The Plague by Albert Camus, Part 2 Chapter 6

Shortly after Father Panolou's sermon the hot weather set in with a vengeance. On the day following the unseasonable downpour of that Sunday, summer blazed out above the housetops. First a strong scorching wind blew steadily for a whole day, drying up the walls, and then the sun took charge. Incessant waves of heat and light swept the town day long, and but for arcaded streets and the interiors of houses, everything laid naked to the dazzling impact of the light. The sun stalked our townsfolk along every byway, into every nook, and when they paused, it struck. Since this first onslaught of the heat synchronised with a startling increase in the number of victims, there were now nearly 700 deaths a week, a mood of profound discouragement settled on the town. In the suburbs little was left of the wanted animation between the long flat streets and the terraced houses. Ordinarily people living in these districts used to spend the best part of the day on their doorsteps, but now every door was shut and nobody was to be seen. Even the Venetian blinds stayed down, and there was no knowing if it was the heat or the plague that they were trying to shut out. In some houses groans could be heard. At first when that happened people often gathered outside and listened, prompted by curiosity or compassion. But under the prolonged strain it seemed that hearts had toughened. People lived beside those groans, or walked past them, as though they had become the normal speech of men. As a result of the fighting at the gates, in the course of which the police had had to use their revolvers, a spirit of lawlessness was abroad. Some had certainly been wounded in these brushes with the police, but in the town where, owing to the combined influences of heat and terror, everything was exaggerated, there was talk of deaths, one thing anyway was certain. Discontent was on the increase, and fearing worse to come, the local officials debated lengthily on the measures to be taken if the populace, goaded to frenzy by the epidemic, got completely out of hand. The newspapers published new regulations, reiterating the orders against attempting to leave the town, and warning those who infringed them that they were liable to long terms of imprisonment. A system of patrols was instituted, and often in the empty, sweltering streets, heralded by a clatter of horse hoofs on the cobbles, a detachment of mounted police would make its way between the parallel lines of closed shut windows. Now and again a gunshot was heard, and the special brigade, recently detailed to destroy cats and dogs, as possible carriers of infection, was at work. And these whip-crack sounds, startling the silence, increased the nervous tension already existing in the town. For in the heat and stillness, and for the troubled hearts of our townsfolk, anything, even the least sound, had a heightened significance. The varying aspects of the sky, the very smells rising from the soil that mark each change of the season, were taken notice for the first time. Everyone realised with dismay that hot weather would favour the epidemic, and it was clear that summer was setting in. The cries of swifts in the evening air above the housetops were growing shriller, and the sky too had lost the spaciousness of those June twilights when our horizons seemed infinitely remote. In the markets the flowers no longer came in buds, they were already in full bloom, and after the morning's marketing the dusty pavements were littered with trampled petals. It was plain to see that spring had spent itself, lavished its ardour on the myriads of flowers that were bursting everywhere into bloom, and now was being crushed out by the two-fold onslaught of heat and plague. For our fellow citizens, that summer sky, and the streets thick in dust, grey as their present lives, had the same ominous import as the hundred deaths now weighing daily on the town. That incessant sunlight, and those bright hours associated with siesta, or with holidays, no longer invited, as in the past, to frolics and flirtation on the beaches. Now they rang hollow in the silence of the closed town. They had lost the golden spell of happier summers. Plague had killed all colours. Vetoed pleasure. That indeed was one of the great changes brought by the epidemic. Hitherto all of us welcomed summer in with pleasant anticipation. The town was open to the sea, and its young folk made free of the beaches. But this summer, for all its nearness, the sea was out of bounds. Young limbs had no longer the run of its delights. What could we do under these conditions? It is Tarou, once again, who paints the most faithful picture of our life in those days. Needless to say, he outlines the progress of the plague, and he too notes that a new phase of the epidemic was ushered in when the radio announced no longer weekly totals, but 92, 107 and 130 deaths in a day. The newspapers and the authorities are playing ball with the plague. They fancy they're scoring off it because 130 is a smaller figure than 910. He also records such striking or moving incidents of the epidemic as came under his notice. That, for instance, of the woman in a lonely street, who abruptly opened a shuttered window just above his head and gave two loud shrieks before closing the shutters again on the dark interior of a bedroom. But he also noted that peppermint lozenges had vanished from the drugstores because there was a popular belief that when sucking them you were proof against contagion. He went on watching his pet specimen on the opposite balcony. It seemed that tragedy had come to the ancient small game hunter as well. One morning there had been gunshots in the street and, as Tarot put it, some gobs of lead had killed off most of the cats and scared away the others. Anyhow, they were no longer about. That day the little old man went onto his balcony at the usual hour, showed some surprise and, leaning on the rail, closely scanned the corners of the street. Then he settled down to wait, fretfully tapping the balustrade with his right hand. After staying there for some time he tore up a few sheets of paper, went back into his room and came out again. After another longish wait he retreated again into the room, slamming the French windows behind him. He followed the same procedure daily during the rest of the week, and the sadness and bewilderment on the old face deepened as the days went by. On