well indeed. Then Celeste was called. He was
announced as a witness for the defense. The defense meant me.
Now and again Celeste threw me a glance; he kept squeezing his Panama
hat between his hands as he gave evidence. He was in his best suit, the
one he wore when sometimes of a Sunday he went with me to the races. But
evidently he hadn't been able to get his collar on; the top of his
shirt, I noticed, was secured only by a brass stud. Asked if I was one
of his customers, he said, "Yes, and a friend as well." Asked to state
his opinion of me, he said that I was "all right" and, when told to
explain what he meant by that, he replied that everyone knew what that
meant. "Was I a secretive sort of man?" "No," he answered, "I shouldn't
call him that. But he isn't one to waste his breath, like a lot of
folks."
The Prosecutor asked him if I always settled my monthly bill at his
restaurant when he presented it. Celeste laughed. "Oh, he paid on the
nail, all right. But the bills were just details-like, between him and
me." Then he was asked to say what he thought about the crime. He placed
his hands on the rail of the box and one could see he had a speech all
ready.
"To my mind it was just an accident, or a stroke of bad luck, if you
prefer. And a thing like that takes you off your guard."
He wanted to continue, but the Judge cut him short. "Quite so. That's
all, thank you."
For a bit Celeste seemed flabbergasted; then he explained that he hadn't
finished what he wanted to say. They told him to continue, but to make
it brief.
He only repeated that it was "just an accident."
"That's as it may be," the Judge observed. "But what we are here for is
to try such accidents, according to law. You can stand down."
Celeste turned and gazed at me. His eyes were moist and his lips
trembling. It was exactly as if he'd said: "Well, I've done my best for
you, old man. I'm afraid it hasn't helped much. I'm sorry."
I didn't say anything, or make any movement, but for the first time in
my life I wanted to kiss a man.
The Judge repeated his order to stand down, and Celeste returned to his
place amongst the crowd. During the rest of the hearing he remained
there, leaning forward, elbows on knees and his Panama between his
hands, not missing a word of the proceedings.
It was Marie's turn next. She had a hat on and still looked quite
pretty, though I much preferred her with her hair free. From where I was
I had glimpses of the soft curve of her breasts, and her underlip had
the little pout that always fascinated me. She appeared very nervous.
The first question was: How long had she known me? Since the time when
she was in our office, she replied. Then the Judge asked her what were
the relations between us, and she said she was my girl friend. Answering
another question, she admitted promising to marry me. The Prosecutor,
who had been studying a document in front of him, asked her rather
sharply when our "liaison" had begun. She gave the date. He then
observed with a would-be casual air that apparently she meant the day
following my mother's funeral. After letting this sink in he remarked in
a slightly ironic tone that obviously this was a "delicate topic" and he
could enter into the young lady's feelings, but — and here his voice
grew sterner — his duty obliged him to waive considerations of delicacy.
After making this announcement he asked Marie to give a full account of
our doings on the day when I had "intercourse" with her for the first
time. Marie wouldn't answer at first, but the Prosecutor insisted, and
then she told him that we had met at the baths, gone together to the
pictures, and then to my place. He then informed the court that, as a
result of certain statements made by Marie at the proceedings before the
magistrate, he had studied the movie programs of that date, and turning
to Marie asked her to name the film that we had gone to see. In a very
low voice she said it was a picture with Fernandel in it. By the time
she had finished, the courtroom was so still you could have heard a pin
drop.
Looking very grave, the Prosecutor drew himself up to his full height
and, pointing at me, said in such a tone that I could have sworn he was
genuinely moved:
"Gentlemen of the jury, I would have you note that on the next day after
his mother's funeral that man was visiting the swimming pool, starting a
liaison with a girl, and going to see a comic film. That is all I wish
to say."
When he sat down there was the same dead silence. Then all of a sudden
Marie burst into tears. He'd got it all wrong, she said; it wasn't a bit
like that really, he'd bullied her into saying the opposite of what she
meant. She knew me very well, and she was sure I hadn't done anything
really wrong — and so on. At a sign from the presiding judge, one of the
court officers led her away, and the hearing continued.
Hardly anyone seemed to listen to Masson, the next witness. He stated
that I was a respectable young fellow; "and, what's more, a very decent
chap." Nor did they pay any more attention to Salamano, when he told
them how kind I'd always been to his dog, or when, in answer to a
question about my mother and myself, he said that Mother and I had very
little in common and that explained why I'd fixed up for her to enter
the Home. "You've got to understand," he added. "You've got to
understand." But no one seemed to understand. He was told to stand down.
Raymond was the next, and last, witness. He gave me a little wave of his
hand and led off by saying I was innocent. The Judge rebuked him.
"You are here to give evidence, not your views on the case, and you must
confine yourself to answering the questions put you."
He was then asked to make clear his relations with the deceased, and
Raymond took this opportunity of explaining that it was he, not I,
against whom the dead man had a grudge, because he, Raymond, had beaten
up his sister. The judge asked him if the deceased had no reason to
dislike me, too. Raymond told him that my presence on the beach that
morning was a pure coincidence.
"How comes it then," the Prosecutor inquired, "that the letter which led
up to this tragedy was the prisoner's work?"
