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.
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
9
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?”
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
10
“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 Pérez.” 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 Pérez about having a fiancée. ‘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,
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
11
looking constrained, almost bashful, was old M. Pérez, 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 Pérez 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 Pérez, 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
Pérez 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 Pérez 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?”
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
12
“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 Pérez 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. Pérez 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 Pérez, 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-offactness
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
