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 smalltown
“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
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
53
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
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
54
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 Pérez, 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 Céleste. 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 nth 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.
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
55
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
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
56
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 café 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.
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
57
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,
