Albert Camus
The Stranger
Illustrated
Part One
I
MOTHER died today. Or, maybe, yesterday; I canāt be sure. The telegram from the Home says: YOUR MOTHER PASSED AWAY. FUNERAL TOMORROW. DEEP SYMPATHY. Which leaves the matter doubtful; it could have been yesterday.
The Home for Aged Persons is at Marengo, some fifty miles from Algiers. With the two oāclock bus I should get there well before nightfall. Then I can spend the night there, keeping the usual vigil beside the body, and be back here by tomorrow evening. I have fixed up with my employer for two daysā leave; obviously, under the circumstances, he couldnāt refuse. Still, I had an idea he looked annoyed, and I said, without thinking: āSorry, sir, but itās not my fault, you know.ā
Afterwards it struck me I neednāt have said that. I had no reason to excuse myself; it was up to him to express his sympathy and so forth. Probably he will do so the day after tomorrow, when he sees me in black. For the present, itās almost as if Mother werenāt really dead. The funeral will bring it home to me, put an official seal on it, so to speakā¦
I took the two-oāclock bus. It was a blazing hot afternoon. Iād lunched, as usual, at CĆ©lesteās restaurant. Everyone was most kind, and CĆ©leste said to me, āThereās no one like a mother.ā When I left they came with me to the door. It was something of a rush, getting away, as at the last moment I had to call in at Emmanuelās place to borrow his black tie and mourning band. He lost his uncle a few months ago.
I had to run to catch the bus. I suppose it was my hurrying like that, what with the glare off the road and from the sky, the reek of gasoline, and the jolts, that made me feel so drowsy. Anyhow, I slept most of the way. When I woke I was leaning against a soldier; he grinned and asked me if Iād come from a long way off, and I just nodded, to cut things short. I wasnāt in a mood for talking.
The Home is a little over a mile from the village. I went there on foot. I asked to be allowed to see Mother at once, but the doorkeeper told me I must see the warden first. He wasnāt free, and I had to wait a bit. The doorkeeper chatted with me while I waited; then he led me to the office. The warden was a very small man, with gray hair, and a Legion of Honor rosette in his buttonhole. He gave me a long look with his watery blue eyes. Then we shook hands, and he held mine so long that I began to feel embarrassed. After that he consulted a register on his table, and said:
āMadame Meursault entered the Home three years ago. She had no private means and depended entirely on you.ā
I had a feeling he was blaming me for something, and started to explain. But he cut me short.
āThereās no need to excuse yourself, my boy. Iāve looked up the record and obviously you werenāt in a position to see that she was properly cared for. She needed someone to be with her all the time, and young men in jobs like yours donāt get too much pay. In any case, she was much happier in the Home.ā
I said, āYes, sir; Iām sure of that.ā
Then he added: āShe had good friends here, you know, old folks like herself, and one gets on better with people of oneās own generation. Youāre much too young; you couldnāt have been much of a companion to her.ā
That was so. When we lived together, Mother was always watching me, but we hardly ever talked. During her first few weeks at the Home she used to cry a good deal. But that was only because she hadnāt settled down. After a month or two sheād have cried if sheād been told to leave the Home. Because this, too, would have been a wrench. That was why, during the last year, I seldom went to see her. Also, it would have meant losing my Sunday-not to mention the trouble of going to the bus, getting my ticket, and spending two hours on the journey each way.
The warden went on talking, but I didnāt pay much attention. Finally he said: āNow, I suppose youād like to see your mother?ā
I rose without replying, and he led the way to the door. As we were going down the stairs he explained:
āIāve had the body moved to our little mortuary-so as not to upset the other old people, you understand. Every time thereās a death here, theyāre in a nervous state for two or three days. Which means, of course, extra work and worry for our staff.ā
We crossed a courtyard where there were a number of old men, talking amongst themselves in little groups. They fell silent as we came up with them. Then, behind our backs, the chattering began again. Their voices reminded me of parakeets in a cage, only the sound wasnāt quite so shrill. The warden stopped outside the entrance of a small, low building.
