"A Camus - The Stranger" - читать интересную книгу автора (Camus Albert)
He then leaned back against the wall, laying his hands flat on his thighs. Almost without seeming to address me, he remarked that heТd often noticed one fancies one is quite sure about something, when in point of fact one isnТt. When I said nothing, he looked at me again, and asked:
УDonТt you agree?Ф
I said that seemed quite possible. But, though I mightnТt be so sure about what interested me, I was absolutely sure about what didnТt interest me. And the question he had raised didnТt interest me at all.
He looked away and, without altering his posture, asked if it was because I felt utterly desperate that I spoke like this. I explained that it wasnТt despair I felt, but fearЧwhich was natural enough.
УIn that case,Ф he said firmly, УGod can help you. All the men IТve seen in your position turned to Him in their time of trouble.Ф
Obviously, I replied, they were at liberty to do so, if they felt like it. I, however, didnТt want to be helped, and I hadnТt time to work up interest for something that didnТt interest me.
He fluttered his hands fretfully; then, sitting up, smoothed out his cassock. When this was done he began talking again, addressing me as Уmy friend.Ф It wasnТt because IТd been condemned to death, he said, that he spoke to me in this way. In his opinion every man on the earth was under sentence of death.
There, I interrupted him; that wasnТt the same thing, I pointed out, and, whatТs more, could be no consolation.
He nodded. УMaybe. Still, if you donТt die soon, youТll die one day. And then the same question will arise. How will you face that terrible, final hour?Ф
I replied that IТd face it exactly as I was facing it now.
Thereat he stood up, and looked me straight in the eyes. It was a trick I knew well. I used to amuse myself trying it on Emmanuel and Cщleste, and nine times out of ten theyТd look away uncomfortably. I could see the chaplain was an old hand at it, as his gaze never faltered. And his voice was quite steady when he said: УHave you no hope at all? Do you really think that when you die you die outright, and nothing remains?Ф
I said: УYes.Ф
He dropped his eyes and sat down again. He was truly sorry for me, he said. It must make life unbearable for a man, to think as I did.
The priest was beginning to bore me, and, resting a shoulder on the wall, just beneath the little skylight, I looked away. Though I didnТt trouble much to follow what he said, I gathered he was questioning me again. Presently his tone became agitated, urgent, and, as I realized that he was genuinely distressed, I began to pay more attention.
He said he felt convinced my appeal would succeed, but I was saddled with a load of guilt, of which I must get rid. In his view manТs justice was a vain thing; only GodТs justice mattered. I pointed out that the former had condemned me. Yes, he agreed, but it hadnТt absolved me from my sin. I told him that I wasnТt conscious of any УsinФ; all I knew was that IТd been guilty of a criminal offense. Well, I was paying the penalty of that offense, and no one had the right to expect anything more of me.
Just then he got up again, and it struck me that if he wanted to move in this tiny cell, almost the only choice lay between standing up and sitting down. I was staring at the floor. He took a single step toward me, and halted, as if he didnТt dare to come nearer. Then he looked up through the bars at the sky.
УYouТre mistaken, my son,Ф he said gravely. УThereТs more that might be required of you. And perhaps it will be required of you.Ф
УWhat do you mean?Ф
УYou might be asked to see ...Ф
УTo see what?Ф
Slowly the priest gazed round my cell, and I was struck by the sadness of his voice when he replied:
УThese stone walls, I know it only too well, are steeped in human suffering. IТve never been able to look at them without a shudder. And yetЧbelieve me, I am speaking from the depths of my heartЧI know that even the wretchedest amongst you have sometimes seen, taking form against that grayness, a divine face. ItТs that face you are asked to see.Ф
This roused me a little. I informed him that IТd been staring at those walls for months; there was nobody, nothing in the world, I knew better than I knew them. And once upon a time, perhaps, I used to try to see a face. But it was a sun-gold face, lit up with desireЧMarieТs face. I had no luck; IТd never seen it, and now IТd given up trying. Indeed, IТd never seen anything Уtaking form,Ф as he called it, against those gray walls.
The chaplain gazed at me with a sort of sadness. I now had my back to the wall and light was flowing over my forehead. He muttered some words I didnТt catch; then abruptly asked if he might kiss me. I said, УNo.Ф Then he turned, came up to the wall, and slowly drew his hand along it.
I made no reply.
For quite a while he kept his eyes averted. His presence was getting more and more irksome, and I was on the point of telling him to go, and leave me in peace, when all of a sudden he swung round on me, and burst out passionately:
УNo! No! I refuse to believe it. IТm sure youТve often wished there was an afterlife.Ф
Of course I had, I told him. Everybody has that wish at times. But that had no more importance than wishing to be rich, or to swim very fast, or to have a better-shaped mouth. It was in the same order of things. I was going on in the same vein, when he cut in with a question. How did I picture the life after the grave?
I fairly bawled out at him: УA life in which I can remember this life on earth. ThatТs all I want of it.Ф And in the same breath I told him IТd had enough of his company.
But, apparently, he had more to say on the subject of God. I went close up to him and made a last attempt to explain that IТd very little time left, and I wasnТt going to waste it on God.
