The Plague by Albert Camus. Part 4 Chapter 6

There were other camps of much the same kind in the town but the narrator, for lack of first-hand information and in deference to veracity, has nothing to add about them. This much however he can say. The mere existence of these camps, the smell of crowded humanity coming from them, the baying of their loudspeakers in the dusk, the air of mystery that clung about them, and the dread these forbidden places inspired, told seriously on our fellow citizens' morale and added to the general nervousness and apprehension. Breaches of the peace and minor riots became more frequent. As November drew to a close, the mornings turned much colder. Heavy downpours had scoured the streets and washed the sky clean of clouds. In the mornings a weak sunlight bathed the town in a cold sparkling sheen. The air warmed up however as night approached. It was such a night that Tarou chose for telling something of himself to Dr Rieu. After a particularly tiring day, about ten o'clock, Tarou proposed to the doctor that they should go together for the evening visit to Rieu's old asthma patient. There was a soft glow above the housetops in the old town and a light breeze fanned their faces at the street crossings. Coming from the silent streets they found the old man's loquacity rather irksome at first. He launched into a long harangue to the effect that some folks were getting fed up, that it was always the same people had all the jam and things couldn't go on like that indefinitely. One day there'd be, he rubbed his hands, a fine old row. He continued expatiating on this theme all the time the doctor was attending to him. They heard footsteps overhead. Noticing Tarou's upward glance the old woman explained it was the girls from next door walking on the terrace. She added that one had a lovely view up there and that as the terraces in this part of town often joined up with the next one on one side the woman could visit their neighbours without having to go into the street. Why not go up and have a look, the old man suggested. You'll get a breath of nice fresh air. They found nobody on the terrace, only three empty chairs. On one side as far as the eye could reach was a row of terraces, the most remote of which abutted on a dark rugged mass that they recognised as the hill nearest the town. On the other side spanning some streets and the unseen harbour their gaze came to rest on the horizon where sea and sky merged in a dim vibrant greyness. Beyond a black patch that they knew to be the cliffs, a sudden glow whose source they could not see sprang up at regular intervals. The lighthouse at the entrance of the fairway was still functioning for the benefit of ships that passing the unused harbour went on to other ports along the coast. In a sky swept crystal clear by the night wind the stars showed like silver flakes tarnished now and then by the yellow gleam of the revolving light. Perfumes of spice and warm stone were wafted on the breeze. Everything was very still. A pleasant spot, said Ria as he lowered himself into a chair. You'd think that plague had never found its way up here. Taru was gazing seawards, his back to the doctor. Yes, he replied after a moment's silence, it's good to be here. Then settling into the chair beside Ria he fixed his eyes on his face. Three times the glow spread up the sky and died away. A faint clatter of crockery rose from a room opening on the street below. A door banged somewhere in the house. Ria said in a quite ordinary tone. Do you realise that you never tried to find out anything about me? The man I am. Can I regard you as a friend? Well yes of course we're friends. Only so far we haven't had much time to show it. Good. That gives me confidence. Suppose we now take an hour off. For friendship? Ria smiled by way of answer. Well, here goes. There was a long faint hiss some streets off, the sound of a car speeding on the wet pavement. It died away. Then some vague shouts a long way off broke the stillness again. Then, like a dense veil slowly falling from the starry sky on the two men, silence returned. Taru had moved and now was sitting on the parapet facing Ria, who was slumped back in his chair. All that could be seen of him was a dark, bulky form outlined against the glimmering sky. He had much to tell. What follows gives it more or less in his own words. To make things simpler, Ria, let me begin by saying I had plague already, long before I came to this town and encountered it here. Which is tantamount to saying I'm like everybody else. Actually, there are some people who don't know it, or feel at ease in that condition. Others know and want to get out of it. Personally, I've always wanted to get out of it. When I was young, I lived with the idea of my innocence. That is to say, with no idea at all. I'm not the self-tormenting kind of person and I made a suitable start in life. I bought off everything I set my hand to. I moved at ease in the field of intellect. I got on excellently with women. And if I had occasional qualms, they passed as lightly as they came. Then, one day, I started thinking. And now? I should tell you, I wasn't poor in my young days, as you were. My father had an important post. He was prosecuting attorney, but to look at him, you'd never have guessed it, he appeared and was a kindly, good-natured man. My mother was a simple, rather shy