"A Camus - The Stranger" - читать интересную книгу автора (Camus Albert)

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 fillЧwith 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 motherТs 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 guestТs 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 shouldnТt 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. IТd read, of course, that in jail one ends up by losing track of time. But this had never meant anything definite to me. I hadnТt 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 УyesterdayФ and УtomorrowФ still kept some meaning.
When, one morning, the jailer informed me IТd now been six months in jail, I believed himЧbut the words conveyed nothing to my mind. To me it seemed like one and the same day that had been going on since IТd been in my cell, and that IТd 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 IТd rather not speakЧУthe nameless hour,Ф I called itЧwhen 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 wasnТt surprising, as just then I was feeling serious. But, at the same time, I heard something that I hadnТt 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 IТd been talking to myself.
And something IТd been told came back; a remark made by the nurse at MotherТs funeral. No, there was no way out, and no one can imagine what the evenings are like in prison.

III
ON THE whole I canТt 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. УFrom what I hear,Ф he added, Уthe court will dispatch your case as quickly as possible, as it isnТt the most important one on the Cause List. ThereТs a case of parricide immediately after, which will take them some time.Ф
They came for me at half-past seven in the morning and I was conveyed to the law courts in a prison van. The two policemen led me into a small room that smelled of darkness. We sat near a door through which came sounds of voices, shouts, chairs scraping on the floor; a vague hubbub which reminded me of one of those small-town УsocialsФ when, after the concertТs over, the hall is cleared for dancing.
One of my policemen told me the judges hadnТt arrived yet, and offered me a cigarette, which I declined. After a bit he asked me if I was feeling nervous. I said, УNo,Ф and that the prospect of witnessing a trial rather interested me; IТd never had occasion to attend one before.
УMaybe,Ф the other policeman said. УBut after an hour or two oneТs had enough of it.Ф
After a while a small electric bell purred in the room. They unfastened my handcuffs, opened the door, and led me to the prisonerТs dock.
There was a great crowd in the courtroom. Though the Venetian blinds were down, light was filtering through the chinks, and the air stiflingly hot already. The windows had been kept shut. I sat down, and the police officers took their stand on each side of my chair.
It was then that I noticed a row of faces opposite me. These people were staring hard at me, and I guessed they were the jury. But somehow I didnТt see them as individuals. I felt as you do just after boarding a streetcar and youТre conscious of all the people on the opposite seat staring at you in the hope of finding something in your appearance to amuse them. Of course, I knew this was an absurd comparison; what these people were looking for in me wasnТt anything to laugh at, but signs of criminality. Still, the difference wasnТt so very great, and, anyhow, thatТs the idea I got.
What with the crowd and the stuffiness of the air I was feeling a bit dizzy. I ran my eyes round the courtroom but couldnТt recognize any of the faces. At first I could hardly believe that all these people had come on my account. It was such a new experience, being a focus of interest; in the ordinary way no one ever paid much attention to me.
УWhat a crush!Ф I remarked to the policeman on my left, and he explained that the newspapers were responsible for it.
He pointed to a group of men at a table just below the jury box. УThere they are!Ф
УWho?Ф I asked, and he replied, УThe press.Ф One of them, he added, was an old friend of his.
A moment later the man heТd mentioned looked our way and, coming to the dock, shook hands warmly with the policeman. The journalist was an elderly man with a rather grim expression, but his manner was quite pleasant. Just then I noticed that almost all the people in the courtroom were greeting each other, exchanging remarks and forming groupsЧbehaving, in fact, as in a club where the company of others of oneТs own tastes and standing makes one feel at ease. That, no doubt, explained the odd impression I had of being de trop here, a sort of gate-crasher.
However, the journalist addressed me quite amiably, and said he hoped all would go well for me. I thanked him, and he added with a smile:
УYou know, weТve been featuring you a bit. WeТre always rather short of copy in the summer, and thereТs been precious little to write about except your case and the one thatТs coming on after it. I expect youТve heard about it; itТs a case of parricide.Ф
He drew my attention to one of the group at the press table, a plump, small man with huge black-rimmed glasses, who made me think of an overfed weasel.
УThat fellowТs the special correspondent of one of the Paris dailies. As a matter of fact, he didnТt come on your account. He was sent for the parricide case, but theyТve asked him to cover yours as well.Ф
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, УThat was very kind of them,Ф but then I thought it would sound silly. With a friendly wave of his hand he left us, and for some minutes nothing happened.