Then he tried to change the subject by asking me why I hadnТt once addressed him as УFather,Ф seeing that he was a priest. That irritated me still more, and I told him he wasnТt my father; quite the contrary, he was on the othersТ side.
УNo, no, my son,Ф he said, laying his hand on my shoulder. УIТm on your side, though you donТt realize itЧbecause your heart is hardened. But I shall pray for you.Ф
Then, I donТt know how it was, but something seemed to break inside me, and I started yelling at the top of my voice. I hurled insults at him, I told him not to waste his rotten prayers on me; it was better to burn than to disappear. IТd taken him by the neckband of his cassock, and, in a sort of ecstasy of joy and rage, I poured out on him all the thoughts that had been simmering in my brain. He seemed so cocksure, you see. And yet none of his certainties was worth one strand of a womanТs hair. Living as he did, like a corpse, he couldnТt even be sure of being alive. It might look as if my hands were empty. Actually, I was sure of myself, sure about everything, far surer than he; sure of my present life and of the death that was coming. That, no doubt, was all I had; but at least that certainty was something I could get my teeth intoЧjust as it had got its teeth into me. IТd been right, I was still right, I was always right. IТd passed my life in a certain way, and I might have passed it in a different way, if IТd felt like it. IТd acted thus, and I hadnТt acted otherwise; I hadnТt done x, whereas I had done y or z. And what did that mean? That, all the time, IТd been waiting for this present moment, for that dawn, tomorrowТs or another dayТs, which was to justify me. Nothing, nothing had the least importance and I knew quite well why. He, too, knew why. From the dark horizon of my future a sort of slow, persistent breeze had been blowing toward me, all my life long, from the years that were to come. And on its way that breeze had leveled out all the ideas that people tried to foist on me in the equally unreal years I then was living through. What difference could they make to me, the deaths of others, or a motherТs love, or his God; or the way a man decides to live, the fate he thinks he chooses, since one and the same fate was bound to УchooseФ not only me but thousands of millions of privileged people who, like him, called themselves my brothers. Surely, surely he must see that? Every man alive was privileged; there was only one class of men, the privileged class. All alike would be condemned to die one day; his turn, too, would come like the othersТ. And what difference could it make if, after being charged with murder, he were executed because he didnТt weep at his motherТs funeral, since it all came to the same thing in the end? The same thing for SalamanoТs wife and for SalamanoТs dog. That little robot woman was as УguiltyФ as the girl from Paris who had married Masson, or as Marie, who wanted me to marry her. What did it matter if Raymond was as much my pal as Cщleste, who was a far worthier man? What did it matter if at this very moment Marie was kissing a new boy friend? As a condemned man himself, couldnТt he grasp what I meant by that dark wind blowing from my future? ...
I had been shouting so much that IТd lost my breath, and just then the jailers rushed in and started trying to release the chaplain from my grip. One of them made as if to strike me. The chaplain quietened them down, then gazed at me for a moment without speaking. I could see tears in his eyes. Then he turned and left the cell.
Once heТd gone, I felt calm again. But all this excitement had exhausted me and I dropped heavily on to my sleeping plank. I must have had a longish sleep, for, when I woke, the stars were shining down on my face. Sounds of the countryside came faintly in, and the cool night air, veined with smellsТ of earth and salt, fanned my cheeks. The marvelous peace of the sleepbound summer night flooded through me like a tide. Then, just on the edge of daybreak, I heard a steamerТs siren. People were starting on a voyage to a world which had ceased to concern me forever. Almost for the first time in many months I thought of my mother. And now, it seemed to me, I understood why at her lifeТs end she had taken on a УfiancщФ; why sheТd played at making a fresh start. There, too, in that Home where lives were flickering out, the dusk came as a mournful solace. With death so near, Mother must have felt like someone on the brink of freedom, ready to start life all over again. No one, no one in the world had any right to weep for her. And I, too, felt ready to start life all over again. It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope, and, gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first time, the first, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe. To feel it so like myself, indeed, so brotherly, made me realize that IТd been happy, and that I was happy still. For all to be accomplished, for me to feel less lonely, all that remained to hope was that on the day of my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet me with howls of execration.
THE END.
About the Author
ALBERT CAMUS was born in Mondovi, Algeria, in 1913. After winning a degree in philosophy, he worked at various jobs, ending up in journalism. In the thirties he ran a theatrical company, and during the war was active in the French Resistance, editing an important underground paper, Combat. Among his major works are four widely praised works of fiction, The Stranger (1946), The Plague (1948), The Fall (1957), and Exile and the Kingdom (1958); a volume of plays, Caligula and Three Other Plays (1958); and two books of philosophical essays, The Rebel (1954) and The Myth of Sisyphus (1955), both of which are available in the Vintage series. Albert Camus was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1957. He was killed in an automobile accident on January 4, 1960.
THIS BOOK was set on the Linotype in Janson, an excellent example o f the influential and sturdy Dutch types that prevailed in England prior to the development by William Caslon of his own designs, which he evolved from these Dutch faces. Of Janson himself little is known except that he was a practicing type-founder in Leipzig during the years 1660 to 1687. Printed and bound by THE COLONIAL PRESS INC., Clinton, Massachusetts. Cover design by LEO LIONNI.
Albert Camus ? THE STRANGER
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