Raymond replied that this, too, was due to mere chance.
To which the Prosecutor retorted that in this case "chance" or "mere
coincidence" seemed to play a remarkably large part. Was it by chance
that I hadn't intervened when Raymond assaulted his mistress? Did this
convenient term "chance" account for my having vouched for Raymond at
the police station and having made, on that occasion, statements
extravagantly favorable to him? In conclusion he asked Raymond to state
what were his means of livelihood.
On his describing himself as a warehouseman, the Prosecutor informed the
jury it was common knowledge that the witness lived on the immoral
earnings of women. I, he said, was this man's intimate friend and
associate; in fact, the whole background of the crime was of the most
squalid description. And what made it even more odious was the
personality of the prisoner, an inhuman monster wholly without a moral
sense.
Raymond began to expostulate, and my lawyer, too, protested. They were
told that the Prosecutor must be allowed to finish his remarks.
"I have nearly done," he said; then turned to Raymond. "Was the prisoner
your friend?"
"Certainly. We were the best of pals, as they say."
The Prosecutor then put me the same question. I looked hard at Raymond,
and he did not turn away.
Then, "Yes," I answered.
The Prosecutor turned toward the jury.
"Not only did the man before you in the dock indulge in the most
shameful orgies on the day following his mother's death. He killed a man
cold-bloodedly, in pursuance of some sordid vendetta in the underworld
of prostitutes and pimps. That, gentlemen of the jury, is the type of
man the prisoner is."
No sooner had he sat down than my lawyer, out of all patience, raised
his arms so high that his sleeves fell back, showing the full length of
his starched shirt cuffs.
"Is my client on trial for having buried his mother, or for killing a
man?" he asked.
There were some titters in court. But then the Prosecutor sprang to his
feet and, draping his gown round him, said he was amazed at his friend's
ingenuousness in failing to see that between these two elements of the
case there was a vital link. They hung together psychologically, if he
might put it so. "In short," he concluded, speaking with great
vehemence, "I accuse the prisoner of behaving at his mother's funeral in
a way that showed he was already a criminal at heart."
These words seemed to take much effect on the jury and public. My lawyer
merely shrugged his shoulders and wiped the sweat from his forehead. But
obviously he was rattled, and I had a feeling things weren't going well
for me.
Soon after this incident the court rose. As I was being taken from the
courthouse to the prison van, I was conscious for a few brief moments of
the once familiar feel of a summer evening out-of-doors. And, sitting in
the darkness of my moving cell, I recognized, echoing in my tired brain,
all the characteristic sounds of a town I'd loved, and of a certain hour
of the day which I had always particularly enjoyed. The shouts of
newspaper boys in the already languid air, the last calls of birds in
the public garden, the cries of sandwich vendors, the screech of
streetcars at the steep corners of the upper town, and that faint
rustling overhead as darkness sifted down upon the harbor — all these
sounds made my return to prison like a blind man's journey along a route
whose every inch he knows by heart.
Yes, this was the evening hour when — how long ago it seemed! — I always
felt so well content with life. Then, what awaited me was a night of
easy, dreamless sleep. This was the same hour, but with a difference; I
was returning to a cell, and what awaited me was a night haunted by
forebodings of the coming day. And so I learned that familiar paths
traced in the dusk of summer evenings may lead as well to prisons as to
innocent, untroubled sleep.
IT is always interesting, even in the prisoner's dock, to hear oneself
being talked about. And certainly in the speeches of my lawyer and the
prosecuting counsel a great deal was said about me; more, in fact, about
me personally than about my crime.
Really there wasn't any very great difference between the two speeches.
Counsel for the defense raised his arms to heaven and pleaded guilty,
but with extenuating circumstances. The Prosecutor made similar
gestures; he agreed that I was guilty, but denied extenuating
circumstances.
One thing about this phase of the trial was rather irksome. Quite often,
interested as I was in what they had to say, I was tempted to put in a
word, myself. But my lawyer had advised me not to. "You won't do your
case any good by talking," he had warned me. In fact, there seemed to be
a conspiracy to exclude me from the proceedings; I wasn't to have any
say and my fate was to be decided out of hand.
It was quite an effort at times for me to refrain from cutting them all
short, and saying: "But, damn it all, who's on trial in this court, I'd
like to know? It's a serious matter for a man, being accused of murder.
And I've something really important to tell you."
However, on second thoughts, I found I had nothing to say. In any case,
I must admit that hearing oneself talked about loses its interest very
soon. The Prosecutor's speech, especially, began to bore me before he
was halfway through it. The only things that really caught my attention
were occasional phrases, his gestures, and some elaborate tirades — but
these were isolated patches.
What he was aiming at, I gathered, was to show that my crime was
premeditated. I remember his saying at one moment, "I can prove this,
gentlemen of the jury, to the hilt. First, you have the facts of the
crime; which are as clear as daylight. And then you have what I may call
the night side of this case, the dark workings of a criminal mentality."
