4
Even in the prisoner’s dock it’s always interesting to hear
people talk about you. And during the summations by
the prosecutor and my lawyer, there was a lot said about
me, maybe more about me than about my crime. But
were their two speeches so different after all? My lawyer
raised his arms and pleaded guilty, but with an explanation. The prosecutor waved his hands and proclaimed my
guilt, but without an explanation. One thing bothered me
a little, though. Despite everything that was on my mind,
I felt like intervening every now and then, but my lawyer
kept telling me, “Just keep quiet-it won’t do your case
any good.” In a way, they seemed to be arguing the
case as if it had nothing to do with me. Everything was
happening without my participation. My fate was being
decided without anyone so much as asking my opinion.
There were times when I felt like breaking in on all of
them and saying, “Wait a minute! Who’s the accused
here? Being the accused counts for something. And I
have something to say!” But on second thought, I didn’t
have anything to say. Besides, I have to admit that whatever interest you can get people to take in you doesn’t last very long. For example, I got bored very quickly
with the prosecutor’s speech. Only bits and pieces-a
gesture or a long but isolated tirade-caught my attention or aroused my interest.
The gist of what he was saying, if I understood him
correctly, was that my crime was premeditated. At least
that is what he tried to show. As he himself said, “I will
prove it to you, gentlemen, and I will prove it in two
ways. First, in the blinding clarity of the facts, and
second, in the dim light cast by the mind of this
criminal soul.” He reminded the court of my insensitivity; of my ignorance when asked Marnan1s age; of my
swim the next day-with a woman; of the Fernandel
movie; and finally of my taking Marie horne with me. It
took me a few minutes to understand the last part because he kept saying “his mistress” and to me she was
Marie. Then he carne to the business with Raymond. I
thought his way of viewing the events had a certain
consistency. What he was saying was plausible. I had
agreed with Raymond to write the letter in order to lure
his mistress and submit her to mistreatment by a man
“of doubtful morality.” I had provoked Raymond’s adversaries at the beach. Raymond had been wounded. I
had asked him to give me his gun. I had gone back
alone intending to use it. I had shot the Arab as I
planned. I had waited. And to make sure I had done the
job right, I fired four more shots, calmly, point-blankthoughtfully, as it were.
“And there you have it, gentlemen,” said the prosecu tor. “I have retraced for you the course of events which
led this man to kill with full knowledge of his actions.
I stress this point,” he said, “for this is no ordinary
murder, no thoughtless act for which you might find
mitigating circumstances. This man, gentlemen, this
man is intelligent. You heard him, didn’t you? He knows
how to answer. He knows the value of words. And no
one can say that he acted without realizing what he
was doing.”
I was listening, and I could hear that I was being
judged intelligent. But I couldn’t quite understand how
an ordinary man’s good qualities could become crushing
accusations against a guilty man. At least that was what
struck me, and I stopped listening to the prosecutor until
I heard him say, “Has he so much as expressed any remorse? Never, gentlemen. Not once during the preliminary hearings did this man show emotion over his
heinous offense.” At that point, he turned in my direction, pointed his finger at me, and went on attacking me
without my ever really understanding why. Of course, I
couldn’t help admitting that he was right. I didn’t feel
much remorse for what I’d done. But I was surprised by
how relentless he was. I would have liked to have tried
explaining to him cordially, almost affectionately, that I
had never been able to truly feel remorse for anything.
My mind was always on what was coming next, today
or tomorrow. But naturally, given the position I’d been
put in, I couldn’t talk to anyone in that way. I didn’t
have the right to show any feeling or goodwill. And I tried to listen again, because the prosecutor started talking about my soul.
He said that he had peered into it and that he had
found nothing, gentlemen of the jury. He said the truth
was that I didn’t have a soul and that nothing human,
not one of the moral principles that govern men’s hearts,
was within my reach. “Of course,” he added, “we cannot
blame him for this. We cannot complain that he lacks
what it was not in his power to acquire. But here in this
court the wholly negative virtue of tolerance must give
way to the sterner but loftier virtue of justice. Espe­
cially when the emptiness of a man’s heart becomes, as
we find it has in this man, an abyss threatening to
swallow up society.” It was then that he talked about
my attitude toward Maman. He repeated what he had
said earlier in the proceedings. But it went on much
longer than when he was talking about my crime-so
long, in fact, that finally all I was aware of was how hot a
morning it was. At least until the prosecutor stopped and
after a short silence continued in a very low voice filled
with conviction : “Tomorrow, gentlemen, this same court
is to sit in judgment of the most monstrous of crimes : the
murder of a father.” According to him, the imagination recoiled before such an odious offense. He went so far
as to hope that human justice would mete out punishment unBinchingly. But he wasn’t afraid to say it: my
callousness inspired in him a horror nearly greater than
that which he felt at the crime of parricide. And also
according to him, a man who is morally guilty of killing his mother severs himself from society in the same way
as the man who raises a murderous hand against the
father who begat him. In any case, the one man paved
the way for the deeds of the other, in a sense foreshadowed and even legitimized them. “I am convinced,
gentlemen,” he added, raising his voice, “that you will
not think it too bold of me if I suggest to you that the
man who is seated in the dock is also guilty of the murder
to be tried in this court tomorrow. He must be punished
accordingly.” Here the prosecutor wiped his face, which
was glistening with sweat. He concluded by saying that
his duty was a painful one but that he would carry it
out resolutely. He stated that I had no place in a society
whose most fundamental rules I ignored and that I could
not appeal to the same human heart whose elementary
response I knew nothing of. “I ask you for this man’s
head,” he said, “and I do so with a heart at ease. For
if in the course of what has been a long career I have
had occasion to call for the death penalty, never as
strongly as today have I felt this painful duty made
easier, lighter, clearer by the certain knowledge of a
sacred imperative and by the horror I feel when I look
into a man’s face and all I see is a monster.”
When the prosecutor returned to his seat, there was a
rather long silence. My head was spinning with heat and
astonishment. The presiding judge cleared his throat and
in a very low voice asked me if I had anything to add. I
stood up, and since I did wish to speak, I said, almost at
random, in fact, that I never intended to kill the Arab.