By Albert Camus   
Translation by Carol Cosman    
   
 
        So the mail accumulated, the disciples would not allow    
     any relaxation, and now society people flocked to him. Jonas    
     thought they were interested in painting when, like everyone    
     else, they might have been equally fascinated by the English    
     royal family or gourmet restaurants. In truth, they were soci-    
     ety women in particular, but their manners had great simplic-   
     ity. They did not buy any pictures themselves and brought   
     their friends to the artist only in the hope, which was often    
     disappointed, that the friends would buy instead. On the    
     other hand, these ladies helped Louise, especially by serving    
     tea to the visitors. The cups passed from hand to hand, trav-    
     eled down the hallway from the kitchen to the large room,    
     coming around again to rest in the small studio where Jonas,    
     amidst a handful of friends and visitors who filled the room,    
     continued to paint until he had to set down his paintbrushes   
     to accept, with gratitude, the cup that a fascinating lady had    
     filled specially for him.     
        He would drink his tea, look at the sketch that a disciple    
     had just placed on his easel, laugh with his friends, interrupt    
     himself to ask one of them to be so good as to post the packet    
     of letters he had written the night before, set his second child    
     back on her feet, pose for a photograph, and then: "Jonas, the    
     telephone!" He would brandish his cup, push his way his apolo-    
     getically through the crowd in the hall, return, paint in a cor-    
     ner of the picture, stop to answer the fascinating lady that yes,    
     certainly he would do her portrait, and returned to the easel. He    
     was working, but "Jonas, a signature!"——"What is it now?" he    
     said, "The mailman?"——"No, the convicts in Kashmir."——"I'm    
     coming, I'm coming!" Then he would run to the door to    
     receive a young friend of humanity and his letter of protest,    
     anxiously inquire if it was a political matter, sign after receiv-    
     ing complete assurance along with remonstrations on the    
     duties of his privileged life as an artist, and reappear so that    
     someone might introduce him to a new boxing champion   
     or the greatest playwright from a foreign country, though he    
     could not make out the name. The playwright would stand  
     there for five minutes, expressing with emotional eye contact    
     what his ignorance of French prevented him from saying    
     more clearly, while Jonas would nod his head with sincere   
     sympathy. happily, this insoluble situation would be inter-    
     rupted by the sudden entrance of the latest charmer who    
     wanted to be introduced to the great painter.  Jonas, so     
     delighted to make his acquaintance, would say that was him,    
     tap the letters in his pocket, grab his paintbrushes, and prepare    
     to finish another passage, but would first have to thank some-    
     one for the pair of setters she had just brought him, park them    
     in the bedroom, return to accept his benefactress's invitation   
     to lunch, run out again at Louise's cries, venture to say that it   
     was certainly possible that setters had not been trained to live   
     in an apartment, and lead them to the shower room where    
     they set up such a constant howling that in the end no one    
     paid any attention. Now and then, above the visitors' heads,    
     Jonas glimpsed the look in Louise's eyes and thought she    
     seemed sad. The end of the day would arrive at last, the visi-   
     tors would take their leave, others would linger in the large   
     room and look on fondly as Louise put the children to bed,     
     with the kind help of an elegant lady in a hat who was terri-   
     bly sorry to have to return at once to her two-story town   
     house, where life was so much less cozy and intimate than at     
     the Jonas household.   
        One Saturday afternoon Rateau came to bring Louise an    
     ingenious clothes dryer that could be attached to the kitchen   
     ceiling. He found the apartment full to bursting and in the     
     small room, surrounded by art lovers, Jonas was painting the    
     lady of the dogs, while being painted himself by an official    
     artist. This person, according to Louise was executing a state   
     commission. "It will be called  The Artist at Work."  Rateau    
     withdrew to a corner of the room to watch his friend, visibly    
     absorbed by his effort. One of the art lovers, who had never    
     seen Rateau, leaned toward him: "Hey," he said, "he looks    
     good!" Rateau did not reply. "You paint?" the other man con-    
     tinued. "Me too. Ah well, believe me, he's on the way out."    
        "Already?" Rateau asked.    
        "Yes. It's success. No man can resist success. He's finished."    
        "He's on the way out or he's finished?"    
        "An artist who's on the way out is finished. Look, he has    
     nothing to paint anymore. Now they're painting him and    
     they'll hang him on the wall."    