woman, and I've always loved her greatly. But I'd rather not talk about her. My father was always very kind to me, and I even think he tried to understand me. He wasn't a mortal husband, I know that now, but I can't say that shocks me particularly. Even in his infidelities, he behaved as one could count on his behaving, and never gave rise to scandal. In short, he wasn't at all original. And, now he's dead, I realise that, while no plaster saint, he was a very decent man, as men go. He kept the middle way, that's all. He was the type of man for whom one has an affection of the mild but steady order, which is the kind that wears best. My father had one peculiarity. The big railway directory was his bedside book. Not that he often took a train, almost his only journeys were to Brittany where he had a small country house to which we went every summer. But he was a walking timetable. He could tell you the exact times of departure and arrival of the Paris-Berlin Express, how to get from Lyon to Warsaw, which trains to take and at what hours, the precise distance between any two capital cities you might mention. Could you tell me offhand how to get from Briençon to Chamonix? Even a station master would scratch his head, I would say. Well, my father had the answer pat. Almost every evening he enlarged his knowledge of the subject, and he prided himself in it. This hobby of his much amused me. I would put complicated travel problems to him, and check his answers afterwards by the railway directory. They were invariably correct. My father and I got on together excellently. Thanks largely to these railway games we played in the evenings. I was exactly the audience he needed. Attentive and appreciative. Personally, I regarded this accomplishment of his as quite admirable, in its ways as most accomplishments. But I am letting my tongue run away with me, and attributing too much importance to that worthy man. Actually, he played only an indirect role in the great change of heart about which I want to tell you. The most he did to me was to touch off a train of thoughts. When I was seventeen, my father asked me to come to hear him speak in court. There was a big caisson at the assizes, and probably he thought I'd see him to his best advantage. Also, I suspect he hoped I'd be duly impressed by the pomp and ceremony of the law, and encouraged to take up his profession. I could tell he was keen on my going, and the prospect of seeing a side of my father's character so different from that we saw at home appealed to me. Those were absolutely the only reasons I had for going to the trial. What happened in a court had always seemed to me as natural. As much in the order of things, as a military parade on the 14th of July, or a school speech day. My notions on the subject were purely abstract, and I'd never given it serious thought. The only picture I carried away with me of that day's proceedings was a picture of the criminal. I've little doubt he was guilty, of what crime is no great matter. That little man of about thirty, with sparse sandy hair, seemed so eager to confess everything, so genuinely horrified at what he'd done, and what was going to be done with him, that after a few minutes I had eyes for nothing, and nobody else. He looked like a yellow owl, scared blind by too much light. His tie was slightly awry, he kept biting his nails, those of one hand only, his right. I needn't go on, need I? You've understood, he was a living human being. As for me, it came on me suddenly, in a flash of understanding. Until then, I'd thought of him only under his commonplace official designation, as the defendant, and though I can't say I quite forgot my father, something seemed to grip my vitals at that moment, and riveted all my attention on the little man in the dock. I hardly heard what was being said, I only knew that they were set on killing that living man, and an upbrush of some elemental instinct, like a wave, had swept me to his side, and I did not really wake up until my father rose to address the court. In his red gown, he was another man, no longer genial or good-natured. His mouth spewed out long, turgid phrases, like an endless stream of snakes. I realised he was clamouring for the prisoner's death, telling the jury that they owed it to society to find him guilty. He went so far as to demand that the man should have his head cut off. Not exactly in those words, I admit. He must pay the supreme penalty, was the formula, but the difference really was slight, and the result the same. He had the head he asked for, only of course it wasn't he who did the actual job. I, who saw the whole business through to its conclusion, felt a far closer, far more terrifying intimacy with that wretched man than my father can ever have felt. Nevertheless, it fell to him in the course of his duties to be present at what's politely termed the prisoner's last moments, but what would be better called murder in its most despicable form. From that day on, I couldn't even see the railway directory without a shudder of disgust. I took a horrified interest in legal proceedings, death sentences, executions, and I realised with dismay that my father must have often witnessed those brutal murders. On the days when, as I'd noticed without guessing what it meant, he rose very early in the morning. I remembered he used to wind his alarm clock on those occasions to make