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
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63
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.
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64
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.
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65
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, hardworking
young man, because for one tragic moment he lost his self-control? Is he not
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66
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 Céleste 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
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67
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.
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
68
V
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
