Albert Camus - A Happy Death

A Happy Death , Albert Camuss previously unpublished first novel, written when he was in his early twenties, foreshadows his brilliant work, The Stranger . But in it Camus reveals much more of himself than he did in his later, more mythic fiction. Through young Patrice, the protagonist, the reader feels in touch with the young Camus-his joy in the sea, sun, his native Algeria, his relationships with women, his need of them and detachment from them, the intense alienation he experienced as a traveler in Central Europe. And it is from his early intimations of death, movingly evoked, that the novel draws its theme-how one is to live in order to have the right death.

A Happy Death is the first of the cahiers that Camus left unpublished, whose publication will complete his literary oeuvre .

Cahier I

A

Happy Death

Albert Camus

Translated from the French by Richard Howard

Afterword and Notes by Jean Sarocchi

Vintage Books

A Division of Random House, New York

Cover photo: F. Corbineau/Realities

First Vintage Books Edition, May, 1973 Copyright 1972 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, a: simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Can Limited, Toronto. Originally published in France by Editions Gallimard, Paris. Copyright 1971 by Editions Gallimard. This edition was originally published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., in May 1972.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Camus, Albert, 1913-1960. A happy death.

(His Cahier 1)

Translation of La mort heureuse.

I. Title. [PZ3.C1574Hap4] [PQ2605.A3734] 843.914 ISBN 0-394-71865-8 72-8028

Manufactured in the United States of America B9876543

The publication of the Cahiers Albert Camus has been decided upon by the writers family and publishers, in answer to the wishes of many scholars and, more generally, of all those interested in his life and thought.

It is not without some scruple that this publication has been undertaken. A severe critic of his own work, Albert Camus published nothing heedlessly. Why, then, offer the public an abandoned novel, lectures, uncollected articles, notebooks, drafts?

Simply because, when we love a writer or study him closely, we often want to know everything he has written. Those responsible for Camus* unpublished writings consider it would be a mistake not to respond to these legitimate wishes and not to satisfy those who desire to read A Happy Death, for example, or the travel diaries.

Scholars whose research has led themon occasion during Camus lifetimeto consult his youthful writings or later texts which remain unfamiliar or even unpublished, believe that the writers image can only be clarified and enriched by making them accessible.

The publication of the Cahiers Albert Camus is under the editorship of Jean-Claude Brisville, Roger Grenier, Roger Quilliot and Paul Viallaneix.

Contents

1 Part One Natural Death

55 Part Two

Conscious Death

153 Afterword

169 Notes and Variants

Part One

Natural Death

It was ten in the morning, and Patrice Mersault was walking steadily toward 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 toward 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 that 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 flowerbeds and benches. The effect of the early red geraniums among gray aloes, the blue sky, and the whitewashed walls was so fresh, so childlike that Mersault stopped a moment before walking on through the square. Then the road sloped down again toward Zagreus villa. On the doorstep he paused and put on his gloves. He opened the door which the cripple never locked and carefully closed it behind him. He walked down the hall to the third door on the left, knocked and went in. Zagreus was there, of course, a blanket over the stumps of his legs, sitting in an armchair by the fire exactly where Mersault had sat two days ago. He

was reading, and his book lay open on the blanket; there was no surprise in his round eyes as he stared up at Mersault, who was standing in front of the closed door. The curtains were drawn back, and patches of sunshine lay on the floor, the furniture, making objects glitter in the room. Beyond the window, the morning rejoiced over the cold, golden earth. A great icy joy, the birds shrill, tentative outcry, the flood of pitiless light gave the day an aspect of innocence and truth. Mersault stood motionless, the rooms stifling heat filling his throat, his ears. Despite the change in the weather, there was a blazing fire in the grate. And Mersault felt his blood rising to his temples, pounding at the tips of his ears. Zagreus eyes followed his movements, though he did not say a word. Patrice walked toward the chest on the other side of the fireplace and put his suitcase down on a table without looking at the cripple. He felt a faint tremor in his ankles now. He took out a cigarette and lit itclumsily, for he was wearing gloves. A faint noise behind him made him turn around, the cigarette between his lips. Cagreus was still staring at him, but had just closed the book. Mersaultthe fire was painfully hot against his knees nowcould read the title upside down: The Courtier by Baltasar Gracian. Then he bent over the chest and opened it. The revolver was still there, its lustrous black, almost feline curves on the white letter. Mersault picked up the envelope with his left hand and the revolver with his right. After an in-

stants hesitation, he thrust the gun under his left arm and opened the envelope. It contained one large sheet of paper, with only a few lines of Za-greus tall, angular handwriting across the top:

I am doing away with only half a man. It need cause no problemthere is more than enough here to pay off those who have taken care of me till now. Please use what is left over to improve conditions of the men in death row. But I know its asking a lot.

Expressionless, Mersault folded the sheet and put it back in the envelope. As he did so the smoke from his cigarette stung his eyes, and a tiny chunk of ash fell on the envelope. He shook it off, set the envelope on the table where it was sure to be noticed, and turned toward Zagreus, who was staring at the envelope now, his stubby powerful fingers still holding the book. Mersault bent down, turned the key of the little strongbox inside the chest, and took out the packets of bills, only their ends visible in the newspaper wrappings. Holding the gun under one arm, with the other hand he methodically filled up the suitcase. There were fewer than twenty packets of hundreds, and Mersault realized he had brought too large a suitcase. He left one packet in the safe. Then he closed the suitcase, flicked the half-smoked cigarette into the fire and, taking the revolver in his right hand, walked toward the cripple.

Zagreus was staring at the window now. A car drove slowly past, making a faint chewing sound. Motionless, Zagreus seemed to be contemplating all

the inhuman beauty of this April morning. When he felt the barrel against his right temple, he did not turn away. But Patrice, watching him, saw his eyes fill with tears. It was Patrice who closed his eyes, He stepped back and fired. Leaning against the wall for a moment, his eyes still closed, he felt his blood throbbing in his ears. Then he opened his eyes. The head had fallen over onto the left shoulder, the body only slightly tilted. But it was no longer Zagreus he saw now, only a huge, bulging wound of brain, blood, and bone. Mersault began to tremble. He walked around to the other side of the armchair, groped for Zagreus right hand, thrust the revolver into it, raised it to the temple, and let it fall back. The revolver dropped onto the arm of the chair and then into Zagreus lap. Now Mersault noticed the cripples mouth and chinhe had the same serious and sad expression as when he was staring at the window. Just then a shrill horn sounded in front of the door. A second time. Mersault, still leaning over the armchair, did not move. The sound of tires meant that the butcher had driven away. Mersault picked up his suitcase, turned the doorknob gleaming suddenly in a sunbeam, and left the room, his head throbbing, his mouth parched. He opened the outer door and walked away quickly. There was no one in sight except a group of children at one end of the little square. He walked on. Past the square, he was suddenly aware of the cold, and shivered under his light jacket. He sneezed twice, and the valley