sure. I didn't dare to broach the subject with my mother, but I watched her now more closely and saw that their life in common had ceased to mean anything. She had abandoned hope. That helped me to forgive her, as I put it to myself at the time. Later on, I learned that there'd be nothing to forgive. She'd been quite poor until her marriage, and poverty had taught her resignation. Probably you're expecting me to tell you that I left home at once. No, I stayed on many months, nearly a year in fact. Then one evening, my father asked for the alarm clock, as he had to get up early. I couldn't sleep that night. Next day, when he came home, I'd gone. Well, to cut a long story short, I had a letter from my father who had sent enquiries on foot to find me. I went to see him and, without explaining my reasons, told him quite calmly that I'd kill myself if he forced me to return. He wound up by letting me have my way. He was, as I said, a kindly man at bottom. Gave me a lecture on the silliness of my wanting to live my life. Well, that was how he accounted for my conduct, and I didn't undeceive him. And plenty of good advice. I could see he really felt it deeply, and it was quite an effort for him to keep back his tears. Subsequently, quite a long time after that, I formed a habit of visiting my mother periodically, and always saw him on those occasions. I imagine these infrequent meetings satisfied my father. Personally, I hadn't the least antipathy to him, only a little sadness of heart. When he died, I had my mother come to live with me, and she'd still be with me if she were alive. I've had to dwell on my start in life, since, for me, it really was the start of everything. I'll get on more quickly now. I came to grips with poverty when I was 18. After an easy life till then, I tried all sorts of jobs, and I didn't do too badly. But my real interest in life was the death penalty. I wanted to square accounts with that poor blind owl in the dock. So I became an agitator, as they say. I didn't want to be pestiferous, that's all. To my mind, the social order around me was based on the death sentence, and by writing the established order, I'd be fighting against murder. That was my view. Others have told me so, and I still think that this belief of mine was substantially true. I joined forces with a group of people I then liked, and indeed, have never ceased to like. I spent many years in close cooperation with them, and there's not a country in Europe whose struggles I haven't played a part. But that's another story. Needless to say, I knew that we too, on occasion, passed sentences of death. But I was told that these few deaths were inevitable for the building up of a new world, in which murder would cease to be. That also was true up to a point, and maybe I'm not capable of standing fast where that order of truths is concerned. Whatever the explanation, I hesitated. But then I remembered that miserable owl in the dock, and it enabled me to keep on, until the day when I was present at an execution. It was in Hungary, and exactly the same dazed horror that I'd experienced as a youngster made everything real before my eyes. Have you ever seen a man shot by a firing squad? No, of course not. The spectators are hand-picked, and it's like a private party. You need an invitation. The result is that you've gleaned your ideas about it from books and pictures. A post. A blindfolded man. Some soldiers in the offing. But the real thing isn't a bit like that. Do you know that the firing squad stands only a yard and a half from the condemned man? Do you know that if the victim took two steps forward, his chest would touch the rifles? Do you know that at this short range the soldiers concentrate their fire on the region of the heart, and their big bullets make a hole into which you could thrust your fist? No, you didn't know all that. Those are things that are never spoken of. For the plague-stricken, their peace of mind is more important than a human life. Decent folks must be allowed to sleep easier nights, mustn't they? Really, it would be shockingly bad taste to linger on such details. That's common knowledge. But personally, I've never been able to sleep well since then. The bad taste remained in my mouth, and I've kept lingering on the details, brooding over them. And thus I came to understand that I, anyhow, had had plague through all those long years, in which, paradoxically enough, I'd believed with all my soul that I was fighting it. I learned that I had had an indirect hand in the deaths of thousands of people, that I'd even brought about their deaths by approving of acts and principles which could only end that way. Others did not seem embarrassed by such thoughts, or anyhow never voiced them of their own accord. But I was different. What I'd come to know stuck in my gorge. I was with them, and yet I was alone. When I spoke of these matters, they told me not to be so squeamish. I should remember what great issues were at stake, and they advanced arguments, often quite impressive ones, to make me swallow what, nonetheless, I couldn't bring myself to stomach. I replied that the most eminent of the plague-stricken, the men who wear red robes, also have excellent arguments to justify what they do. And once I admitted the arguments of necessity and force majeure put forward by the less eminent, I couldn't reject those of the