āSo here I leave you, Monsieur Meursault. If you want me for anything, youāll find me in my office. We propose to have the funeral tomorrow morning. That will enable you to spend the night beside your motherās coffin, as no doubt you would wish to do. Just one more thing; I gathered from your motherās friends that she wished to be buried with the rites of the Church. Iāve made arrangements for this; but I thought I should let you know.ā
I thanked him. So far as I knew, my mother, though not a professed atheist, had never given a thought to religion in her life.
I entered the mortuary. It was a bright, spotlessly clean room, with whitewashed walls and a big skylight. The furniture consisted of some chairs and trestles. Two of the latter stood open in the center of the room and the coffin rested on them. The lid was in place, but the screws had been given only a few turns and their nickeled heads stuck out above the wood, which was stained dark walnut. An Arab woman-a nurse, I supposed-was sitting beside the bier; she was wearing a blue smock and had a rather gaudy scarf wound round her hair.
Just then the keeper came up behind me. Heād evidently been running, as he was a little out of breath.
āWe put the lid on, but I was told to unscrew it when you came, so that you could see her.ā
While he was going up to the coffin I told him not to trouble. āEh? Whatās that?ā he exclaimed. āYou donāt want me toā¦?ā āNo,ā I said.
He put back the screwdriver in his pocket and stared at me. I realized then that I shouldnāt have said, āNo,ā and it made me rather embarrassed. After eying me for some moments he asked:
āWhy not?ā But he didnāt sound reproachful; he simply wanted to know. āWell, really I couldnāt say,ā I answered.
He began twiddling his white mustache; then, without looking at me, said gently: āI understand.ā
He was a pleasant-looking man, with blue eyes and ruddy cheeks. He drew up a chair for me near the coffin, and seated himself just behind. The nurse got up and moved toward the door. As she was going by, the keeper whispered in my ear:
āItās a tumor she has, poor thing.ā
I looked at her more carefully and I noticed that she had a bandage round her head, just below her eyes. It lay quite flat across the bridge of her nose, and one saw hardly anything of her face except that strip of whiteness.
As soon as she had gone, the keeper rose. āNow Iāll leave you to yourself.ā
I donāt know whether I made some gesture, but instead of going he halted behind my chair. The sensation of someone posted at my back made me uncomfortable. The sun was getting low and the whole room was flooded with a pleasant, mellow light. Two hornets were buzzing overhead, against the skylight. I was so sleepy I could hardly keep my eyes open. Without looking round, I asked the keeper how long heād been at the Home. āFive years.ā The answer came so pat that one could have thought heād been expecting my question.
That started him off, and he became quite chatty. If anyone had told him ten years ago that heād end his days as doorkeeper at a home at Marengo, heād never have believed it. He was sixty-four, he said, and hailed from Paris.
When he said that, I broke in. āAh, you donāt come from here?ā
I remembered then that, before taking me to the warden, heād told me something about Mother. He had said sheād have to be buried mighty quickly because of the heat in these parts, especially down in the plain. āAt Paris they keep the body for three days, sometimes four.ā After that he had mentioned that heād spent the best part of his life in Paris, and could never manage to forget it. āHere,ā he had said, āthings have to go with a rush, like. Youāve hardly time to get used to the idea that someoneās dead, before youāre hauled off to the funeral.ā āThatās enough,ā his wife had put in. āYou didnāt ought to say such things to the poor young gentleman.ā The old fellow had blushed and begun to apologize. I told him it was quite all right. As a matter of fact, I found it rather interesting, what heād been telling me; I hadnāt thought of that before.
Now he went on to say that heād entered the Home as an ordinary inmate. But he was still quite hale and hearty, and when the keeperās job fell vacant, he offered to take it on.
I pointed out that, even so, he was really an inmate like the others, but he wouldnāt hear of it. He was āan official, like.ā Iād been struck before by his habit of saying ātheyā or, less often, āthem old folks,ā when referring to inmates no older than himself. Still, I could see his point of view. As doorkeeper he had a certain standing, and some authority over the rest of them.
Just then the nurse returned. Night had fallen very quickly; all of a sudden, it seemed, the sky went black above the skylight. The keeper switched on the lamps, and I was almost blinded by the blaze of light.