the eighth day Tarot waited in vain for his appearance. The windows stayed resolutely closed on all too comprehensible distress. This entry ends with Tarot summing up, it is forbidden to spit on cats in plague time. In another context Tarot notes that, on coming home in the evenings, he invariably saw the night watchman pacing the hall, like a sentry on his beat. The man never failed to remind everyone he met that he'd foreseen what was happening. Tarot agreed that he predicted a disaster, but reminded him that the event predicted by him was an earthquake, to which the old fellow replied, ah, if only it had been an earthquake. A good, bad shock, and there you are. You count the dead and living and that's an end of it. But this here damn disease, even them who haven't got it can't think of anything else. The manager of the hotel was equally downhearted. In the early days travellers unable to leave the town had kept on their rooms, but one by one, seeing that the epidemic showed no signs of abating, they moved out to stay with friends. And the same cause that had led to all the rooms being occupied, now kept them empty, since there were no newcomers to the town. Tarot was one of the very few remaining guests, and the manager never lost an opportunity of informing him that were he not reluctant to put these gentlemen to inconvenience he would have closed the hotel long ago. He often asked Tarot to say how long he thought the epidemic would last. They say, Tarot informed him, that cold weather stamps out diseases of this type. The manager looked aghast. But my dear sir, it's never really cold in these parts, and anyhow, that would mean it's going to last many months more. Moreover, he was sure that for a long while to come travellers would give the town a wide berth. This epidemic spelt the ruin of the tourist trade. In fact, after a short absence, Monsieur Ton, the owlish paterfamilias made a reappearance in the restaurant, but accompanied only by the two performing poodles, his offspring. On enquiry it came out that Madame Auton was in quarantine. She had been nursing her mother, who had succumbed to plague. I don't like it a bit, the manager told Tarot. Quarantine or not, she's under suspicion, which means they are too. Tarot pointed out that if it came to that, everyone was under suspicion. But the manager had his own ideas, and was not to be shaken out of them. No sir, you and I were not under suspicion, but they certainly are. However, Monsieur Ton was impervious to such considerations, and would not let the plague change his habits. He entered the restaurant with his wanted dignity, sat down in front of his children, and addressed to them at intervals the same nicely worded, unamenable remarks. Only the small boy looked somewhat different, dressed in black like his sister, a little more shrunken than before. He now seemed a miniature replica of his father. The night watchman, who had no liking for Monsieur Ton, had said of him to Tarot, that fine gentleman will pass out with his clothes on, all dressed up and ready to go, so he won't need no laying out. Tarot has some comments on the sermon preached by Panalu. I can understand that type of fervour, and find it not displeasing. At the beginning of a pestilence, and when it ends, there's always a propensity for rhetoric. In the first case, habits have not yet been lost. In the second, they're returning. It is in the thick of a calamity that one gets hardened to the truth, in other words, to silence. So let's wait. Tarot also records that he had a long talk with Dr Rieu. All he remembered was that it had good results. In this connection, he notes the colour of Madame Rieu, the doctor's mother's eyes, a limpid brown, and makes the odd observation that a gaze revealing so much goodness of heart would always triumph over plague. He has also a good deal to say about Rieu's asthma patient. He went with the doctor to see him, immediately after their conversation. The old man greeted Tarot with a chuckle, and rubbed his hand cheerfully. He was sitting up in bed, with the usual two pans of dried peas in front of him. Ah, here's another of them, he exclaimed when he saw Tarot. It's a topsy-turvy world, alright. More doctors than patients. Because it's mowing them down, ain't it? More and more. That priest's right. We were asking for it. Next day, Tarot came to see him without warning. From Tarot's notes, we gather that the old man, a dry goods dealer by occupation, decided at the age of 50 that he'd done enough work for a lifetime. He took to his bed, and never left it again. But not because of his asthma, which would not have prevented his getting about. A small fixed income had seen him through to his present age, 75, and the years had not dampened his cheerfulness. He couldn't bear the sight of a watch, and indeed there wasn't one in the whole house. Watches, he said, are silly gadgets, and dear at that. He worked out the time, that is to say the time for meals, with his two saucepans, one of which was always full of peas, when he woke in the morning. He filled the other, pea by pea, at a constant, carefully regulated speed. Thus, time for him was reckoned by these pans, and he could take his bearings in it at any moment of the day. Every 15 pans, he said, it's feeding time. What could be simpler? If his wife was to be trusted, he had given signs of his vocation at a very early age. Nothing, in fact, had ever interested him. His work, friendship, cafes, music, women, outings, to all he was indifferent. He had never left his hometown except once when he had been called to Algiers for family affairs, and even then he had alighted from the train at the first station. Incapable of continuing the adventure, he took the first train back. To Tarrou, who had shown surprise at the secluded life he led, he had given the following explanation, more or less. According to religion, the first half of a man's life is an upgrade, the second goes downhill. On the descending days, he has no claim. They may be snatched from him at any moment, thus he can do nothing with them, and the best thing, precisely, is to do nothing with them. He obviously had no compunction about contradicting himself. For a few minutes later he told Tarrou that God did not exist, since otherwise there would be no need for priests. But from some observations which followed, Tarrou realised that the old fellow's philosophy was closely involved with the irritation