eminent, to which they retorted that the surest way of playing the game of the red robes was to leave them the monopoly of the death penalty. My reply to this was that if you gave in once, there was no reason for not continuing to give in. It seems to me that history has borne me out. Today there's a sort of competition who will kill the most. They're all mad over murder, and they couldn't stop killing men even if they wanted to. In any case, my concern was not with arguments. It was with the poor owl, with that foul procedure whereby dirty mouths, stinking of plague, told a fettered man that he was going to die, and scientifically arranged things so that he should die, after nights and nights of mental torture, while he waited to be murdered in cold blood. My concern was with that hole in a man's chest, and I told myself that meanwhile, so far anyhow, as I was concerned, nothing in the world would induce me to accept any argument that justified such butcheries. Yes, I chose to be blindly obstinate, pending the day when I could see my way more clearly. I'm still of the same mind. For many years I've been ashamed, mortally ashamed, of having been, even with the best intentions, even at many removes, a murderer, in my turn. As time went on, I merely learned that even those who are better than the rest could not keep themselves nowadays from killing, or letting others kill, because such is the logic by which they live, and that we can't stir a finger in this world without the risk of bringing death to somebody. Yes, I've been ashamed ever since. I have realised that we all have plague, and I have lost my peace, and today I'm still trying to find it, still trying to understand all those others, and not to be the mortal enemy of anyone. I only know that one must do what one can to cease being plague-stricken, and that's the only way in which we can hope for some peace, or failing that, a decent death. This, and only this, can bring relief to men, and if not save them, at least do them the least harm possible, and even sometimes a little good. So that is why I resolved to have no truck with anything which directly or indirectly, for good reasons or for bad, brings death to anyone or justifies others being put to death. That too is why this epidemic has taught me nothing new, except that I must fight it at your side. I know positively, yes, Rear, I can say I know the world inside out, as you may see that each of us has the plague within him. No one, no one on earth is free from it, and I know too that we must keep endless watch on ourselves, least in a careless moment we breathe in somebody's face and fasten the infection on him. What's natural is the microbe, all the rest, health, integrity, purity, if you like, is a product of the human will, of a vigilance that must never falter. The good man, the man who infects hardly anyone, is the man who has the fewest lapses of attention, and it needs tremendous willpower, a never-ending tension of the mind to avoid such lapses. Yes, Rear, it's a wearying business being plague-stricken, but it's still more wearying to refuse to be it. That's why everybody in the world today looks so tired. Everyone is more or less sick of plague, but that is also why some of us, those who want to get the plague out of their systems, feel such desperate weariness, a weariness from which nothing remains to set us free except death. Pending that release, I know that I have no place in the world of today. Once I definitely refused to kill, I doomed myself to an exile that can never end. I leave it to others to make history. I know too that I'm not qualified to pass judgment on those others. There's something lacking in my mental makeup, and its lack prevents me from being a rational murderer. So it's a deficiency, not a superiority. But as things are, I'm willing to be as I am. I've learned modesty. All I maintain is that on this earth there are pestilences and there are victims, and it's up to us, so far as possible, not to join forces with the pestilences. Now that may sound simple to the point of childishness. I can't judge if it's simple, but I know it's true. You see, I'd heard such quantities of arguments which very nearly turned my head, and turned other people's heads enough to make them a proof of murder. And I'd come to realise that all our troubles spring from our failure to use plain, clean-cut language. So I resolved always to speak and to act quite clearly, as this was the only way of setting myself on the right track. That's why I say there are pestilences and there are victims, no more than that. If by making that statement, I too become a carrier of the plague germ, at least I don't do it willfully. I try, in short, to be an innocent murderer. You see, I have no great ambitions. I grant we should add a third category, that of the true healers. But it's a fact one doesn't come across many of them, and anyhow, it must be a hard vocation. That's why I decided to take, in every predicament, the victim's side, so as to reduce the damage done. Among them, I can at least try to discover how one attains to the third category. In other words, to peace. Taru was swinging his leg, tapping the terrace lightly with his heel, as he concluded. After a short silence, the doctor raised himself a little on his chair and asked if Taru had an idea of the path to follow for attaining peace. Yes, he replied. The