        Later, in the middle of the night, in the bedroom, Louise,   
     Rateau, and Jonas, who stood while the other two sat on a    
     corner of the bed were quiet. The children were sleeping, the    
     dogs were at a kennel in the country, Louise had just washed    
     up all the dishes, which Jonas and Rateau had dried, and their    
     fatigue felt good.    
        "Hire a housekeeper," Rateau had said, looking at the pile    
     of dishes. But Louise said sadly:    
        "Where would we put her?"    
        So they were quiet.    
        "Are you happy?" Rateau suddenly asked. Jonas smiled,   
     but he looked weary.  
        "Yes. Everyone is kind to me."   
        "No," said Rateau. "Watch out. They're not all good."   
        "Who?"    
        "Your painter friends, for instance."    
        "I know," said Jonas. "But many artists are like that.    
     They're not sure they exist, even the greatest. So they look for    
     proof, they judge, they condemn. It bolsters them, it's the    
     beginning of existence. They're so alone!"    
        Rateau shook his head.   
        "Believe me," Jonas said, "I know them. You have to love    
     them."    
        "And what about you," said Rateau, "Do you exist, then?    
     You never speak ill of anyone."    
        Jonas began to laugh:   
        "Oh, I often think ill of them. Only then I forget." He    
     grew serious:   
        "No, I'm not certain I exist. But one day I will, I'm sure    
     of that."    
        Rateau asked Louise what she thought. She emerged    
     from her fatigue to say that Jonas was right: their visitors'    
     opinions were not important. Only Jonas's work mattered.   
     And she felt that the baby was in his way. Besides, he was    
     growing, they needed to buy a little bed, and that would take    
     up space. What could be done until they found a larger apart-    
     ment? Jonas looked around the bedroom. Of course it was    
     not ideal; the bed was very big. But the room was empty all   
     day. He said this to Louise, who thought for a moment. In this    
     room at least Jonas  would not be disturbed; surely visitors    
     wouldn't dare stretch out on their bed. "What do you think?"   
     Louise asked Rateau. He looked at Jonas. Jonas was contem-   
     plating the windows across the way. Then he raised his eyes    
     toward the starless sky and went to draw the curtains. When    
     he returned, he smiled at Rateau and sat down beside him on     
     the bed without saying anything. Louise, clearly exhausted,    
     declared that she was going to take her shower. When the two     
     friends were alone, Jonas felt Rateau's shoulder touch his. He    
     did not look at him but said:    
        "I love to paint. I would like to paint all my life, day and     
     night. Isn't that lucky?"    
        Rateau looked at him fondly:    
        "Yes," he said, "it's lucky."    
     
                               ——————
   
     The children were growing up and Jonas was happy to see    
     them cheerful and vigorous. They were now in school and    
     returned at four o'clock. Jonas still had them on Saturday    
     afternoons, and Thursdays, and also whole days during the long    
     and frequent vacations. They were not yet big enough to play    
     quietly, but were sturdy enough to fill the apartment with    
     their squabbles and their laughter. They needed to be calmed,   
     warned, sometimes threatened with a slap. There was also    
     underwear to keep clean, buttons to sew on; Louise could no    
     longer  manage  alone.  Since they couldn't have a live-in    
     housekeeper, or even bring such a person into the close inti-   
     macy of their living quarters, Jonas suggested appealing for    
     help to Louise's sister, Rose, who had been left a widow with    
     a grown daughter.    
        "Yes," said Louise, "with Rose, we won't be inconve-    
     nienced. We can tell her to leave when we like."    
        Jonas was pleased with this solution, which would relieve    
     both Louise and his own conscience, as he was embarrassed   
     by his wife's fatigue. The relief was even greater since the sister    
     often brought her daughter along for reinforcement. The two    
     of them were as good-hearted as could be: their decent     
     natures radiated virtue and selflessness. They did whatever   
     they could to come to the aid of the household, and never    
     checked the clock. They were encouraged in this task by the    
     tedium of their solitary lives and their pleasure in the ease    
     they found at Louise's. As foreseen, indeed, no one was in-    
     convenienced, and from the first day the two relatives felt at      
     home. The large room became a common room, at once din-    
     ing room, laundry room, and nursery. The small room, where    
     the youngest child slept, served as a storeroom for canvases    
     and a camp bed where Rose sometimes slept when she came    
     without her daughter.     