He suggested I should go to the refectory for dinner, but I wasnāt hungry. Then he proposed bringing me a mug of cafĆ© au lait. As I am very partial to cafĆ© au lait I said, āThanks,ā and a few minutes later he came back with a tray. I drank the coffee, and then I wanted a cigarette. But I wasnāt sure if I should smoke, under the circumstances-in Motherās presence. I thought it over; really, it didnāt seem to matter, so I offered the keeper a cigarette, and we both smoked.
After a while he started talking again.
āYou know, your motherās friends will be coming soon, to keep vigil with you beside the body. We always have a āvigilā here, when anyone dies. Iād better go and get some chairs and a pot of black coffee.ā
The glare off the white walls was making my eyes smart, and I asked him if he couldnāt turn off one of the lamps. āNothing doing,ā he said. Theyād arranged the lights like that; either one had them all on or none at all. After that I didnāt pay much more attention to him. He went out, brought some chairs, and set them out round the coffin. On one he placed a coffeepot and ten or a dozen cups. Then he sat down facing me, on the far side of Mother. The nurse was at the other end of the room, with her back to me. I couldnāt see what she was doing, but by the way her arms moved I guessed that she was knitting. I was feeling very comfortable; the coffee had warmed me up, and through the open door came scents of flowers and breaths of cool night air. I think I dozed off for a while.
I was wakened by an odd rustling in my ears. After having had my eyes closed, I had a feeling that the light had grown even stronger than before. There wasnāt a trace of shadow anywhere, and every object, each curve or angle, seemed to score its outline on oneās eyes. The old people, Motherās friends, were coming in. I counted ten in all, gliding almost soundlessly through the bleak white glare. None of the chairs creaked when they sat down. Never in my life had I seen anyone so clearly as I saw these people; not a detail of their clothes or features escaped me. And yet I couldnāt hear them, and it was hard to believe they really existed.
Nearly all the women wore aprons, and the strings drawn tight round their waists made their big stomachs bulge still more. Iād never yet noticed what big paunches old women usually have. Most of the men, however, were as thin as rakes, and they all carried sticks. What struck me most about their faces was that one couldnāt see their eyes, only a dull glow in a sort of nest of wrinkles.
On sitting down, they looked at me, and wagged their heads awkwardly, their lips sucked in between their toothless gums. I couldnāt decide if they were greeting me and trying to say something, or if it was due to some infirmity of age. I inclined to think that they were greeting me, after their fashion, but it had a queer effect, seeing all those old fellows grouped round the keeper, solemnly eying me and dandling their heads from side to side. For a moment I had an absurd impression that they had come to sit in judgment on me.
A few minutes later one of the women started weeping. She was in the second row and I couldnāt see her face because of another woman in front. At regular intervals she emitted a little choking sob; one had a feeling she would never stop. The others didnāt seem to notice. They sat in silence, slumped in their chairs, staring at the coffin or at their walking sticks or any object just in front of them, and never took their eyes off it. And still the woman sobbed. I was rather surprised, as I didnāt know who she was. I wanted her to stop crying, but dared not speak to her. After a while the keeper bent toward her and whispered in her ear; but she merely shook her head, mumbled something I couldnāt catch, and went on sobbing as steadily as before.
The keeper got up and moved his chair beside mine. At first he kept silent; then, without looking at me, he explained.
āShe was devoted to your mother. She says your mother was her only friend in the world, and now sheās all alone.ā
I had nothing to say, and the silence lasted quite a while. Presently the womanās sighs and sobs became less frequent, and, after blowing her nose and snuffling for some minutes, she, too, fell silent.
Iād ceased feeling sleepy, but I was very tired and my legs were aching badly. And now I realized that the silence of these people was telling on my nerves. The only sound was a rather queer one; it came only now and then, and at first I was puzzled by it. However, after listening attentively, I guessed what it was; the old men were sucking at the insides of their cheeks, and this caused the odd, wheezing noises that had mystified me. They were so much absorbed in their thoughts that they didnāt know what they were up to. I even had an impression that the dead body in their midst meant nothing at all to them. But now I suspect that I was mistaken about this.