path of sympathy. Two ambulances were clanging in the distance. The dispersed shouts they had been hearing off and on drew together on the outskirts of the town. Near the stony hill, and presently, there was a sound like a gunshot. Then silence fell again. Re-accounted two flashes of the revolving light. The breeze freshened, and a gust coming from the sea filled the air for a moment with the smell of brine. And, at the same time, they clearly heard the low sound of waves lapping the foot of the cliffs. It comes to this, Taru said almost casually. What interests me is learning how to become a saint. But you don't believe in God. Exactly. Can one be a saint without God? That's the problem. In fact, the only problem I'm up against today. A sudden blaze sprang up above the place the shouts had come from, and stemming the wind stream, a rumour of many voices came to their ears. The blaze died down almost at once, leaving behind it only a dull red glow. Then, in a break of the wind, they distinctly heard some strident yells and the discharge of a gun, followed by the roar of an angry crowd. Taru stood up and listened, but nothing more could be heard. Another skirmish at the gates, I suppose. Well, it's over now, Ria said. Taru said in a low voice that it was never over, and there would be more victims, because that was in the order of things. Perhaps, the doctor answered. But, you know, I feel more fellowship with the defeated than with saints. Heroism and sanctity don't really appeal to me, I imagine. What interests me is being a man. Yes, we're both after the same thing, but I'm less ambitious. Ria supposed Taru was jesting, and turned to him with a smile, but, faintly lit by the dim radiance falling from the sky, the face he saw was sad and earnest. There was another gust of wind, and Ria felt it warm on his skin. Taru gave himself a little shake. Do you know, he said, what we should do for friendship's sake? Anything you like, Taru. Go for a swim. It's one of those harmless pleasures that even a Saint-to-be can indulge in, don't you agree? Ria smiled again, and Taru continued. Without passes, we can get out on the pier. Really, it's too damn silly living only in and for the plague. Of course, a man should fight for the victims, but if he ceases caring for anything outside that, what's the use of his fighting? Right, Ria said. Let's go. Some minutes later, the car drew up at the harbour gates. The moon had risen, and a milk-white radiance dappled with shadows lay around them. Behind them rose the town, tier on tier, and from it came warm, fetid breaths of air that urged them towards the sea. After showing their passes to a guard who inspected them minutely, they crossed some open ground littered with casks and headed towards the pier. The air here reeked of stale wine and fish. Just before they reached the pier, a smell of iodine and seaweed announced the nearness of the sea, and they clearly heard the sound of the waves breaking gently on the big stone blocks. Once they were on the pier, they saw the sea spread out before them, a gently heaving expanse of deep-piled velvet, supple and sleek as a creature of the wild. They sat down on a boulder facing the open. Slowly the waters rose and sank, and with their tranquil breathing, sudden oily glints formed and flickered over the surface in a haze of broken lights. Before them the darkness stretched out into infinity. Ryu could feel under his hand the gnarled weather-worn visage of the rocks, and a strange happiness possessed him. Turning to Taru, he caught a glimpse on his friend's face of the same happiness. A happiness that forgot nothing, not even murder. They undressed and Ryu dived in first. After the first shock of cold had passed and he came back to the surface, the water seemed tepid. When he had taken a few strokes, he found that the sea was warm that night, with the warmth of autumn seas that borrow from the shore the accumulated heat of the long days of summer. The movement of his feet left a foaming wake as he swam steadily ahead, and the water slipped along his arms to close in tightly on his legs. A loud splash told him that Taru had dived. Ryu lay on his back and stayed motionless, gazing up at the dome of sky, lit by the stars and moon. He drew a deep breath. Then he heard the sound of beaten water, louder and louder, amazingly clear in the hollow silence of the night. Taru was coming up with him. He now could hear his breathing. Ryu turned and swam level with his friend, timing his stroke to Taru's. But Taru was the stronger swimmer, and Ryu had to put on speed to keep up with him. For some minutes they swam side by side, with the same zest, in the same rhythm, isolated from the world, at last free of the town and of the plague. Ryu was the first to stop and they swam back slowly, except at one point, where unexpectedly they found themselves caught up in an ice-cold current. Their energy, whipped up by this trap the sea had sprung in them, both struck out more vigorously. They dressed and started back. Neither had said a word, but they were conscious of being perfectly at one, and the memory of this night would be cherished by both of them. When they caught sight of the plague watchman, Ryu guessed that Taru, like himself, was thinking that the disease had given them a respite, and this was good, but now they must set their shoulders to the wheel again.