"A Camus - The Stranger" - читать интересную книгу автора (Camus Albert)
УYou see! You see! Now wonТt you own that you believe and put your trust in Him?Ф
I must have shaken my head again, for he sank back in his chair, looking limp and dejected.
For some moments there was a silence during which the typewriter, which had been clicking away all the time we talked, caught up with the last remark. Then he looked at me intently and rather sadly.
УNever in all my experience have I known a soul so case-hardened as yours,Ф he said in a low tone. УAll the criminals who have come before me until now wept when they saw this symbol of our LordТs sufferings.Ф
I was on the point of replying that was precisely because they were criminals. But then I realized that I, too, came under that description. Somehow it was an idea to which I never could get reconciled.
To indicate, presumably, that the interview was over, the magistrate stood up. In the same weary tone he asked me a last question: Did I regret what I had done?
After thinking a bit, I said that what I felt was less regret than a kind of vexationЧI couldnТt find a better word for it. But he didnТt seem to understand. ... This was as far as things went at that dayТs interview.
I came before the magistrate many times more, but on these occasions my lawyer always accompanied me. The examinations were confined to asking me to amplify my previous statements. Or else the magistrate and my lawyer discussed technicalities. At such times they took very little notice of me, and, in any case, the tone of the examinations changed as time went on. The magistrate seemed to have lost interest in me, and to have come to some sort-of decision about my case. He never mentioned God again or displayed any of the religious fervor I had found so embarrassing at our first interview. The result was that our relations became more cordial. After a few questions, followed by an exchange of remarks with the lawyer, the magistrate closed the interview. My case was Уtaking its course,Ф as he put it. Sometimes, too, the conversation was of a general order, and the magistrate and lawyer encouraged me to join in it. I began to breathe more freely. Neither of the two men, at these times, showed the least hostility toward me, and everything went so smoothly, so amiably, that I had an absurd impression of being Уone of the family.Ф I can honestly say that during the eleven months these examinations lasted I got so used to them that I was almost surprised at having ever enjoyed anything better than those rare moments when the magistrate, after escorting me to the door of the office, would pat my shoulder and say in a friendly tone: УWell, Mr. Antichrist, thatТs all for the present!Ф After which I was made over to my jailers.
II
THERE are some things of which IТve never cared to talk. And, a few days after IТd been sent to prison, I decided that this phase of my life was one of them. However, as time went by, I came to feel that this aversion had no real substance. In point of fact, during those early days, I was hardly conscious of being in prison; I had always a vague hope that something would turn up, some agreeable surprise.
The change came soon after MarieТs first and only visit. From the day when I got her letter telling me they wouldnТt let her come to see me any more, because she wasnТt my wifeЧit was from that day that I realized that this cell was my last home, a dead end, so to speak.
On the day of my arrest they put me in a biggish room with several other prisoners, mostly Arabs. They grinned when they saw me enter, and asked me what IТd done. I told them IТd killed an Arab, and they kept mum for a while. But presently night began to fall, and one of them explained to me how to lay out my sleeping mat. By rolling up one end one makes a sort of bolster. All night I felt bugs crawling over my face.
Some days later I was put by myself in a cell, where I slept on a plank bed hinged to the wall. The only other furniture was a latrine bucket and a tin basin. The prison stands on rising ground, and through my little window I had glimpses of the sea. One day when I was hanging on the bars, straining my eyes toward the sunlight playing on the waves, a jailer entered and said I had a visitor. I thought it must be Marie, and so it was.
To go to the VisitorsТ Room, I was taken along a corridor, then up a flight of steps, then along another corridor. It was a very large room, lit by a big bow window, and divided into three compartments by high iron grilles running transversally. Between the two grilles there was a gap of some thirty feet, a sort of no manТs land between the prisoners and their friends. I was led to a point exactly opposite Marie, who was wearing her striped dress. On my side of the rails were about a dozen other prisoners, Arabs for the most part. On MarieТs side were mostly Moorish women. She was wedged between a small old woman with tight-set lips and a fat matron, without a hat, who was talking shrilly and gesticulated all the time. Because of the distance between the visitors and prisoners I found I, too, had to raise my voice.
