face quite clearly, lit up as if a spotlight played on it.
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47
I noticed a prison official seated at each end of the no man’s land between the
grilles. The native prisoners and their relations on the other side were squatting
opposite each other. They didn’t raise their voices and, in spite of the din, managed
to converse almost in whispers. This murmur of voices coming from below made a
sort of accompaniment to the conversations going on above their heads. I took stock
of all this very quickly and moved a step forward toward Marie. She was pressing
her brown, sun-tanned face to the bars and smiling as hard as she could. I thought she
was looking very pretty, but somehow couldn’t bring myself to tell her so.
“Well?” she asked, pitching her voice very high. “What about it? Are you all right,
have you everything you want?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve everything I want.”
We were silent for some moments; Marie went on smiling. The fat woman was
bawling at the prisoner beside me, her husband presumably, a tall, fair, pleasantlooking
man.
“Jeanne refused to have him,” she yelled.
“That’s just too bad,” the man replied.
“Yes, and I told her you’d take him back the moment you got out; but she
wouldn’t hear of it.”
Marie shouted across the gap that Raymond sent me his best wishes, and I said,
“Thanks.” But my voice was drowned by my neighbor’s, asking “if he was quite fit.”
The fat woman gave a laugh. “Fit? I should say he is! The picture of health.”
Meanwhile the prisoner on my left, a youngster with thin, girlish hands, never said
a word. His eyes, I noticed, were fixed on the little old woman opposite him, and she
returned his gaze with a sort of hungry passion. But I had to stop looking at them as
Marie was shouting to me that we mustn’t lose hope.
“Certainly not,” I answered. My gaze fell on her shoulders, and I had a sudden
longing to squeeze them, through the thin dress. Its silky texture fascinated me, and I
had a feeling that the hope she spoke of centered on it, somehow. I imagine
something of the same sort was in Marie’s mind, for she went on smiling, looking
straight at me.
“It’ll all come right, you’ll see, and then we shall get married.”
All I could see of her now was the white flash of her teeth, and the little puckers
round her eyes. I answered: “Do you really think so?” but chiefly because I felt it up
to me to answer something.
She started talking very fast in the same high-pitched voice.
“Yes, you’ll be acquitted, and we’ll go bathing again, Sundays.”
The woman beside me was still yelling away, telling her husband that she’d left a
basket for him in the prison office. She gave a list of the things she’d brought and
told him to mind and check them carefully, as some had cost quite a lot. The
youngster on my other side and his mother were still gazing mournfully at each other,
Albert Camus v THE STRANGER
48
and the murmur of the Arabs droned on below us. The light outside seemed to be
surging up against the window, seeping through, and smearing the faces of the
people facing it with a coat of yellow oil.
I began to feel slightly squeamish, and wished I could leave. The strident voice
beside me was jarring on my ears. But, on the other hand, I wanted to have the most I
could of Marie’s company. I’ve no idea how much time passed. I remember Marie’s
describing to me her work, with that set smile always on her face. There wasn’t a
moment’s letup in the noise— shouts, conversations, and always that muttering
undertone. The only oasis of silence was made by the young fellow and the old
woman gazing into each other’s eyes.
Then, one by one, the Arabs were led away; almost everyone fell silent when the
first one left. The little old woman pressed herself against the bars and at the same
moment a jailer tapped her son’s shoulder. He called, “Au revoir, Mother,” and,
slipping her hand between the bars, she gave him a small, slow wave with it.
No sooner was she gone than a man, hat in hand, took her place. A prisoner was
led up to the empty place beside me, and the two started a brisk exchange of
remarks— not loud, however, as the room had become relatively quiet. Someone
came and called away the man on my right, and his wife shouted at him— she didn’t
seem to realize it was no longer necessary to shout— “Now, mind you look after
yourself, dear, and don’t do anything rash!”
My turn came next. Marie threw me a kiss. I looked back as I walked away. She
hadn’t moved; her face was still pressed to the rails, her lips still parted in that tense,
twisted smile.