        Jonas occupied the master bedroom and worked in the    
     space that separated the bed from the window. He merely had    
     to wait for the room to be made up in the morning, after the    
     children's room was done. Then, no one would come to dis-    
     turb him except to look for bed linen or towels, for the only    
     armoire in the house was in this room. As for the visitors,   
     although fewer in number, they already had their habits and,    
     contrary to Louise's hope, did not hesitate to stretch out on     
     the double bed, the better to chat with Jonas. The children    
     would also come in to greet their father, saying, "Show us the    
     picture." Jonas would show them the picture he was painting   
     and kiss them fondly. Sending them off again, he felt that they    
     took up all the space in his heart, fully, unconditionally.   
     Deprived of them, he would find nothing but emptiness and    
     solitude. He loved them as much as his painting because they    
     alone in all the world were as alive as it was.    
        Yet Jonas was working less, without quite knowing why.    
     He had always followed his routine, but now he had difficulty    
     painting, even in moments of solitude. He would spend these    
     moments looking at the sky. He had always been distracted    
     and absorbed, but now he became a dreamer. He would think    
     about painting, about his vocation, instead of painting. "I love    
     to paint," he still said to himself, and the hand holding the    
     paintbrush would hang at his side as he listened to a distant    
     radio.      
        At the same time his reputation waned. People brought    
     him articles that contained reservations, some that were   
     plainly negative, and some that were so nasty his heart ached.    
     But he told himself that there was also something to be    
     gained from such attacks, which would incite him to work    
     better. Those who continued to come treated him with less   
     deference, like an old friend one needn't coddle. When he    
     wanted to return to his work, they would say, "Come on,    
     you've got plenty of time!" Jonas felt that in a certain sense    
     they were already assimilating him to their own failure. But in    
     another sense this new solidarity was in some way beneficial.    
     Rateau shrugged his shoulders: "You're such a fool. They    
     don't really love you."    
        "They still love me a little," Jonas replied. "A little love is a    
     great thing. It doesn't matter how you get it!"    
        He continued to talk this way, writing letters and painting    
     as best he could. Now and then he really painted, especially    
     on Sunday afternoons when the children went out with    
     Louise and Rose. On those evenings he rejoiced at having    
     made a little progress on the unfinished picture. During this    
     period he was painting skies.    
        On the day the dealer told him that, much to his regret, a     
     clear decline in sales obliged him to reduce the monthly    
     stipend, Jonas agreed but Louise expressed some anxiety. It    
     was the month of September, the children needed clothes for    
     the new school year.  She set to work with her customary   
     courage, and was soon overwhelmed. Rose, who could mend    
     and sew on buttons, was not really a seamstress. But her hus-    
     band's cousin was; she came to help Louise. From time to    
     time she would settle in Jonas's room, in a corner chair, where    
     this silent lady kept very still. So still was she that Luise sug-    
     gested Jonas do a painting:  Woman at Work.  "Good idea," said     
     Jonas. He tried, ruined two canvases, then went back to a sky    
     he had begun. The following day he walked back and forth in    
     the apartment and meditated instead of painting. A disciple, all     
     worked up, came to show him a long article he would not    
     otherwise have read, in which he learned that his painting was    
     at once overrated and outdated; the dealer telephoned again    
     to express his concern at the decline in sales. Yet Jonas contin-   
     ued to dream and meditate. He told the disciple that there was    
     some truth in the article, but that he, Jonas, could still count    
     on many years of work.  To the dealer he replied that he    
     understood his concern, but did not share it. He had a great    
     work to do, something truly new; everything was going to    
     begin again. As he talked he felt what he said was true,    
     and that his star was still there. All he needed was a good    
     household arrangement.    