When I came into the room the babel of voices echoing on the bare walls, and the sunlight streaming in, flooding everything in a harsh white glare, made me feel quite dizzy. After the relative darkness and the silence of my cell it took me some moments to get used to these conditions. After a bit, however, I came to see each face quite clearly, lit up as if a spotlight played on it.
I noticed a prison official seated at each end of the no manТs land between the grilles. The native prisoners and their relations on the other side were squatting opposite each other. They didnТt 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 couldnТt bring myself to tell her so.
УWell?Ф she asked, pitching her voice very high. УWhat about it? Are you all right, have you everything you want?Ф
УOh, yes. IТve everything I want.Ф
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, pleasant-looking man.
УJeanne refused to have him,Ф she yelled.
УThatТs just too bad,Ф the man replied.
УYes, and I told her youТd take him back the moment you got out; but she wouldnТt hear of it.Ф
Marie shouted across the gap that Raymond sent me his best wishes, and I said, УThanks.Ф But my voice was drowned by my neighborТs, asking Уif he was quite fit.Ф
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 mustnТt lose hope.
УCertainly not,Ф 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 MarieТs mind, for she went on smiling, looking straight at me.
УItТll all come right, youТll see, and then we shall get married.Ф
All I could see of her now was the white flash of her teeth, and the little puckers round her eyes. I answered: УDo you really think so?Ф but chiefly because I felt it up to me to answer something.
She started talking very fast in the same high-pitched voice.
УYes, youТll be acquitted, and weТll go bathing again, Sundays.Ф
The woman beside me was still yelling away, telling her husband that sheТd left a basket for him in the prison office. She gave a list of the things sheТd 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, 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 MarieТs company. IТve no idea how much time passed. I remember MarieТs describing to me her work, with that set smile always on her face. There wasnТt a momentТs letup in the noiseЧshouts, conversations, and always that muttering undertone. The only oasis of silence was made by the young fellow and the old woman gazing into each otherТs 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 sonТs shoulder. He called, УAu revoir, Mother,Ф 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 remarksЧnot loud, however, as the room had become relatively quiet. Someone came and called away the man on my right, and his wife shouted at himЧshe didnТt seem to realize it was no longer necessary to shoutЧУNow, mind you look after yourself, dear, and donТt do anything rash!Ф
My turn came next. Marie threw me a kiss. I looked back as I walked away. She hadnТt 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 IТve never liked to talk about began. Not that they were particularly terrible; IТve 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 prisonerТs 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. IТve 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, IТd have got used to it by degrees. IТd have learned to watch for the passing of birds or drifting clouds, as I had come to watch for my lawyerТs odd neckties, or, in another world, to wait patiently till Sunday for a spell of love-making with Marie. Well, here, anyhow, I wasnТt penned in a hollow tree trunk. There were others in the world worse off than I. I remembered it had been one of MotherТs pet ideasЧshe was always voicing itЧthat in the long run one gets used to anything.
Usually, however, I didnТt 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 womanЧwhich 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 IТd had, all the circumstances under which IТd 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. УThatТs what the men here grumble about most,Ф he told me.
I said I felt like that myself. УThereТs something unfair about it,Ф I added, Уlike hitting a man when heТs down.Ф
УBut thatТs the whole point of it,Ф he said; УthatТs why you fellows are kept in prison.Ф
УI donТt follow.Ф
УLiberty,Ф he said, Уmeans that. YouТre being deprived of your liberty.Ф
It had never before struck me in that light, but I saw his point. УThatТs true,Ф I said. УOtherwise it wouldnТt be a punishment.Ф
The jailer nodded. УYes, youТre different, you can use your brains. The others canТt. Still, those fellows find a way out; they do it by themselves.Ф 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 shouldnТt 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, IТd lost the craving, so it had ceased to be a punishment.
Except for these privations I wasnТt too unhappy. Yet again, the whole problem was: how to kill time. After a while, however, once IТd learned the trick of remembering things, I never had a momentТs 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, 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 dayТs experience of the outside world a man could easily live a hundred years in prison. HeТd have laid up enough memories never to be bored. Obviously, in one way, this was a compensation.
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