Soon after this I had a letter from her. And it was then that the things I’ve never
liked to talk about began. Not that they were particularly terrible; I’ve no wish to
exaggerate and I suffered less than others. Still, there was one thing in those early
days that was really irksome: my habit of thinking like a free man. For instance, I
would suddenly be seized with a desire to go down to the beach for a swim. And
merely to have imagined the sound of ripples at my feet, the smooth feel of the water
on my body as I struck out, and the wonderful sensation of relief it gave brought
home still more cruelly the narrowness of my cell.
Still, that phase lasted a few months only. Afterward, I had prisoner’s thoughts. I
waited for the daily walk in the courtyard or a visit from my lawyer. As for the rest
of the time, I managed quite well, really. I’ve often thought that had I been
compelled to live in the trunk of a dead tree, with nothing to do but gaze up at the
patch of sky just overhead, I’d have got used to it by degrees. I’d have learned to
watch for the passing of birds or drifting clouds, as I had come to watch for my
lawyer’s odd neckties, or, in another world, to wait patiently till Sunday for a spell of
love-making with Marie. Well, here, anyhow, I wasn’t penned in a hollow tree trunk.
There were others in the world worse off than I. I remembered it had been one of
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49
Mother’s pet ideas— she was always voicing it— that in the long run one gets used to
anything.
Usually, however, I didn’t think things out so far. Those first months were trying,
of course; but the very effort I had to make helped me through them. For instance, I
was plagued by the desire for a woman— which was natural enough, considering my
age. I never thought of Marie especially. I was obsessed by thoughts of this woman
or that, of all the ones I’d had, all the circumstances under which I’d loved them; so
much so that the cell grew crowded with their faces, ghosts of my old passions. That
unsettled me, no doubt; but, at least, it served to kill time.
I gradually became quite friendly with the chief jailer, who went the rounds with
the kitchen hands at mealtimes. It was he who brought up the subject of women.
“That’s what the men here grumble about most,” he told me.
I said I felt like that myself. “There’s something unfair about it,” I added, “like
hitting a man when he’s down.”
“But that’s the whole point of it,” he said; “that’s why you fellows are kept in
prison.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Liberty,” he said, “means that. You’re being deprived of your liberty.”
It had never before struck me in that light, but I saw his point. “That’s true,” I said.
“Otherwise it wouldn’t be a punishment.”
The jailer nodded. “Yes, you’re different, you can use your brains. The others
can’t. Still, those fellows find a way out; they do it by themselves.” With which
remark the jailer left my cell. Next day I did like the others.
The lack of cigarettes, too, was a trial. When I was brought to the prison, they took
away my belt, my shoelaces, and the contents of my pockets, including my cigarettes.
Once I had been given a cell to myself I asked to be given back, anyhow, the
cigarettes. Smoking was forbidden, they informed me. That, perhaps, was what got
me down the most; in fact, I suffered really badly during the first few days. I even
tore off splinters from my plank bed and sucked them. All day long I felt faint and
bilious. It passed my understanding why I shouldn’t be allowed even to smoke; it
could have done no one any harm. Later on, I understood the idea behind it; this
privation, too, was part of my punishment. But, by the time I understood, I’d lost the
craving, so it had ceased to be a punishment.
Except for these privations I wasn’t too unhappy. Yet again, the whole problem
was: how to kill time. After a while, however, once I’d learned the trick of
remembering things, I never had a moment’s boredom. Sometimes I would exercise
my memory on my bedroom and, starting from a corner, make the round, noting
every object I saw on the way. At first it was over in a minute or two. But each time I
repeated the experience, it took a little longer. I made a point of visualizing every
piece of furniture, and each article upon or in it, and then every detail of each article,
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and finally the details of the details, so to speak: a tiny dent or incrustation, or a
chipped edge, and the exact grain and color of the woodwork. At the same time I
forced myself to keep my inventory in mind from start to finish, in the right order
and omitting no item. With the result that, after a few weeks, I could spend hours
merely in listing the objects in my bedroom. I found that the more I thought, the
more details, half-forgotten or malobserved, floated up from my memory. There
seemed no end to them.