He began by summing up the facts, from my mother's death onward. He
stressed my heartlessness, my inability to state Mother's age, my visit
to the swimming pool where I met Marie, our matinee at the pictures
where a Fernandel film was showing, and finally my return with Marie to
my rooms. I didn't quite follow his remarks at first, as he kept on
mentioning "the prisoner's mistress," whereas for me she was just
"Marie." Then he came to the subject of Raymond. It seemed to me that
his way of treating the facts showed a certain shrewdness. All he said
sounded quite plausible. I'd written the letter in collusion with
Raymond so as to entice his mistress to his room and subject her to
ill-treatment by a man "of more than dubious reputation." Then, on the
beach, I'd provoked a brawl with Raymond's enemies, in the course of
which Raymond was wounded. I'd asked him for his revolver and gone back
by myself with the intention of using it. Then I'd shot the Arab. After
the first shot I waited. Then, "to be certain of making a good job of
it," I fired four more shots deliberately, point-blank, and in cold
blood, at my victim.
"That is my case," he said. "I have described to you the series of
events which led this man to kill the deceased, fully aware of what he
was doing. I emphasize this point. We are not concerned with an act of
homicide committed on a sudden impulse which might serve as extenuation.
I ask you to note, gentlemen of the jury, that the prisoner is an
educated man. You will have observed the way in which he answered my
questions; he is intelligent and he knows the value of words. And I
repeat that it is quite impossible to assume that, when he committed the
crime, he was unaware what he was doing."
I noticed that he laid stress on my "intelligence." It puzzled me rather
why what would count as a good point in an ordinary person should be
used against an accused man as an overwhelming proof of his guilt. While
thinking this over, I missed what he said next, until I heard him
exclaim indignantly: "And has he uttered a word of regret for his most
odious crime? Not one word, gentlemen. Not once in the course of these
proceedings did this man show the least contrition."
Turning toward the dock, he pointed a finger at me, and went on in the
same strain. I really couldn't understand why he harped on this point so
much. Of course, I had to own that he was right; I didn't feel much
regret for what I'd done. Still, to my mind he overdid it, and I'd have
liked to have a chance of explaining to him, in a quite friendly, almost
affectionate way, that I have never been able really to regret anything
in all my life. I've always been far too much absorbed in the present
moment, or the immediate future, to think back. Of course, in the
position into which I had been forced, there was no question of my
speaking to anyone in that tone. I hadn't the right to show any friendly
feeling or possess good intentions. And I tried to follow what came
next, as the Prosecutor was now considering what he called my "soul."
He said he'd studied it closely — and had found a blank, "literally
nothing, gentlemen of the jury." Really, he said, I had no soul, there
was nothing human about me, not one of those moral qualities which
normal men possess had any place in my mentality. "No doubt," he added,
"we should not reproach him with this. We cannot blame a man for lacking
what it was never in his power to acquire. But in a criminal court the
wholly passive ideal of tolerance must give place to a sterner, loftier
ideal, that of justice. Especially when this lack of every decent
instinct is such as that of the man before you, a menace to society." He
proceeded to discuss my conduct toward my mother, repeating what he had
said in the course of the hearing. But he spoke at much greater length
of my crime — at such length, indeed, that I lost the thread and was
conscious only of the steadily increasing heat.
A moment came when the Prosecutor paused and, after a short silence,
said in a low, vibrant voice: "This same court, gentlemen, will be
called on to try tomorrow that most odious of crimes, the murder of a
father by his son." To his mind, such a crime was almost unimaginable.
But, he ventured to hope, justice would be meted out without paltering.
And yet, he made bold to say, the horror that even the crime of
parricide inspired in him paled beside the loathing inspired by my
callousness.
"This man, who is morally guilty of his mother's death, is no less unfit
to have a place in the community than that other man who did to death
the father that begat him. And, indeed, the one crime led on to the
other; the first of these two criminals, the man in the dock, set a
precedent, if I may put it so, and authorized the second crime. Yes,
gentlemen, I am convinced" — here he raised his voice a tone — "that you
will not find I am exaggerating the case against the prisoner when I say
that he is also guilty of the murder to be tried tomorrow in this court.
And I look to you for a verdict accordingly."
The Prosecutor paused again, to wipe the sweat off his face. He then
explained that his duty was a painful one, but he would do it without
flinching. "This man has, I repeat, no place in a community whose basic
principles he flouts without compunction. Nor, heartless as he is, has
he any claim to mercy. I ask you to impose the extreme penalty of the
law; and I ask it without a qualm. In the course of a long career, in
which it has often been my duty to ask for a capital sentence, never
have I felt that painful duty weigh so little on my mind as in the
present case. In demanding a verdict of murder without extenuating
circumstances, I am following not only the dictates of my conscience and
a sacred obligation, but also those of the natural and righteous
indignation I feel at the sight of a criminal devoid of the least spark
of human feeling."
When the Prosecutor sat down there was a longish silence. Personally I
was quite overcome by the heat and my amazement at what I had been
hearing. The presiding judge gave a short cough, and asked me in a very
low tone if I had anything to say. I rose, and as I felt in the mood to
speak, I said the first thing that crossed my mind: that I'd had no
intention of killing the Arab. The Judge replied that this statement
would be taken into consideration by the court. Meanwhile he would be
glad to hear, before my counsel addressed the court, what were the
motives of my crime. So far, he must admit, he hadn't fully understood
the grounds of my defense.
