“Didn’t things go well today?” his mother asked. “Oh, much as usual.”
As usual! That was to say the new consignment of serum sent from Paris seemed less effective than the first, and the death-rate was rising. It was still impossible to administer prophylactic inoculations elsewhere than in families already attacked; if its use was to be generalized, very large quantities of the vaccine would have been needed. Most of the buboes refused to burst, it was as if they underwent a seasonal hardening, and the victims suffered horribly.
During the last twenty-four hours there had been two cases of a new form of the epidemic; the plague was becoming pneumonic. On this very day, in the course of a meeting, the much-harassed doctors had pressed the Prefect, the unfortunate man seemed quite at his wits’ end, to issue new regulations to prevent contagion being carried from mouth to mouth, as happens in pneumonic plague. The Prefect had done as they wished, but as usual they were groping, more or less, in the dark.
Looking at his mother, he felt an uprush of a half-forgotten emotion, the love of his boyhood, at the sight of her soft brown gaze intent on him.
“Don’t you ever feel alarmed, Mother?” “Oh, at my age there isn’t much left to fear.”
“The days are very long, and just now I’m hardly ever at home.”
“I don’t mind waiting, if I know you’re going to come back. And when you aren’t here, I think of what you’re doing. Have you any news?”
“Yes, if I’m to believe the last telegram, everything’s going as well as could be expected. But I know she says that to prevent my worrying.”
The doorbell rang. The doctor gave his mother a smile and went to open the door. In the dim light on the landing Tarrou looked like a big gray bear. Rieux gave his
visitor a seat facing his desk, while he himself remained standing behind the desk chair. Between them was the only light in the room, a desk lamp.
Tarrou came straight to the point. “I know,” he said, “that I can talk to you quite frankly.”
Rieux nodded.
“In a fortnight, or a month at most,” Tarrou continued, “you’ll serve no purpose here. Things will have got out of hand.”
“I agree.”
“The sanitary department is inefficient, understaffed, for one thing, and you’re worked off your feet.”
Rieux admitted this was so.
“Well,” Tarrou said, “I’ve heard that the authorities are thinking of a sort of conscription of the population, and all men in good health will be required to help in fighting the plague.”
“Your information was correct. But the authorities are in none too good odor as it is, and the Prefect can’t make up his mind.”
“If he daren’t risk compulsion, why not call for voluntary help?” “It’s been done. The response was poor.”
“It was done through official channels, and half-heartedly. What they’re short on is imagination. Officialdom can never cope with something really catastrophic. And the remedial measures they think up are hardly adequate for a common cold. If we let them carry on like this they’ll soon be dead, and so shall we.”
“That’s more than likely,” Rieux said. “I should tell you, however, that they’re thinking of using the prisoners in the jails for what we call the ‘heavy work.’
“
“I’d rather free men were employed.”
“So would I. But might I ask why you feel like that?” “I loathe men’s being condemned to death.”
Rieux looked Tarrou in the eyes. “So what?” he asked.
“It’s this I have to say. I’ve drawn up a plan for voluntary groups of helpers.
Get me empowered to try out my plan, and then let’s sidetrack officialdom. In any case the authorities have their hands more than full already. I have friends in many walks of life; they’ll form a nucleus to start from. And, of course, I’ll take part in it myself.”
“I need hardly tell you,” Rieux replied, “that I accept your suggestion most gladly. One can’t have too many helpers, especially in a job like mine under present conditions. I undertake to get your plan approved by the authorities.
Anyhow, they’ve, no choice. But?” Rieux pondered. “But I take it you know that work of this kind may prove fatal to the worker. And I feel I should ask you this; have you weighed the dangers?”
Tarrou’s gray eyes met the doctor’s gaze serenely. “What did you think of Paneloux’s sermon, doctor?”
The question was asked in a quite ordinary tone, and Rieux answered in the same tone.
“I’ve seen too much of hospitals to relish any idea of collective punishment. But, as you know, Christians sometimes say that sort of thing without really
thinking it. They’re better than they seem.”