So I learned that even after a single day’s experience of the outside world a man
could easily live a hundred years in prison. He’d have laid up enough memories
never to be bored. Obviously, in one way, this was a compensation.
Then there was sleep. To begin with, I slept badly at night and never in the day.
But gradually my nights became better, and I managed to doze off in the daytime as
well. In fact, during the last months, I must have slept sixteen or eighteen hours out
of the twenty-four. So there remained only six hours to fill— with meals, relieving
nature, my memories ... and the story of the Czech.
One day, when inspecting my straw mattress, I found a bit of newspaper stuck to
its underside. The paper was yellow with age, almost transparent, but I could still
make out the letter print. It was the story of a crime. The first part was missing, but I
gathered that its scene was some village in Czechoslovakia. One of the villagers had
left his home to try his luck abroad. After twenty-five years, having made a fortune,
he returned to his country with his wife and child. Meanwhile his mother and sister
had been running a small hotel in the village where he was born. He decided to give
them a surprise and, leaving his wife and child in another inn, he went to stay at his
mother’s place, booking a room under an assumed name. His mother and sister
completely failed to recognize him. At dinner that evening he showed them a large
sum of money he had on him, and in the course of the night they slaughtered him
with a hammer. After taking the money they flung the body into the river. Next
morning his wife came and, without thinking, betrayed the guest’s identity. His
mother hanged herself. His sister threw herself into a well. I must have read that
story thousands of times. In one way it sounded most unlikely; in another, it was
plausible enough. Anyhow, to my mind, the man was asking for trouble; one
shouldn’t play fool tricks of that sort.
So, what with long bouts of sleep, my memories, readings of that scrap of
newspaper, the tides of light and darkness, the days slipped by. I’d read, of course,
that in jail one ends up by losing track of time. But this had never meant anything
definite to me. I hadn’t grasped how days could be at once long and short. Long, no
doubt, as periods to live through, but so distended that they ended up by overlapping
on each other. In fact, I never thought of days as such; only the words “yesterday”
and “tomorrow” still kept some meaning.
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51
When, one morning, the jailer informed me I’d now been six months in jail, I
believed him— but the words conveyed nothing to my mind. To me it seemed like
one and the same day that had been going on since I’d been in my cell, and that I’d
been doing the same thing all the time.
After the jailer left me I shined up my tin pannikin and studied my face in it. My
expression was terribly serious, I thought, even when I tried to smile. I held the
pannikin at different angles, but always my face had the same mournful, tense
expression.
The sun was setting and it was the hour of which I’d rather not speak— “the
nameless hour,” I called it— when evening sounds were creeping up from all the
floors of the prison in a sort of stealthy procession. I went to the barred window and
in the last rays looked once again at my reflected face. It was as serious as before;
and that wasn’t surprising, as just then I was feeling serious. But, at the same time, I
heard something that I hadn’t heard for months. It was the sound of a voice; my own
voice, there was no mistaking it. And I recognized it as the voice that for many a day
of late had been sounding in my ears. So I knew that all this time I’d been talking to
myself.
And something I’d been told came back; a remark made by the nurse at Mother’s
funeral. No, there was no way out, and no one can imagine what the evenings are like
in prison.
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52
III
ON THE whole I can’t say that those months passed slowly; another summer was on
its way almost before I realized the first was over. And I knew that with the first
really hot days something new was in store for me. My case was down for the last
sessions of the Assize Court, and those sessions were due to end some time in June.
The day on which my trial started was one of brilliant sunshine. My lawyer
assured me the case would take only two or three days. “From what I hear,” he added,
“the court will dispatch your case as quickly as possible, as it isn’t the most
important one on the Cause List. There’s a case of parricide immediately after, which
will take them some time.”
They came for me at half-past seven in the morning and I was conveyed to the law