I tried to explain that it was because of the sun, but I spoke too
quickly and ran my words into each other. I was only too conscious that
it sounded nonsensical, and, in fact, I heard people tittering.
My lawyer shrugged his shoulders. Then he was directed to address the
court, in his turn. But all he did was to point out the lateness of the
hour and to ask for an adjournment till the following afternoon. To this
the judge agreed.
When I was brought back next day, the electric fans were still churning
up the heavy air and the jurymen plying their gaudy little fans in a
sort of steady rhythm. The speech for the defense seemed to me
interminable. At one moment, however, I pricked up my ears; it was when
I heard him saying: "It is true I killed a man." He went on in the same
strain, saying "I" when he referred to me. It seemed so queer that I
bent toward the policeman on my right and asked him to explain. He told
me to shut up; then, after a moment, whispered: "They all do that." It
seemed to me that the idea behind it was still further to exclude me
from the case, to put me off the map. so to speak, by substituting the
lawyer for myself. Anyway, it hardly mattered; I already felt worlds
away from this courtroom and its tedious "proceedings."
My lawyer, in any case, struck me as feeble to the point of being
ridiculous. He hurried through his plea of provocation, and then he,
too, started in about my soul. But I had an impression that he had much
less talent than the Prosecutor.
"I, too," he said, "have closely studied this man's soul; but, unlike my
learned friend for the prosecution, I have found something there.
Indeed, I may say that I have read the prisoner's mind like an open
book." What he had read there was that I was an excellent young fellow,
a steady, conscientious worker who did his best by his employer; that I
was popular with everyone and sympathetic in others' troubles. According
to him I was a dutiful son, who had supported his mother as long as he
was able. After anxious consideration I had reached the conclusion that,
by entering a home, the old lady would have comforts that my means
didn't permit me to provide for her. "I am astounded, gentlemen," he
added, "by the attitude taken up by my learned friend in referring to
this Home. Surely if proof be needed of the excellence of such
institutions, we need only remember that they are promoted and financed
by a government department." I noticed that he made no reference to the
funeral, and this seemed to me a serious omission. But, what with his
long-windedness, the endless days and hours they had been discussing my
"soul," and the rest of it, I found that my mind had gone blurred;
everything was dissolving into a grayish, watery haze.
Only one incident stands out; toward the end, while my counsel rambled
on, I heard the tin trumpet of an ice-cream vendor in the street, a
small, shrill sound cutting across the flow of words. And then a rush of
memories went through my mind — memories of a life which was mine no
longer and had once provided me with the surest, humblest pleasures:
warm smells of summer, my favorite streets, the sky at evening, Marie's
dresses and her laugh. The futility of what was happening here seemed to
take me by the throat, I felt like vomiting, and I had only one idea: to
get it over, to go back to my cell, and sleep ... and sleep.
Dimly I heard my counsel making his last appeal.
"Gentlemen of the jury, surely you will not send to his death a decent,
hard- working young man, because for one tragic moment he lost his
self-control? Is he not sufficiently punished by the lifelong remorse
that is to be his lot? I confidently await your verdict, the only
verdict possible — that of homicide with extenuating circumstances."
The court rose, and the lawyer sat down, looking thoroughly exhausted.
Some of his colleagues came to him and shook his hand. "You put up a
magnificent show, old man," I heard one of them say. Another lawyer even
called me to witness: "Fine, wasn't it?" I agreed, but insincerely; I
was far too tired to judge if it had been "fine" or otherwise.
Meanwhile the day was ending and the heat becoming less intense. By some
vague sounds that reached me from the street I knew that the cool of the
evening had set in. We all sat on, waiting. And what we all were waiting
for really concerned nobody but me. I looked round the courtroom. It was
exactly as it had been on the first day. I met the eyes of the
journalist in gray and the robot woman. This reminded me that not once
during the whole hearing had I tried to catch Marie's eye. It wasn't
that I'd forgotten her; only I was too preoccupied. I saw her now,
seated between Celeste and Raymond. She gave me a little wave of her
hand, as if to say, "At last!" She was smiling, but I could tell that
she was rather anxious. But my heart seemed turned to stone, and I
couldn't even return her smile.
The judges came back to their seats. Someone read out to the jury, very
rapidly, a string of questions. I caught a word here and there. "Murder
of malice aforethought ... Provocation ... Extenuating circumstances."
The jury went out, and I was taken to the little room where I had
already waited. My lawyer came to see me; he was very talkative and
showed more cordiality and confidence than ever before. He assured me
that all would go well and I'd get off with a few years' imprisonment or
transportation. I asked him what were the chances of getting the
sentence quashed. He said there was no chance of that. He had not raised
any point of law, as this was apt to prejudice the jury. And it was
difficult to get a judgment quashed except on technical grounds. I saw
his point, and agreed. Looking at the matter dispassionately, I shared
his view. Otherwise there would be no end to litigation. "In any case,"
the lawyer said, "you can appeal in the ordinary way. But I'm convinced
the verdict will be favorable."
We waited for quite a while, a good three quarters of an hour, I should
say. Then a bell rang. My lawyer left me, saying:
"The foreman of the jury will read out the answers. You will be called
on after that to hear the judgment."