“However, you think, like Paneloux, that the plague has its good side; it opens men’s eyes and forces them to take thought?”
The doctor tossed his head impatiently.
“So does every ill that flesh is heir to. What’s true of all the evils in the world is true of plague as well. It helps men to rise above themselves. All the same, when you see the misery it brings, you’d need to be a madman, or a coward, or stone blind, to give in tamely to the plague.”
Rieux had hardly raised his voice at all; but Tarrou made a slight gesture as if to calm him. He was smiling.
“Yes.” Rieux shrugged his shoulders. “But you haven’t answered my question yet. Have you weighed the consequences?”
Tarrou squared his shoulders against the back of the chair, then moved his head forward into the light.
“Do you believe in God, doctor?”
Again the question was put in an ordinary tone. But this time Rieux took longer to find his answer.
“No, but what does that really mean? I’m fumbling in the dark, struggling to make something out. But I’ve long ceased finding that original.”
“Isn’t that it, the gulf between Paneloux and you?”
“I doubt it. Paneloux is a man of learning, a scholar. He hasn’t come in contact with death; that’s why he can speak with such assurance of the truth, with a capital T. But every country priest who visits his parishioners and has heard a man gasping for breath on his deathbed thinks as I do. He’d try to relieve human suffering before trying to point out its excellence.” Rieux stood up; his face was now in shadow. “Let’s drop the subject,” he said, “as you won’t answer.”
Tarrou remained seated in his chair; he was smiling again. “Suppose I answer with a question.”
The doctor now smiled, too.
“You like being mysterious, don’t you? Yes, fire away.”
“My question’s this,” said Tarrou. “Why do you yourself show such devotion, considering you don’t believe in God? I suspect your answer may help me to mine.”
His face still in shadow, Rieux said that he’d already answered: that if he believed in an all-powerful God he would cease curing the sick and leave that to Him. But no one in the world believed in a God of that sort; no, not even Paneloux, who believed that he believed in such a God. And this was proved by the fact that no one ever threw himself on Providence completely. Anyhow, in this respect Rieux believed himself to be on the right road, in fighting against creation as he found it.
“Ah,” Tarrou remarked. “So that’s the idea you have of your profession?” “More or less.” The doctor came back into the light.
Tarrou made a faint whistling noise with his lips, and the doctor gazed at him. “Yes, you’re thinking it calls for pride to feel that way. But I assure you I’ve no
more than the pride that’s needed to keep me going. I have no idea what’s awaiting me, or what will happen when all this ends. For the moment I know this; there are sick people and they need curing. Later on, perhaps, they’ll think things over; and so shall I. But what’s wanted now is to make them well. I defend them as best I can, that’s all.”
“Against whom?”
Rieux turned to the window. A shadow-line on the horizon told of the presence of the sea. He was conscious only of his exhaustion, and at the same time was struggling against a sudden, irrational impulse to unburden himself a little more to his companion; an eccentric, perhaps, but who, he guessed, was one of his own kind.
“I haven’t a notion, Tarrou; I assure you I haven’t a notion. When I entered this profession, I did it ‘abstractedly,’ so to speak; because I had a desire for it, because it meant a career like another, one that young men often aspire to. Perhaps, too, because it was particularly difficult for a workman’s son, like myself. And then I had to see people die. Do you know that there are some who refuse to die? Have you ever heard a woman scream ‘Never!’ with her last gasp? Well, I have. And then I saw that I could never get hardened to it. I was young then, and I was outraged by the whole scheme of things, or so I thought.
Subsequently I grew more modest. Only, I’ve never managed to get used to seeing people die. That’s all I know. Yet after all?”
Rieux fell silent and sat down. He felt his mouth dry. “After all?” Tarrou prompted softly.
“After all,” the doctor repeated, then hesitated again, fixing his eyes on Tarrou, “it’s something that a man of your sort can understand most likely, but, since the order of the world is shaped by death, mightn’t it be better for God if we refuse to believe in Him and struggle with all our might against death,