Then, accompanied by some colleagues, my lawyer bustled in, in his gown. He went up to the press table and shook hands with the journalists. They remained laughing and chatting together, all seemingly very much at home here, until a bell rang shrilly and everyone went to his place. My lawyer came up to me, shook hands, and advised me to answer all the questions as briefly as possible, not to volunteer information, and to rely on him to see me through.
I heard a chair scrape on my left, and a tall, thin man wearing pince-nez settled the folds of his red gown as he took his seat. The Public Prosecutor, I gathered. A clerk of the court announced that Their Honors were entering, and at the same moment two big electric fans started buzzing overhead. Three judges, two in black and the third in scarlet, with brief cases under their arms, entered and walked briskly to the bench, which was several feet above the level of the courtroom floor. The man in scarlet took the central, high-backed chair, placed his cap of office on the table, ran a handkerchief over his small bald crown, and announced that the hearing would now begin.
The journalists had their fountain pens ready; they all wore the same expression of slightly ironical indifference, with the exception of one, a much younger man than his colleagues, in gray flannels with a blue tie, who, leaving his pen on the table, was gazing hard at me. He had a plain, rather chunky face; what held my attention were his eyes, very pale, clear eyes, riveted on me, though not betraying any definite emotion. For a moment I had an odd impression, as if I were being scrutinized by myself. ThatЧand the fact that I was unfamiliar with court procedureЧmay explain why I didnТt follow very well the opening phases: the drawing of lots for the jury, the various questions put by the presiding judge to the Prosecutor, the foreman of the jury, and my counsel (each time he spoke all the jurymenТs heads swung round together toward the bench), the hurried reading of the charge sheet, in the course of which I recognized some familiar names of people and places; then some supplementary questions put to my lawyer.
Next, the Judge announced that the court would call over the witness list. Some of the names read out by the clerk rather surprised me. From amongst the crowd, which until now I had seen as a mere blur of faces, rose, one after the other, Raymond, Masson, Salamano, the doorkeeper from the Home, old Pщrez, and Marie, who gave me a little nervous wave of her hand before following the others out by a side door. I was thinking how strange it was I hadnТt noticed any of them before when I heard the last name called, that of Cщleste. As he rose, I noticed beside him the quaint little woman with a mannish coat and brisk, decided air, who had shared my table at the restaurant. She had her eyes fixed on me, I noticed. But I hadnТt time to wonder about her; the Judge had started speaking again.
He said that the trial proper was about to begin, and he need hardly say that he expected the public to refrain from any demonstration whatsoever. He explained that he was there to supervise the proceedings, as a sort of umpire, and he would take a scrupulously impartial view of the case. The verdict of the jury would be interpreted by him in a spirit of justice. Finally, at the least sign of a disturbance he would have the court cleared.
The day was stoking up. Some of the public were fanning themselves with newspapers, and there was a constant rustle of crumpled paper. On a sign from the presiding judge the clerk of the court brought three fans of plaited straw, which the three judges promptly put in action.
My examination began at once. The Judge questioned me quite calmly and even, I thought, with a hint of cordiality. For the nth time I was asked to give particulars of my identity and, though heartily sick of this formality, I realized that it was natural enough; after all, it would be a shocking thing for the court to be trying the wrong man.
The Judge then launched into an account of what IТd done, stopping after every two or three sentences to ask me, УIs that correct?Ф To which I always replied, УYes, sir,Ф as my lawyer had advised me. It was a long business, as the Judge lingered on each detail. Meanwhile the journalists scribbled busily away. But I was sometimes conscious of the eyes of the youngest fixed on me; also those of the queer little robot woman. The jurymen, however, were all gazing at the red-robed judge, and I was again reminded of the row of passengers on one side of a tram. Presently he gave a slight cough, turned some pages of his file, and, still fanning his face, addressed me gravely.
He now proposed, he said, to trench on certain matters which, on a superficial view, might seem foreign to the case, but actually were highly relevant. I guessed that he was going to talk about Mother, and at the same moment realized how odious I would find this. His first question was: Why had I sent my mother to an institution? I replied that the reason was simple; I hadnТt enough money to see that she was properly looked after at home. Then he asked if the parting hadnТt caused me distress. I explained that neither Mother nor I expected much of one anotherЧor, for that matter, of anybody else; so both of us had got used to the new conditions easily enough. The Judge then said that he had no wish to press the point, and asked the Prosecutor if he could think of any more questions that should be put to me at this stage.