caused by the house-to-house collections in aid of charities which took place almost incessantly in that part of the town. What completed the picture of the old man was a desire he expressed several times, and which seemed deeply rooted, the desire to die at a very advanced age. Is he a saint? Tarrou asked himself, and answered, yes, if saintliness is an aggregate of habits. Meanwhile Tarrou was compiling a longish description of a day in the plague-stricken town. It was to give a full and accurate picture of the life of our fellow citizens during that summer. He laughs, Tarrou observes, except the drunks, and they laugh too much. After which he embarks on his description. At daybreak light breaths of air fan the still empty streets. At this hour, between the night's victims and the death agonies of the coming day, it is as if for a while plague stays its hand and takes breath. All shops are shut, but on some a notice, closed owing to plague, shows that when the others open, presently, these will not. Still, half asleep, the newsboys do not yet cry the news, but, lounging at street corners, offer their wares to the lampposts, with the vague gestures of sleepwalkers. Soon awakened by the early streetcars, they will fan out through the town, holding at arm's lengths sheets on which the word plague looms large. Will there be a plague autumn? Professor B says no, toll on the 94th day of plague, 124 deaths. In spite of the growing shortage of paper, which has compelled some dailies to reduce their pages, a new paper has been launched, The Plague Chronicle, which sets out to inform our townspeople with scrupulous veracity of the daily progress or recession of the disease, to supply them with the most authoritative opinions available as to its future course, to offer the hospitality of its columns to all, in whatever walk of life, who wish to join in combating the epidemic, to keep up the morale of the populace, to publish the latest orders issued by the authorities, and to centralise the efforts of all who desire to give active and wholehearted help in the present emergency. Actually, this newspaper very soon came to devote its columns to advertisements of new infallible antidotes against the plague. Towards six in the morning all these papers are being sold to the lines that begin to form outside the shops over an hour before they open, and then to the passengers alighting from the streetcars coming in, packed to capacity from the suburbs. The cars are now the only means of transport, and they have much difficulty in progressing, what with people standing on the running boards and hanging in clusters from the handrails. A queer thing is how the passengers all try to keep their backs turned to their neighbours, twisting themselves into grotesque attitudes in the attempt, the idea being of course to avoid contagion. At every stop a cataract of men and women is disgorged, each in haste to put a safe distance between himself or herself and the rest. When the first cars have gone by the town gradually wakes up, early cafes open their doors, and you see an array of cards on the counter. No coffee, bring your own sugar, and the like. Next the shops open and the streets grow livelier, and meanwhile the light is swelling, and the sky, even at this early hour, beginning to grow leaden-hued with heat. This is the time when those who have nothing to do venture out on the boulevards. Most of them seem determined to counteract the plague by a lavish display of luxury. Daily, about eleven, you see a sort of dress parade of youths and girls who make you realise the frantic desire for life that thrives in the heart of every great calamity. If the epidemic spreads morals too will broaden, and we may see again the Saturnalia of Milan, men and women dancing around the graves. At noon, in a flash, all the restaurants fill up. Very quickly small groups of people, unable to find a seat, form at the doors. Because of the intense heat the sky is losing its brightness. Under big awnings the aspirants to food wait their turn, aligned along the curbs of streets, gaping and sizzling in the fires of noon. The reason for the restaurants being so crowded is that they solve, for many, the feeding problem, but they do nothing to allay the fear of contagion. Many of the customers spend several minutes methodically wiping their plates. Not long ago some restaurants put up notices. Our plates, knives and forks guaranteed sterilised. But gradually they discontinued publicity of this order, since their customers came in any case. People, moreover, spend very freely. Choice wines, or wines alleged to be such, the costliest extras. A mood of reckless extravagance is setting in. It seems that there was something like a panic in a restaurant because a customer suddenly felt ill, went very white and staggered precipitously to the door. Towards two o'clock the town slowly empties. It is the time when silence, sunlight, dust and plague have the streets to themselves. Wave after wave of heat flows over the frontage of the tall grey houses during these long, languid hours. Thus the afternoon wears on, slowly merging into an evening that settles down like a red, winding sheet on the serried tumult of the town. At the start of the great heat, for some unassertained reason, the evenings found the streets almost empty. But now the last ripple of cooler air brings an easing of the strain, if not a flutter of hope. Then all stream out into the open, drug themselves with talking, start arguing or lovemaking, and in the last glow of sunset the town, fated with lovers, two by two and loud with voices, drifts like a helmless ship into the throbbing darkness. In vain a zealous evangelist, with a felt hat and flowing tie, threads his way through the crowd, crying without cease, God is great and good, come unto him. On the contrary, they all make haste towards some trivial objective that seems of more immediate interest than God. In the early days, when they thought this epidemic was much like other epidemics, religion held its ground, but once these people realised their instant peril, they gave their thoughts to pleasure, and all the hideous fears that stamp their faces in the daytime are transformed in the fiery, dusty nightfall into a sort of hectic exultation, an unkempt freedom fevering their blood. And I too, I'm no different, but what matter? Death means nothing to men like me. It's the event that proves them right.