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.”
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36
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?”
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37
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
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
38
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
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
39
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.
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40
Part Two
I
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.”
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Sitting on the bed, he said that they’d been making investigations into my private