We all drank the coffee, which the keeper handed round. After that, I canāt remember much; somehow the night went by. I can recall only one moment; I had opened my eyes and I saw the old men sleeping hunched up on their chairs, with one exception. Resting his chin on his hands clasped round his stick, he was staring hard at me, as if he had been waiting for me to wake. Then I fell asleep again. I woke up after a bit, because the ache in my legs had developed into a sort of cramp.
There was a glimmer of dawn above the skylight. A minute or two later one of the old men woke up and coughed repeatedly. He spat into a big check handkerchief, and each time he spat it sounded as if he were retching. This woke the others, and the keeper told them it was time to make a move. They all got up at once. Their faces were ashen gray after the long, uneasy vigil. To my surprise each of them shook hands with me, as though this night together, in which we hadnāt exchanged a word, had created a kind of intimacy between us.
I was quite done in. The keeper took me to his room, and I tidied myself up a bit. He gave me some more āwhiteā coffee, and it seemed to do me good. When I went out, the sun was up and the sky mottled red above the hills between Marengo and the sea. A morning breeze was blowing and it had a pleasant salty tang. There was the promise of a very fine day. I hadnāt been in the country for ages, and I caught myself thinking what an agreeable walk I could have had, if it hadnāt been for Mother.
As it was, I waited in the courtyard, under a plane tree. I sniffed the smells of the cool earth and found I wasnāt sleepy any more. Then I thought of the other fellows in the office. At this hour theyād be getting up, preparing to go to work; for me this was always the worst hour of the day. I went on thinking, like this, for ten minutes or so; then the sound of a bell inside the building attracted my attention. I could see movements behind the windows; then all was calm again. The sun had risen a little higher and was beginning to warm my feet. The keeper came across the yard and said the warden wished to see me. I went to his office and he got me to sign some document. I noticed that he was in black, with pin-stripe trousers. He picked up the telephone receiver and looked at me.
āThe undertakerās men arrived some moments ago, and they will be going to the mortuary to screw down the coffin. Shall I tell them to wait, for you to have a last glimpse of your mother?ā
āNo,ā I said.
He spoke into the receiver, lowering his voice. āThatās all right, Figeac. Tell the men to go there now.ā
He then informed me that he was going to attend the funeral, and I thanked him. Sitting down behind his desk, he crossed his short legs and leaned back. Besides the nurse on duty, he told me, he and I would be the only mourners at the funeral. It was a rule of the Home that inmates shouldnāt attend funerals, though there was no objection to letting some of them sit up beside the coffin, the night before.
āItās for their own sakes,ā he explained, āto spare their feelings. But in this particular instance Iāve given permission to an old friend of your mother to come with us. His name is Thomas PĆ©rez.ā The warden smiled. āItās a rather touching little story in its way. He and your mother had become almost inseparable. The other old people used to tease PĆ©rez about having a fiancĆ©e. āWhen are you going to marry her?ā theyād ask. Heād turn it with a laugh. It was a standing joke, in fact. So, as you can guess, he feels very badly about your motherās death. I thought I couldnāt decently refuse him permission to attend the funeral. But, on our medical officerās advice, I forbade him to sit up beside the body last night.ā
For some time we sat there without speaking. Then the warden got up and went to the window. Presently he said:
āAh, thereās the padre from Marengo. Heās a bit ahead of time.ā
He warned me that it would take us a good three quarters of an hour, walking to the church, which was in the village. Then we went downstairs.
The priest was waiting just outside the mortuary door. With him were two acolytes, one of whom had a censer. The priest was stooping over him, adjusting the length of the silver chain on which it hung. When he saw us he straightened up and said a few words to me, addressing me as, āMy son.ā Then he led the way into the mortuary.
I noticed at once that four men in black were standing behind the coffin and the screws in the lid had now been driven home. At the same moment I heard the warden remark that the hearse had arrived, and the priest starting his prayers. Then everybody made a move. Holding a strip of black cloth, the four men approached the coffin, while the priest, the boys, and myself filed out. A lady I hadnāt seen before was standing by the door. āThis is Monsieur Meursault,ā the warden said to her. I didnāt catch her name, but I gathered she was a nursing sister attached to the Home. When I was introduced, she bowed, without the trace of a smile on her long, gaunt face. We stood aside from the doorway to let the coffin by; then, following the bearers down a corridor, we came to the front entr...