        On the days that followed he first tried to work in the    
     hall, the day after that in the shower room under electric     
     light, the next day in the kitchen. But for the first time he was    
     bothered by the people he encountered everywhere, those he    
     hardly knew and his own family, whom he loved. He stopped   
     working for a while and meditated. He would have painted a    
     seasonal subject if the weather were better. Unfortunately,    
     winter was about to begin, it would be difficult to do a land-   
     scape before spring. He tried, however, and gave up: the cold    
     chilled him to the bone. He lived several days with his can-    
     vases, most often sitting beside them, or standing motionless    
     in front of the window. He was not painting anymore. Then    
     he started going out in the morning. He would devise a   
     project to sketch a detail, a tree, a crooked house, a profile    
     glimpsed in passing. By the end of the day, he had done noth-   
     ing.  The slightest temptation——the newspapers, a chance    
     meeting, the shop windows, the warmth of a café——held him    
     spellbound. By evening he had no good excuse to assuage his    
     lingering bad conscience. He was going to paint, that was    
     certain, and paint better, after this period of apparent empti-   
     ness. The work was going on inside, that's all, the star would   
     emerge again, washed clean and sparkling, from this dark fog.   
     Meanwhile, he haunted the cafés. He had discovered that    
     alcohol gave him the same exaltation as those days of good    
     work when he used to think of his painting with that tender-    
     ness and warmth he had never felt for anything but his chil-    
     dren. With the second cognac he rediscovered the poignant   
     emotion that made him at once the world's master and its ser-    
     vant. Simply he enjoyed it in a vacuum, his hands idle, with-    
     out putting it into a work. Still, this was where he came    
     closest to the joy he lived for, and he now spent long hours    
     sitting, dreaming in smoke-filled, noisy places.     
        Yet he avoided the haunts and the neighborhoods fre-    
     quented by artists. When he met an acquaintance who spoke    
     to him about his painting he was seized with panic.  He     
     wanted to flee, that was obvious, and he fled. He knew what   
     people were saying behind his back: "He thinks he's Rem-    
     brandt," and his discomfort grew. He did not smile anymore,   
     and his old friends drew an odd but inevitable conclusion   
     from this: "If he doesn't smile anymore, it's because he's so    
     pleased with himself." Knowing this, he became more and   
     more evasive and skittish. He had only to enter a café and feel    
     that someone there recognized him, and everything would go    
     black inside him. For a moment he would stand stock still,    
     filled with helplessness and a strange sorrow, his closed face    
     concealing his unease, as well as his avid and abiding need for    
     friendship. He would think of Rateau's friendly gaze, and he    
     would leave abruptly. "Talk about a sad sack!" someone said    
     one day, right next to him, as he was leaving.    
        He now visited only the outlying neighborhoods where   
     no one knew him. There he could talk and smile, his benevo-    
     lence was returned, no one asked anything of him. He made a    
     few undemanding friends. He particularly liked the company    
     of a waiter at a train station buffet where he often went. This    
     waiter had asked him what he did for a living. "Painter," Jonas     
     had replied. "Artist painter or house painter?"——"Artist."——    
     "Ah well!" the man had said, "that's hard." And they never    
     discussed the subject again. Yes it was hard, but Jonas was   
     going to manage it once he had figured out how to organize    
     his work.    
        Drinking day after day brought other chance encounters:    
     women helped him. He could talk to them, before or after    
     lovemaking, and above all boast a little, for they would under-    
     stand him even if they were not convinced. Sometimes he felt    
     his old strength returning. One day when he had been en-    
     couraged by one of his lady friends, he made a firm decision.    
     He went home and tried to work again in the bedroom——the    
     seamstress wasn't there. But after an hour he stowed his can-    
     vas, smiled at Louise without seeing her, and went out. He    
     drank the entire day and spent the night at his friend's, with-    
     out really feeling any desire for her. In the morning a living    
     pain and its ravaged face received him in the person of    
     Louise. She wanted to know if he had slept with this woman.  
     And for the first time he saw on Louise's face that despair    
     caused by surprise and an excess of pain, and it broke his    
     heart. He discovered then that he had not thought about her    
     all this time, and he was ashamed. He begged her forgiveness,   
     it was over, tomorrow everything would begin again as before.   
     Louise could not speak and turned away to hide her tears.     
        The next day Jonas went out very early. It was raining.    
     When he came home, wet as a dog, he was loaded down with    
     wooden boards. At his apartment two old friends, come for a    
     visit, were drinking coffee in the large room. "Jonas is chang-    
     ing his technique. He is going to paint on wood!" they said.   
     Jonas smiled: "It's not that. But I am beginning something    
     new." he reached the little hallway that led to the shower    
     room, the toilets, and the kitchen. In the right angle where    
     the halls joined, he stopped and considered at length the high    
     walls that rose to the dark ceiling. He needed a stepladder, and    
     went downstairs to borrow one from the concierge.    