Some doors banged. I heard people hurrying down flights of steps, but
couldn't tell whether they were near by or distant. Then I heard a voice
droning away in the courtroom.
When the bell rang again and I stepped back into the dock, the silence
of the courtroom closed in round me, and with the silence came a queer
sensation when I noticed that, for the. first time, the young journalist
kept his eyes averted. I didn't look in Marie's direction. In fact, I
had no time to look, as the presiding judge had already started
pronouncing a rigmarole to the effect that "in the name of the French
people" I was to be decapitated in some public place.
It seemed to me then that I could interpret the look on the faces of
those present; it was one of almost respectful sympathy. The policemen,
too, handled me very gently. The lawyer placed his hand on my wrist. I
had stopped thinking altogether. I heard the Judge's voice asking if I
had anything more to say. After thinking for a moment, I answered, "No."
Then the policemen led me out.
I HAVE just refused, for the third time, to see the prison chaplain. I
have nothing to say to him, don't feel like talking — and shall be
seeing him quite soon enough, anyway. The only thing that interests me
now is the problem of circumventing the machine, learning if the
inevitable admits a loophole.
They have moved me to another cell. In this one, lying on my back, I can
see the sky, and there is nothing else to see. All my time is spent in
watching the slowly changing colors of the sky, as day moves on to
night. I put my hands behind my head, gaze up, and wait.
This problem of a loophole obsesses me; I am always wondering if there
have been cases of condemned prisoners' escaping from the implacable
machinery of justice at the last moment, breaking through the police
cordon, vanishing in the nick of time before the guillotine falls. Often
and often I blame myself for not having given more attention to accounts
of public executions. One should always take an interest in such
matters. There's never any knowing what one may come to. Like everyone
else I'd read descriptions of executions in the papers. But technical
books dealing with this subject must certainly exist; only I'd never
felt sufficiently interested to look them up. And in these books I might
have found escape stories. Surely they'd have told me that in one case,
anyhow, the wheels had stopped; that once, if only once, in that
inexorable march of events, chance or luck had played a happy part. Just
once! In a way I think that single instance would have satisfied me. My
emotion would have done the rest. The papers often talk of "a debt owed
to society" — a debt which, according to them, must be paid by the
offender. But talk of that sort doesn't touch the imagination. No, the
one thing that counted for me was the possibility of making a dash for
it and defeating their bloodthirsty rite; of a mad stampede to freedom
that would anyhow give me a moment's hope, the gambler's last throw.
Naturally, all that "hope" could come to was to be knocked down at the
corner of a street or picked off by a bullet in my back. But, all things
considered, even this luxury was forbidden me; I was caught in the
rattrap irrevocably.
Try as I might, I couldn't stomach this brutal certitude. For really,
when one came to think of it, there was a disproportion between the
judgment on which it was based and the unalterable sequence of events
starting from the moment when that judgment was delivered. The fact that
the verdict was read out at eight P.M. rather than at five, the fact
that it might have been quite different, that it was given by men who
change their underclothes, and was credited to so vague an entity as the
"French people" — for that matter, why not to the Chinese or the German
people? — all these facts seemed to deprive the court's decision of much
of its gravity. Yet I could but recognize that, from the moment the
verdict was given, its effects became as cogent, as tangible, as, for
example, this wall against which I was lying, pressing my back to it.
When such thoughts crossed my mind, I remembered a story Mother used to
tell me about my father. I never set eyes on him. Perhaps the only
things I really knew about him were what Mother had told me. One of
these was that he'd gone to see a murderer executed. The mere thought of
it turned his stomach. But he'd seen it through and, on coming home, was
violently sick. At the time, I found my father's conduct rather
disgusting. But now I understood; it was so natural. How had I failed to
recognize that nothing was more important than an execution; that,
viewed from one angle, it's the only thing that can genuinely interest a
man? And I decided that, if ever I got out of jail, I'd attend every
execution that took place. I was unwise, no doubt, even to consider this
possibility. For, the moment I'd pictured myself in freedom, standing
behind a double rank of policemen — on the right side of the line, so to
speak — the mere thought of being an onlooker who comes to see the show,
and can go home and vomit afterward, flooded my mind with a wild, absurd
exultation. It was a stupid thing to let my imagination run away with me
like that; a moment later I had a shivering fit and had to wrap myself
closely in my blanket. But my teeth went on chattering; nothing would
stop them.
Still, obviously, one can't be sensible all the time. Another equally
ridiculous fancy of mine was to frame new laws, altering the penalties.
What was wanted, to my mind, was to give the criminal a chance, if only
a dog's chance; say, one chance in a thousand. There might be some drug,
or combination of drugs, which would kill the patient (I thought of him
as "the patient") nine hundred and ninety times in a thousand. That he
should know this was, of course, essential. For after taking much
thought, calmly, I came to the conclusion that what was wrong about the
guillotine was that the condemned man had no chance at all, absolutely
none. In fact, the patient's death had been ordained irrevocably. It was
a foregone conclusion. If by some fluke the knife didn't do its job,
they started again. So it came to this, that — against the grain, no
doubt — the condemned man had to hope the apparatus was in good working
order! This, I thought, was a flaw in the system; and, on the face of
it, my view was sound enough. On the other hand, I had to admit it
proved the efficiency of the system. It came to this; the man under
sentence was obliged to collaborate mentally, it was in his interest
that all should go off without a hitch.