The Prosecutor, who had his back half turned to me, said, without looking in my direction, that, subject to His HonorТs approval, he would like to know if IТd gone back to the stream with the intention of killing the Arab. I said, УNo.Ф In that case, why had I taken a revolver with me, and why go back precisely to that spot? I said it was a matter of pure chance. The Prosecutor then observed in a nasty tone: УVery good. That will be all for the present.Ф
I couldnТt quite follow what came next. Anyhow, after some palavering among the bench, the Prosecutor, and my counsel, the presiding judge announced that the court would now rise; there was an adjournment till the afternoon, when evidence would be taken.
Almost before I knew what was happening I was rushed out to the prison van, which drove me back, and I was given my midday meal. After a short time, just enough for me to realize how tired I was feeling, they came for me. I was back in the same room, confronting the same faces, and the whole thing started again. But the heat had meanwhile much increased, and by some miracle fans had been procured for everyone: the jury, my lawyer, the Prosecutor, and some of the journalists, too. The young man and the robot woman were still at their places. But they were not fanning themselves and, as before, they never took their eyes off me.
I wiped the sweat from my face, but I was barely conscious of where or who I was until I heard the warden of the Home called to the witness box. When asked if my mother had complained about my conduct, he said, УYes,Ф but that didnТt mean much; almost all the inmates of the Home had grievances against their relatives. The Judge asked him to be more explicit; did she reproach me with having sent her to the Home, and he said, УYes,Ф again. But this time he didnТt qualify his answer.
To another question he replied that on the day of the funeral he was somewhat surprised by my calmness. Asked to explain what he meant by Уmy calmness,Ф the warden lowered his eyes and stared at his shoes for a moment. Then he explained that I hadnТt wanted to see MotherТs body, or shed a single tear, and that IТd left immediately the funeral ended, without lingering at her grave. Another thing had surprised him. One of the undertakerТs men told him that I didnТt know my motherТs age. There was a short silence; then the Judge asked him if he might take it that he was referring to the prisoner in the dock. The warden seemed puzzled by this, and the Judge explained: УItТs a formal question. I am bound to put it.Ф
The Prosecutor was then asked if he had any questions to put, and he answered loudly: УCertainly not! I have all I want.Ф His tone and the look of triumph on his face, as he glanced at me, were so marked that I felt as I hadnТt felt for ages. I had a foolish desire to burst into tears. For the first time IТd realized how all these people loathed me.
After asking the jury and my lawyer if they had any questions, the Judge heard the doorkeeperТs evidence. On stepping into the box the man threw a glance at me, then looked away. Replying to questions, he said that IТd declined to see MotherТs body, IТd smoked cigarettes and slept, and drunk cafщ au lait. It was then I felt a sort of wave of indignation spreading through the courtroom, and for the first time I understood that I was guilty. They got the doorkeeper to repeat what he had said about the coffee and my smoking.
The Prosecutor turned to me again, with a gloating look in his eyes. My counsel asked the doorkeeper if he, too, hadnТt smoked. But the Prosecutor took strong exception to this. УIТd like to know,Ф he cried indignantly, Уwho is on trial in this court. Or does my friend think that by aspersing a witness for the prosecution he will shake the evidence, the abundant and cogent evidence, against his client?Ф None the less, the Judge told the doorkeeper to answer the question.
The old fellow fidgeted a bit. Then, УWell, I know I didnТt ought to have done it,Ф he mumbled, Уbut I did take a cigarette from the young gentleman when he offered itЧjust out of politeness.Ф
The Judge asked me if I had any comment to make. УNone,Ф I said, Уexcept that the witness is quite right. ItТs true I offered him a cigarette.Ф
The doorkeeper looked at me with surprise and a sort of gratitude. Then, after hemming and hawing for a bit, he volunteered the statement that it was he whoТd suggested I should have some coffee.
My lawyer was exultant. УThe jury will appreciate,Ф he said, Уthe importance of this admission.Ф
The Prosecutor, however, was promptly on his feet again. УQuite so,Ф he boomed above our heads. УThe jury will appreciate it. And they will draw the conclusion that, though a third party might inadvertently offer him a cup of coffee, the prisoner, in common decency, should have refused it, if only out of respect for the dead body of the poor woman who had brought him into the world.Ф
After which the doorkeeper went back to his seat.