The Plague by Albert Camus. Part 2 Chapter 3.

But, where some saw abstraction, others saw the truth. The first month of the plague ended gloomily, with the violent recrudescence of the epidemic and a dramatic sermon preached by Father Panalu, the Jesuit priest who had given an arm to old Michael when he was tottering home at the start of his illness. Father Panalu had already made his mark with frequent contributions to the Geographical Society. These dealt chiefly with ancient inscriptions, on which he was an authority. But he had also reached a wider, non-specialist public with a series of lectures on present day individualism. In these, he had shown himself a stalwart champion of Christian doctrine, at its most precise and purest, equally remote from modern laxity and the obscurantism of the past. On these occasions, he had not shrunk from trouncing his hearers with some vigorous home truths, hence his local celebrity. Toward the end of the month, the ecclesiastical authorities in our town resolved to do battle against the plague with the weapons appropriate to them, and organised a week of prayer. These manifestations of public piety were to be concluded on Sunday by a high mass celebrated under the auspices of St Roch, the plague stricken saint, and Father Panalu was asked to preach the sermon. For a fortnight, he desisted from the research work on St Augustine and the African church that had won him a high place in his order. A man of a passionate, fiery temperament, he flung himself wholeheartedly into the task assigned him. The sermon was a topic of conversation long before it was delivered, and in its way it marks an important date in the history of the period. There were large attendances at the services of the week of prayer. It must not, however, be assumed that in normal times the townsfolk are particularly devout. On Sunday mornings, for instance, sea bathing competes seriously with church going, nor must it be thought that they had seen a great light and had a sudden change of heart. But for one thing, now that the town was closed and the harbour out of bounds, there was no question of bathing. Moreover, they were in a quite exceptional frame of mind, and though in their heart of hearts they were far from recognising the enormity of what had come on them, they could not help feeling, for obvious reasons, that decidedly something had changed. Nevertheless, many continued hoping that the epidemic would soon die out and they and their families be spared. Thus they felt under no obligation to make any change in their habits as yet. Plague was for them an unwelcome visitant, bound to take its leave one day as unexpectedly as it had come. Alarmed but far from desperate, they hadn't yet reached the phase when plague would seem to them the very tissue of their existence. When they forgot the lives that, until now, it had been given them to lead. In short, they were waiting for the turn of events. With regard to religion, as to many other problems, plague had induced in them a curious frame of mind, as remote from indifference as from fervour. The best name to give it, perhaps, might be objectivity. Most of those who took part in the week of prayer would have echoed a remark made by one of the churchgoers in Dr Rear's hearing. Anyhow it can't do any harm. Even Taru, after recording in his notebook that in such cases the Chinese fall to playing tambourines before the genius of plague, observed that there was no means of telling whether in practice tambourines proved more efficacious than prophylactic measures. He merely added that to decide the point we should need first to ascertain if a genius of plague actually existed. And our ignorance on this point nullified any opinions we might form. In any case, the cathedral was practically always full of worshippers throughout the week of prayer. For the first two or three days many stayed outside, under the palms and pomegranate trees in the garden in the front porch, and listened from a distance to the swelling tide of prayers and invocations whose backwash filled the neighbouring streets. But once an example had been given they began to enter the cathedral and join timidly in the responses. And on the Sunday of the sermon a huge congregation filled the nave, overflowing onto the steps and the precincts. The sky had clouded up from the previous day and now it was raining heavily. Those in the open unfurled umbrellas. The air inside the cathedral was heavy with fumes of incense and the smell of wet clothes when Father Panolou stepped into the pulpit. He was a stockily built man of medium height. When he leaned on the edge of the pulpit, grasping the woodwork with his big hands, all one saw was a black, massive torso, and above it two rosy cheeks overhung by steel-rimmed spectacles. He had a powerful, rather emotional delivery, which carried to a great distance, and when he launched at the congregation, his opening phrase, in clear, emphatic tones, Calamity has come on you, my brethren, and, my brethren, you deserve it. There was a flutter that extended to the crowd massed in the rain outside the porch. In strict logic, what came next did not seem to follow from this dramatic opening, only as the sermon proceeded did it become apparent to the congregation that, by a skilful oratorical device, Father Panolou had launched at them, like a fisticuff, the gist of his whole discourse. After launching it, he went on at once to quote a text from Exodus, relating to the plague of Egypt, and said, The first time this scourge appears in history, it was wielded to strike down the enemies of God. Pharaoh set himself up against the divine will, and the plague beat him to his knees. Thus, from the dawn of recorded history, the scourge of God has humbled the proud of heart, and laid low those who hardened themselves against him. Ponder this well, my friends, and fall on your knees. The downpour had increased in violence, and these words, striking through a silence intensified by the drumming of raindrops on the chancel windows, carried such conviction that, after a momentary hesitation, some of the worshippers slipped forward from their seats onto their knees. Others felt it right to follow their example, and the movement gradually spread until presently everyone was kneeling, from end to end of the cathedral. No sound except the occasional creak of chairs accompanied the movement. Then Panolou drew himself up to his full height, took a deep breath and continued his sermon in a voice that gathered strength as it proceeded. If today the plague is in your midst, that is because the hour has struck for taking thought. The just man need have no fear, but the evildoer has good cause to tremble. For plague is the flail of God, and the world his threshing floor. And implacably he will thresh out his harvest until the wheat is separated from the chaff. There will be more chaff than wheat, few chosen of the many called. Yet this calamity was not willed by God. Too long this world of ours has connived at evil. Too long has it countered on the divine mercy of God's forgiveness. Repentance was enough, men thought. Nothing was forbidden. Everyone felt comfortably assured. When the day came, he would surely turn from his sins and repent. At the end of that day, the easiest course was to surrender all along