Another thing I had to recognize was that, until now, I'd had wrong
ideas on the subject. For some reason I'd always supposed that one had
to go up steps and climb on to a scaffold, to be guillotined. Probably
that was because of the 1789 Revolution; I mean, what I'd learned about
it at school, and the pictures I had seen. Then one morning I remembered
a photograph the newspapers had featured on the occasion of the
execution of a famous criminal. Actually the apparatus stood on the
ground; there was nothing very impressing about it, and it was much
narrower than I'd imagined. It struck me as rather odd that picture had
escaped my memory until now. What had struck me at the time was the neat
appearance of the guillotine; its shining surfaces and finish reminded
me of some laboratory instrument. One always has exaggerated ideas about
what one doesn't know. Now I had to admit it seemed a very simple
process, getting guillotined; the machine is on the same level as the
man, and he walks toward it as he steps forward to meet somebody he
knows. In a sense, that, too, was disappointing. The business of
climbing a scaffold, leaving the world below, so to speak, gave
something for a man's imagination to get hold of. But, as it was, the
machine dominated everything; they killed you discreetly, with a hint of
shame and much efficiency.
There were two other things about which I was always thinking: the dawn
and my appeal. However, I did my best to keep my mind off these
thoughts. I lay down, looked up at the sky, and forced myself to study
it. When the light began to turn green I knew that night was coming.
Another thing I did to deflect the course of my thoughts was to listen
to my heart. I couldn't imagine that this faint throbbing which had been
with me for so long would ever cease. Imagination has never been one of
my strong points. Still, I tried to picture a moment when the beating of
my heart no longer echoed in my head. But, in vain. The dawn and my
appeal were still there. And I ended by believing it was a silly thing
to try to force one's thoughts out of their natural groove.
They always came for one at dawn; that much I knew. So, really, all my
nights were spent in waiting for that dawn. I have never liked being
taken by surprise. When something happens to me I want to be ready for
it. That's why I got into the habit of sleeping off and on in the
daytime and watching through the night for the first hint of daybreak in
the dark dome above. The worst period of the night was that vague hour
when, I knew, they usually come; once it was after midnight I waited,
listening intently. Never before had my ears perceived so many noises,
such tiny sounds. Still, I must say I was lucky in one respect; never
during any of those periods did I hear footsteps. Mother used to say
that however miserable one is, there's always something to be thankful
for. And each morning, when the sky brightened and light began to flood
my cell, I agreed with her. Because I might just as well have heard
footsteps, and felt my heart shattered into bits. Even though the
faintest rustle sent me hurrying to the door and, pressing an ear to the
rough, cold wood, I listened so intently that I could hear my breathing,
quick and hoarse like a dog's panting — even so there was an end; my
heart hadn't split, and I knew I had another twenty-four hours' respite.
Then all day there was my appeal to think about. I made the most of this
idea, studying my effects so as to squeeze out the maximum of
consolation. Thus, I always began by assuming the worst; my appeal was
dismissed. That meant, of course, I was to die. Sooner than others,
obviously. "But," I reminded myself, "it's common knowledge that life
isn't worth living, anyhow." And, on a wide view, I could see that it
makes little difference whether one dies at the age of thirty or
threescore and ten — since, in either case, other men and women will
continue living, the world will go on as before. Also, whether I died
now or forty years hence, this business of dying had to be got through,
inevitably. Still, somehow this line of thought wasn't as consoling as
it should have been; the idea of all those years of life in hand was a
galling reminder! However, I could argue myself out of it, by picturing
what would have been my feelings when my term was up, and death had
cornered me. Once you're up against it, the precise manner of your death
has obviously small importance. Therefore — but it was hard not to lose
the thread of the argument leading up to that "therefore" — I should be
prepared to face the dismissal of my appeal.
At this stage, but only at this stage, I had, so to speak, the right,
and accordingly I gave myself leave, to consider the other alternative;
that my appeal was successful. And then the trouble was to calm down
that sudden rush of joy racing through my body and even bringing tears
to my eyes. But it was up to me to bring my nerves to heel and steady my
mind; for, even in considering this possibility, I had to keep some
order in my thoughts, so as to make my consolations, as regards the
first alternative, more plausible. When I'd succeeded, I had earned a
good hour's peace of mind; and that, anyhow, was something.
It was at one of these moments that I refused once again to see the
chaplain. I was lying down and could mark the summer evening coming on
by a soft golden glow spreading across the sky. I had just turned down
my appeal, and felt my blood circulating with slow, steady throbs. No, I
didn't want to see the chaplain. ... Then I did something I hadn't done
for quite a while; I fell to thinking about Marie. She hadn't written
for ages; probably, I surmised, she had grown tired of being the
mistress of a man sentenced to death. Or she might be ill, or dead.
After all, such things happen. How could I have known about it, since,
apart from our two bodies, separated now, there was no link between us,
nothing to remind us of each other? Supposing she were dead, her memory
would mean nothing; I couldn't feel an interest in a dead girl. This
seemed to me quite normal; just as I realized people would soon forget
me once I was dead. I couldn't even say that this was hard to stomach;
really, there's no idea to which one doesn't get acclimatized in time.