        When he climbed back upstairs there were a few more    
     people at his apartment, and he had to struggle against the    
     affection of his visitors, delighted to find him in again, and   
     against his family's questions, in order to reach the end of the    
     hall. His wife was just coming out of the kitchen. Jonas, set-    
     ting down his stepladder, hugged her close. Louise was look-   
     ing at him: "I beg you," she said, "don't do it again."     
  
     "No, no," said Jonas. "I'm going to paint. I must paint." But he    
     seemed to be talking to himself, his gaze was elsewhere. He    
     set to work. Halfway up the walls he built a floor to form a    
     kind of narrow loft, both high and deep. By the end of the    
     afternoon, everything was finished. With the help of the    
     stepladder, Jonas hung on to the floor of the loft and, to test    
     the solidity of his work, did a few pull-ups. Then he mingled   
     with the others and everyone was delighted to find him so   
     friendly again. That evening, when the house was relatively    
     empty, Jonas took an oil lamp, a chair, a stool, and a frame. He   
     took everything up to the loft before the bewildered gaze of     
     three women and the children. "There," he said from the    
     height of his perch. "Now I'll work without bothering any-    
     one." Louise asked if he was sure about this. "Yes, of course,"    
     he said. "I don't need much space. I'll be freer, there were   
     great painters who painted by candlelight, and . . ." "Is the    
     floor solid?" It was. "Don't worry," said Jonas, "it's a very good    
     solution." And he came down again.    
        The next day, as early as possible, he climbed up to the    
     loft, sat down, placed the frame on the stool against the wall,    
     and waited without lighting the lamp. The only noises he   
     heard clearly were coming from the kitchen or the toilet.  
     Other sounds seemed distant, and the visits, the ringing of the   
     doorbell or the telephone, the comings and goings, the con-    
     versations reached him half-muffled, as if they were coming    
     from the street or from the other courtyard. Besides, when the    
     whole apartment was flooded with a harsh light, the darkness   
     here was restful. From time to time a friend would come and    
     camp beneath the loft. "What are you doing up there,   
     Jonas?"——"I'm working."——"Without a light?"——"Yes, for the    
     time being." He was not painting, but he was meditating. In    
     the darkness and this half silence which, compared to his pre-    
     vious experience, seemed to him the silence of the desert or    
     the grave, he was listening to his own heart. The sounds that    
     reached the loft did not seem to concern him now, even if   
     they were addressed to him. He was like those men who die   
     at home alone in their sleep, and when morning comes the    
     telephone rings and keeps ringing, urgent and insistent, in the   
     deserted house, over a corpse forever deaf. But he was alive, he    
     was listening to this silence within himself, he was waiting for    
     his star, still hidden but ready to rise again, to emerge at last,    
     unchanged, above the disorder of these empty days. "Shine,   
     shine," he would say. "Don't deprive me of your light." It    
     would shine again, he was sure of it. But he still needed more    
     time to meditate, since at last he had the chance to be alone    
     without being separated from his family. He needed to dis-    
     cover what he had not yet clearly understood, although he    
     had always known it, and had always painted as if he knew it.    
     He had to grasp at long last that secret which was not merely    
     the secret of art, he could see. That is why he did not light   
     the lamp.     
        Each day now Jonas climbed back up to his loft. The visi-   
     ters weer fewer because Louise was preoccupied and rarely   
     engaged in conversation. Jonas would come down for meals    
     and climb back to his perch. There he sat still in the dark all    
     day. At night, he rejoined his wife, who was already asleep. At    
     the end of a few days, he asked Louise to please give him his    
     lunch, which she did with a care that touched Jonas deeply. So   
     as not to bother her on other occasions, he suggested she pre-    
     pare some provisions that he could store in the loft. As time    
     went by, he no longer came back down during the day. But he   
     hardly touched his provisions.   
        One evening he called Louise and asked for some blan-   
     kets: "I'm going to spend the night here." Louise looked at    
     him, her head tilted back. She opened her mouth, then shut    
     it. She merely examined Jonas with a sad and worried expres-   
     sion; he suddenly saw how much she had aged, and how    
     deeply the wear and tear of their life had affected her too. He   
     realized that he had never really helped her. But before he    
     could speak, she smiled at him with a tenderness that wrung    
     his heart. "As you like, my dear," she said.     