the line. Divine compassion would do the rest. For a long while God gazed down on this town with eyes of compassion, but he grew weary of waiting. His eternal hope was too long deferred, and now he has turned his face away from us. And so, God's light withdrawn, we walk in darkness, in the thick darkness of this plague. A woman in the congregation gave a little snort like that of a restive horse. After a short silence, the preacher continued in a lower tone. We read in the golden legend that in the time of King Umberto, Italy was swept by plague and its greatest ravages took place in Rome and Pavia. So dreadful were these that the living hardly sufficed to bury the dead. And a good angel was made visible to human eyes, giving his orders to an evil angel who bore a great hunting spear and bidding him strike the houses. As many strokes as he dealt a house, so many dead were carried out of it. Here Panolou stretched forth his two short arms towards the open porch, as if pointing to something behind the tumbling curtain of the rain. My brothers, he cried, that fatal hunt is up and harrying our streets today. See him there, that angel of the pestilence, comely as Lucifer, shining like evil's very self. He is hovering above your roofs with his great spear in his right hand, poised to strike while his left hand is stretched toward one or other of your houses. Maybe at this very moment his finger is pointing to your door. The red spear crashing on its panels, and even now the plague is entering your home and setting down in your bedroom to await your return. Patient and watchful, inelicutable as the order of the scheme of things, it bides its time. No earthly power, nay, not even, mark me well, the vaulted might of human science, can avail you to avert that hand once it is stretched towards you. And winnowed like corn, on the blood-stained threshing floor of suffering, you will be cast away with the chaff. At this point the father reverted with heightened eloquence to the symbol of the flail. He bade his hearers picture a huge wooden bar whirling above the town, striking at random, swinging up and again in a shower of drops of blood and spreading carnage and suffering on earth, for the seed-time that shall prepare the harvest of the truth. At the end of his long phrase, Father Padley paused. His hair was straggling over his forehead, his body shaken by tremors that his hands communicated to the pulpit. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, but vibrant with accusation. Yes, the hour has come for serious thought. You fondly imagined it was enough to visit God on Sundays, and thus you could make free of your weekdays. You believed some brief formalities, some bendings of the knee, would recompense him well enough for your criminal indifference. But God is not mocked. These brief encounters could not sate the fierce hunger of his love. He wished to see you longer and more often. That is his manner of loving, and indeed it is the only manner of loving. And this is why, wearied of waiting for you to come to him, he loosed on you this visitation, as he has visited all the cities that have ended against him since the dawn of history. Now you are learning your lesson, the lesson that was learned by Cain and his offspring, by the people of Sodom and Gomorrah, by Job and Pharaoh, by all that harboured their hearts against him. And like them, you have been beholding mankind and all creation with new eyes since the gates of this city closed on you and on the pestilence. Now at last you know the hour has struck to bend your thoughts to first and last things. A wet wind was sweeping up the nave, making the candle flame bend and flicker. The pungency of burning wax, coughs, a stifled sneeze, rose towards Father Panolo, who reverting to his exordium, with a subtlety that was much appreciated, went on in a calm, almost matter-of-fact voice. Many of you are wondering I know what I am leading up to. I wish to lead you to the truth and teach you to rejoice. Yes, rejoice, in spite of all that I have been telling you. For the time is past when a helping hand or mere words of good advice could set you on the right path. Today the truth is a command. It is a red spear, sternly pointing to the narrow path, the one way of salvation. And thus, my brothers, at last it is revealed to you, the divine compassion which has ordained good and evil in everything, wrath and pity, the plague and your salvation. This same pestilence which is slaying you works for your good and points your path. Many centuries ago the Christians of Abyssinia saw in the plague a sure and God-sent means of winning eternal life. Those who were not yet stricken wrapped round them sheets in which men had died of plague so as to make sure of their death. I grant you such a frenzied quest of salvation was not to be commended. It shows an overhaste, indeed a presumptuousness, which we can but deplore. No man should seek to force God's hand or to hurry on the appointed hour. It is but a step from a practice that aims at speeding up the order of events which God has ordained unalterably from all time. It is but a step to heresy. Yet we can learn a salutary lesson from the zeal, excessive though it was of those Abyssinian Christians. Much of it is alien to our more enlightened spirits and yet it gives us a glimpse of that radiant eternal light which glows a small, still flame in the dark core of human suffering. And this light too illuminates the shadowed paths that lead towards deliverance. It reveals the will of God in action, unfailingly transforming evil into good. And once again today it is leading us through the dark valley of fears and groans towards the holy silence, the wellspring of all life. This, my friends, is the vast consolation I would hold out to you, so that when you leave this house of God you will carry away with you not only words of wrath, but a message too of comfort for your hearts. Everyone supposed that the sermon had ended. Outside the rain had ceased and watery sunshine was yellowing the cathedral square. Vague sounds of voices came from the streets and a low hum of traffic, the speech of an awakening town. Discreetly, with subdued rustling, the congregation gathered together their belongings. However, the father had a few more words to say. He told them that after having made it clear that this plague had come from God for the punishment of their sins, he would not have recourse in concluding to an eloquence that, considering the tragic nature of the occasion, would be out of keeping. He hoped and believed that all of them now saw their position in its true light, but, before leaving the pulpit, he would like to tell them of something he had been reading in an old chronicle of the Black Death at Marseilles. In it, Matthieu Marais, the chronicler, laments his lot. He says he has been cast into hell to languish without succour and without hope. Well, Matthieu Marais was blind. Never more intensely than today had he, Father Parly, felt the imminence of divine succour and Christian hope granted to all alike. He hoped against hope that, despite all of the horrors of these dark days, despite the groans of men and women in agony, our fellow citizens would offer up to heaven that one prayer which is truly Christian, a prayer of love, and God would see to the rest.