My thoughts had reached this point when the chaplain walked in,
unannounced. I couldn't help giving a start on seeing him. He noticed
this evidently, as he promptly told me not to be alarmed. I reminded him
that usually his visits were at another hour, and for a pretty grim
occasion. This, he replied, was just a friendly visit; it had no concern
with my appeal, about which he knew nothing. Then he sat down on my bed,
asking me to sit beside him. I refused — not because I had anything
against him; he seemed a mild, amiable man.
He remained quite still at first, his arms resting on his knees, his
eyes fixed on his hands. They were slender but sinewy hands, which made
me think of two nimble little animals. Then he gently rubbed them
together. He stayed so long in the same position that for a while I
almost forgot he was there.
All of a sudden he jerked his head up and looked me in the eyes.
"Why," he asked, "don't you let me come to see you?"
I explained that I didn't believe in God.
"Are you really so sure of that?"
I said I saw no point in troubling my head about the matter; whether I
believed or didn't was, to my mind, a question of so little importance.
He then leaned back against the wall, laying his hands flat on his
thighs. Almost without seeming to address me, he remarked that he'd
often noticed one fancies one is quite sure about something, when in
point of fact one isn't. When I said nothing, he looked at me again, and
asked:
"Don't you agree?"
I said that seemed quite possible. But, though I mightn't be so sure
about what interested me, I was absolutely sure about what didn't
interest me. And the question he had raised didn't interest me at all.
He looked away and, without altering his posture, asked if it was
because I felt utterly desperate that I spoke like this. I explained
that it wasn't despair I felt, but fear — which was natural enough.
"In that case," he said firmly, "God can help you. All the men I've seen
in your position turned to Him in their time of trouble."
Obviously, I replied, they were at liberty to do so, if they felt like
it. I, however, didn't want to be helped, and I hadn't time to work up
interest for something that didn't interest me.
He fluttered his hands fretfully; then, sitting up, smoothed out his
cassock. When this was done he began talking again, addressing me as "my
friend." It wasn't because I'd been condemned to death, he said, that he
spoke to me in this way. In his opinion every man on the earth was under
sentence of death.
There, I interrupted him; that wasn't the same thing, I pointed out,
and, what's more, could be no consolation.
He nodded. "Maybe. Still, if you don't die soon, you'll die one day. And
then the same question will arise. How will you face that terrible,
final hour?"
I replied that I'd face it exactly as I was facing it now.
Thereat he stood up, and looked me straight in the eyes. It was a trick
I knew well. I used to amuse myself trying it on Emmanuel and Celeste,
and nine times out of ten they'd look away uncomfortably. I could see
the chaplain was an old hand at it, as his gaze never faltered. And his
voice was quite steady when he said: "Have you no hope at all? Do you
really think that when you die you die outright, and nothing remains?"
I said: "Yes."
He dropped his eyes and sat down again. He was truly sorry for me, he
said. It must make life unbearable for a man, to think as I did.
The priest was beginning to bore me, and, resting a shoulder on the
wall, just beneath the little skylight, I looked away. Though I didn't
trouble much to follow what he said, I gathered he was questioning me
again. Presently his tone became agitated, urgent, and, as I realized
that he was genuinely distressed, I began to pay more attention.
He said he felt convinced my appeal would succeed, but I was saddled
with a load of guilt, of which I must get rid. In his view man's justice
was a vain thing; only God's justice mattered. I pointed out that the
former had condemned me. Yes, he agreed, but it hadn't absolved me from
my sin. I told him that I wasn't conscious of any "sin"; all I knew was
that I'd been guilty of a criminal offense. Well, I was paying the
penalty of that offense, and no one had the right to expect anything
more of me.
Just then he got up again, and it struck me that if he wanted to move in
this tiny cell, almost the only choice lay between standing up and
sitting down. I was staring at the floor. He took a single step toward
me, and halted, as if he didn't dare to come nearer. Then he looked up
through the bars at the sky.
"You're mistaken, my son," he said gravely. "There's more that might be
required of you. And perhaps it will be required of you."
"What do you mean?"
"You might be asked to see ..."
"To see what?"
Slowly the priest gazed round my cell, and I was struck by the sadness
of his voice when he replied:
"These stone walls, I know it only too well, are steeped in human
suffering. I've never been able to look at them without a shudder. And
yet — believe me, I am speaking from the depths of my heart — I know
that even the wretchedest amongst you have sometimes seen, taking form
against that grayness, a divine face. It's that face you are asked to
see."
This roused me a little. I informed him that I'd been staring at those
walls for months; there was nobody, nothing in the world, I knew better
than I knew them. And once upon a time, perhaps, I used to try to see a
face. But it was a sun-gold face, lit up with desire — Marie's face. I
had no luck; I'd never seen it, and now I'd given up trying. Indeed, I'd
never seen anything "taking form," as he called it, against those gray
walls.
The chaplain gazed at me with a sort of sadness. I now had my back to
the wall and light was flowing over my forehead. He muttered some words
I didn't catch; then abruptly asked if he might kiss me. I said, "No."
