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,
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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
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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
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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.
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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 Céleste, and nine times out of ten
they’d look away uncomfortably. I could see the chaplain was an old hand at it, as
