A Happy Death

Part 2, Chapter 5
Chapter Five IN January, the almond trees bloomed. In March, the pears, peaches and apple-trees were covered with blossoms. The next month, the streams gradually swelled, then returned to a normal flow. Early in May, the hay was cut, and the oats and barley at the month’s end. Already the apricots were ripening. In June, the early pears appeared with the major crops. The streams began to dry up, and the heat grew more intense. But the earth’s blood, shrinking here on the coast, made the cotton bloom farther inland and sweetened the first grapes. A great hot wind arose, parching the land and spreading brushfires everywhere. And then, suddenly, the year changed direction: hurriedly, the grape-harvests were brought to an end. The downpours of September and October drenched the land. No sooner was the summer’s work done than the first sowing began, while the streams and springs suddenly swelled to torrents with the rain. At the year’s e... (From : TheAnarchistLibrary.org.)

Part 2, Chapter 4
Chapter Four EARLY in the morning, the fog-lamps of Mersault’s car were gleaming along the coast road. Leaving Algiers, he passed milk carts, and the warm smell of the horses made him even more aware of the morning’s freshness. It was still dark. A last star dissolved slowly in the sky, and on the pale road he could hear only the motor’s contented purr and occasionally, in the distance, the sound of hooves, the clatter of milk-cans, until out of the dark his lights glittered on the horseshoes. Then everything vanished in the sound of speed. He was driving faster now, and the night swiftly veered to day. Out of the darkness still retained between the hills, the car climbed an empty road overlooking the sea, where the morning declared itself. Mersault accelerated. The tiny sucking sound of the wheels grew louder on the dewy tarmac. At each of the many turns, Mersault’s braking made the tires squeal, and as the road strai... (From : TheAnarchistLibrary.org.)

Part 2, Chapter 3
Chapter Three PATRICE and Catherine are having their breakfast on the terrace, in the sun. Catherine is in her bathing-suit, the Boy, as Mersault’s friends call him, the Boy is in his shorts, a napkin around his neck. They are eating salted tomatoes, potato salad, honey, and huge amounts of fruit. They keep the peaches on ice, and lick the tiny drops which have congealed on the velvety skins. They also make grape-juice, which they drink with their faces tipped towards the sun in order to get a tan — at least the Boy does, for he knows a suntan becomes him. ‘Taste the sun,’ Patrice said, holding out his arm to Catherine. She licked his arm. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Now you.’ He tasted too, then stretched, and stroked his ribs. Catherine sprawled on her stomach and pulled her bathing-suit down to her hips. ‘I’m not indecent, am I?’ ‘No,’ the Boy said, not looking. (From : TheAnarchistLibrary.org.)

Part 2, Chapter 2
Chapter Two IN the train taking him north, Mersault stared at his hands. The train’s speed traced an onrush of heavy clouds across the lowering sky. Mersault was alone in this overheated compartment — he had left suddenly in the middle of the night, and with the dark morning hours ahead of him, he let the mild landscape of Bohemia rush by, the impending rain between the tall silky poplars and the distant factory chimneys filling him with an impulse to burst into tears. Then he looked at the white plaque with its three sentences: Nicht hinauslehnen, E pericoloso sporgersi, Il est dangereux de se pencher au-dehors. He looked again at his hands, which lay like living, wild animals on his knees: the left one long and supple, the right thicker, muscular. He knew them, recognized them, yet they were distinct from himself, as though capable of actions in which his will had no part. One came to rest against his forehead now, pressing against t... (From : TheAnarchistLibrary.org.)

Part 2, Chapter 1
PART TWO: Conscious Death Chapter One ‘I’D like a room,’ the man said in German. The clerk was sitting in front of a board covered with keys and was separated from the lobby by a broad table. He stared at the man who had just come in, a gray raincoat over his shoulders, and who spoke with his head turned away. ‘Certainly, sir. For one night?’ ‘No, I don’t know.’ ‘We have rooms at eighteen, twenty-five and thirty crowns.’ Mersault looked through the glass door of the hotel out into the little Prague street, his hands in his pockets, his hair rumpled. Not far away, he could hear the trams screeching down the Avenue Wenceslas. ‘Which room would you like, sir?’ ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Mersault said, still staring through the glass door. The clerk took a key off th... (From : TheAnarchistLibrary.org.)

Chapter Four THAT Sunday afternoon, after talking and laughing a great deal, Roland Zagreus sat silent near the fire in his big wheelchair, wrapped in white blankets. Mersault was leaning against a bookshelf, staring at the sky and the landscape through the white silk curtains. He had come during a light rain, and not wanting to arrive too early had spent an hour wandering around the countryside. The day was dark, and even without hearing the wind Mersault could see the trees and branches writhing silently in the little valley. The silence was broken by a milk-float, which trundled down the street past the villa in a tremendous racket of metal cans. Almost immediately the rain turned into a downpour, flooding the windowpanes. All this water... (From : TheAnarchistLibrary.org.)

Chapter Five AS he walked home that Sunday evening, Mersault couldn’t stop thinking about Zagreus. But as he walked up the stairs to his room, he heard groans coming from the barrel-maker Cardona’s flat. He knocked. No-one answered, but the groans continued, and Mersault walked straight in. The barrel-maker was huddled on his bed, sobbing like a child. At his feet was the photograph of an old woman. ‘She’s dead,’ Cardona gasped. It was true, but it had happened a long time ago. Cardona was deaf, half-dumb, a mean and violent man. Until recently he had lived with his sister, but his tyranny had at last exhausted the woman, and she had taken refuge with her children. And he had remained alone, as helpless as a ma... (From : TheAnarchistLibrary.org.)

Chapter Three WHEN MERSAULT walked through the streets in the evening, proud to watch the lights and shadows flicker across Marthe’s face, everything seemed wonderfully simple, even his own strength and his courage. He was grateful to her for displaying in public, at his side, the beauty she offered him day after day, like some delicate intoxication. An unnoticeable Marthe would have made him suffer as much as Marthe happy in the desire of other men. He was glad to walk into the cinema with her tonight, a little before the film began, when the auditorium was nearly full. She went in ahead of him, drawing glances of admiration, her flower-like face smiling, her beauty violent. Mersault, holding his hat in his hand, was overcome by a wo... (From : TheAnarchistLibrary.org.)

PART ONE: Natural Death Chapter One IT was ten in the morning, and Patrice Mersault was walking steadily towards Zagreus’ villa. By now the housekeeper had left for the market and the villa was deserted. It was a beautiful April morning, chilly and bright; the sky was radiant, but there was no warmth in the glistening sunshine. The empty road sloped up towards the villa, and a pure light streamed between the pines covering the hillside. Patrice Mersault was carrying a suitcase, and as he walked on through the primal morning, the only sounds he heard were the click of his own footsteps on the cold road and the regular creak of the suitcase handle. Not far from the villa, the road crossed a little square decorated with flower beds and b... (From : TheAnarchistLibrary.org.)

Chapter Two SUMMER crammed the harbor with noise and sunlight. It was eleven-thirty. The day split open down the middle, crushing the docks under the burden of its heat. Moored at the sheds of the Algiers Municipal Depot, black-hulled, red-funneled freighters were loading sacks of wheat. Their dusty fragrance mingled with the powerful smell of tar melting under a hot sun. Men were drinking at a little stall that reeked of creosote and anisette, while some Arab acrobats in red shirts somersaulted on the scorching flagstones in front of the sea in the leaping light. Without so much as a glance at them, the stevedores carrying sacks walked up the two sagging planks that slanted from the dock to the freighter decks. When they reached the top, t... (From : TheAnarchistLibrary.org.)