Then he turned, came up to the wall, and slowly drew his hand along it.
"Do you really love these earthly things so very much?" he asked in a
low voice.
I made no reply.
For quite a while he kept his eyes averted. His presence was getting
more and more irksome, and I was on the point of telling him to go, and
leave me in peace, when all of a sudden he swung round on me, and burst
out passionately:
"No! No! I refuse to believe it. I'm sure you've often wished there was
an afterlife."
Of course I had, I told him. Everybody has that wish at times. But that
had no more importance than wishing to be rich, or to swim very fast, or
to have a better- shaped mouth. It was in the same order of things. I
was going on in the same vein, when he cut in with a question. How did I
picture the life after the grave?
I fairly bawled out at him: "A life in which I can remember this life on
earth. That's all I want of it." And in the same breath I told him I'd
had enough of his company.
But, apparently, he had more to say on the subject of God. I went close
up to him and made a last attempt to explain that I'd very little time
left, and I wasn't going to waste it on God.
Then he tried to change the subject by asking me why I hadn't once
addressed him as "Father," seeing that he was a priest. That irritated
me still more, and I told him he wasn't my father; quite the contrary,
he was on the others' side.
"No, no, my son," he said, laying his hand on my shoulder. "I'm on your
side, though you don't realize it — because your heart is hardened. But
I shall pray for you."
Then, I don't know how it was, but something seemed to break inside me,
and I started yelling at the top of my voice. I hurled insults at him, I
told him not to waste his rotten prayers on me; it was better to burn
than to disappear. I'd taken him by the neckband of his cassock, and, in
a sort of ecstasy of joy and rage, I poured out on him all the thoughts
that had been simmering in my brain. He seemed so cocksure, you see. And
yet none of his certainties was worth one strand of a woman's hair.
Living as he did, like a corpse, he couldn't even be sure of being
alive. It might look as if my hands were empty. Actually, I was sure of
myself, sure about everything, far surer than he; sure of my present
life and of the death that was coming. That, no doubt, was all I had;
but at least that certainty was something I could get my teeth into —
just as it had got its teeth into me. I'd been right, I was still right,
I was always right. I'd passed my life in a certain way, and I might
have passed it in a different way, if I'd felt like it. I'd acted thus,
and I hadn't acted otherwise; I hadn't done x, whereas I had done y or
z. And what did that mean? That, all the time, I'd been waiting for this
present moment, for that dawn, tomorrow's or another day's, which was to
justify me. Nothing, nothing had the least importance and I knew quite
well why. He, too, knew why. From the dark horizon of my future a sort
of slow, persistent breeze had been blowing toward me, all my life long,
from the years that were to come. And on its way that breeze had leveled
out all the ideas that people tried to foist on me in the equally unreal
years I then was living through. What difference could they make to me,
the deaths of others, or a mother's love, or his God; or the way a man
decides to live, the fate he thinks he chooses, since one and the same
fate was bound to "choose" not only me but thousands of millions of
privileged people who, like him, called themselves my brothers. Surely,
surely he must see that? Every man alive was privileged; there was only
one class of men, the privileged class. All alike would be condemned to
die one day; his turn, too, would come like the others'. And what
difference could it make if, after being charged with murder, he were
executed because he didn't weep at his mother's funeral, since it all
came to the same thing in the end? The same thing for Salamano's wife
and for Salamano's dog. That little robot woman was as "guilty" as the
girl from Paris who had married Masson, or as Marie, who wanted me to
marry her. What did it matter if Raymond was as much my pal as Celeste,
who was a far worthier man? What did it matter if at this very moment
Marie was kissing a new boy friend? As a condemned man himself, couldn't
he grasp what I meant by that dark wind blowing from my future? ...
I had been shouting so much that I'd lost my breath, and just then the
jailers rushed in and started trying to release the chaplain from my
grip. One of them made as if to strike me. The chaplain quietened them
down, then gazed at me for a moment without speaking. I could see tears
in his eyes. Then he turned and left the cell.
Once he'd gone, I felt calm again. But all this excitement had exhausted
me and I dropped heavily on to my sleeping plank. I must have had a
longish sleep, for, when I woke, the stars were shining down on my face.
Sounds of the countryside came faintly in, and the cool night air,
veined with smells' of earth and salt, fanned my cheeks. The marvelous
peace of the sleepbound summer night flooded through me like a tide.
Then, just on the edge of daybreak, I heard a steamer's siren. People
were starting on a voyage to a world which had ceased to concern me
forever. Almost for the first time in many months I thought of my
mother. And now, it seemed to me, I understood why at her life's end she
had taken on a "fiance"; why she'd played at making a fresh start.
There, too, in that Home where lives were flickering out, the dusk came
as a mournful solace. With death so near, Mother must have felt like
someone on the brink of freedom, ready to start life all over again. No
one, no one in the world had any right to weep for her. And I, too, felt
ready to start life all over again. It was as if that great rush of
anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope, and, gazing up at the
dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first time, the
first, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe.
To feel it so like myself, indeed, so brotherly, made me realize that
I'd been happy, and that I was happy still. For all to be accomplished,
for me to feel less lonely, all that remained to hope was that on the
day of my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that
they should greet me with howls of execration.
THE END.