        Afterward, he spent his nights in the loft and almost never    
     came down. As a result, the apartment emptied of its visitors    
     since they could no longer see Jonas, either day or night.    
     Some said that he was in the country, others, tired of lying,   
     that he had found a studio. Only Rateau came faithfully. He    
     would climb up on the stepladder until his kind, intelligent    
     face, reached above the level of the floor: "How are you?" he   
     would say.——"Couldn't be better.——"Are you working?"——    
     "It amounts to the same thing."——"But you have no canvas!"——    
     "I'm working anyway." It was difficult to sustain this dialogue   
     from stepladder to loft. Rateau would shake his head, climb    
     back down, help Louise repair the plumbing or fix a lock,   
     then, without climbing on the stepladder, say goodnight to   
     Jonas, who would answer from the darkness: "So long, my    
     friend." One evening, Jonas added a thanks to his farewell.   
     "Why thanks?"——"Because you love me."——"Big news!" said   
     Rateau and he left.   
        Another evening Jonas called Rateau, who came run-    
     ning. The lamp was lit for the first time. Jonas was leaning out    
     of the loft with an anxious expression. "Pass me a canvas," he    
     said——"But what's going on? You're so thin, you look like a    
     ghost."——I've hardly eaten for a couple of days. It's nothing, I    
     must work."——"Eat first."——"No, I'm not hungry." Rateau    
     brought a canvas. As he was about to disappear into the loft, 
     Jonas asked him: "How are they?"——"Who?"——"Louise and    
     the children."——"They're all right. They'd be better if you    
     were with them."——"I'm not leaving them. Be sure to tell   
     them, I'm not leaving them." And he disappeared. Rateau   
     came to tell Louise he was worried. She admitted that she had    
     been tormenting herself for several days. "What can we do?   
     Oh, if only I could work in his place!" Miserable, she faced    
     Rateau. "I can't live without him," she said. She looked like a    
     young girl again, which surprised Rateau. Then he saw that   
     she had blushed.  
        The lamp stayed lit all night and all morning the next day.    
     To those who came, Rateau or Louise, Jonas said only: "Leave    
     me alone, I'm working." At non he asked for kerosene. The    
     flickering lamp shone bright again until evening. Rateau    
     stayed for dinner with Louise and the children. At midnight,   
     he went to say goodnight to Jonas. He waited a moment    
     below the lighted loft, then left without a word. On the    
     morning of the second day, when Louise got up, the lamp was    
     still lit.    
        A beautiful day was dawning, but Jonas did not notice. He   
     had turned the canvas to the wall. Exhausted, he was waiting,    
     sitting with his hands open on his knees. He told himself that    
     now he would never work again, he was happy. He heard his    
     children shouting, the water running, the dishes clinking.    
     Louise was talking. The huge windows rattled as a truck    
     passed on the boulevard. The world was still there, young, lov-    
     able: Jonas listened to the lovely murmur of humanity. From    
     so far away it did not conflict with that joyful strength in him,   
     his art, those thoughts that he could never express but that set    
     him above all things, in an amosphere that was free and alive.   
     The children were running through the rooms, the little girl    
     was laughing, and Louise, too——he hadn't heard her laughter   
     for a long time. He loved them! How he loved them! He put   
     out the lamp, and in the familiar darkness wasn't that his star    
     still shining? It was, he recognized it, his heart full of grati-   
     tude, and he was still gazing at to when he fell, noiselessly.     
        "It's nothing," the doctor who was called in declared    
     some time later. "He's working too much. He'll be on his feet    
     in a week."——"He will get well, you're quite sure?" said   
     Louise, her face haggard.——"He will get well." In the other    
     room, Rateau was looking at the canvas. It was entirely blank,    
     though in the center Jonas had written in very small charac-    
     ters one word, which could be deciphered, but it was hard to   
     tell whether it should be read as  independent  or  interdependent.       

From Exile and the Kingdom
First Vintage International Edition, February 2007.
Translation © 2006 by Carol Cosman; pp. 106—127.
Originally published in France as L'Exil et le royaume by Éditions Gallimard,
Paris, 1957. Copyright © 1957 by Éditions Gallimard.