Rubashov thought this over; he was somewhat taken aback. For a moment it was as if Ivanov had hit a tuning fork, to which his mind responded of its own accord. All he had believed in, fought for and preached during the last forty years swept over his mind in an irresistible wave. The individual was nothing, the Party was all; the branch which broke from the tree must wither…. Rubashov rubbed his pince-nez on his sleeve. Ivanov was sitting back in his chair, smoking; he was no longer smiling. Suddenly Rubashov’s eye was caught by a square patch on the wall lighter than the rest of the wall-paper. He knew at once that the picture with the bearded heads and the numbered names had hung there—Ivanov followed his glance without changing his expression.
“Your argument is somewhat anachronistic,” said Rubashov. “As you quite rightly remarked, we were accustomed always to use the plural ‘we’ and to avoid as far as possible the first person singular. I have rather lost the habit of that form of speech; you stick to it. But who is this ‘we’ in whose name you speak to-day? It needs redefining. That is the point.”
“Entirely my own opinion,” said Ivanov. “I am glad that we have reached the heart of the matter so soon. In other words: you are convinced that ‘we’—that is to say, the Party, the State and the masses behind it—no longer represent the interests of the Revolution.”
“I should leave the masses out of it,” said Rubashov.
“Since when have you this supreme contempt for the plebs?” asked Ivanov. “Has that, too, a connection with the grammatical change to the first person singular?”
He leant across the desk with a look of benevolent mockery. His head now hid the light patch on the wall and suddenly the scene in the picture gallery occurred to Rubashov, when Richard’s head had come between him and the folded hands of the Pietà. In the same instant a spasm of pain throbbed from his jaw up to his forehead and ear. For a second he shut his eyes. “Now I am paying,” he thought. An instant later he did not know whether he had not spoken aloud.
“How do you mean?” Ivanov’s voice asked. It sounded close to his ear, mocking and slightly surprised.
The pain faded; a peaceful stillness pervaded his mind. “Leave the masses out of it,” he repeated. “You understand nothing about them. Nor, probably, do I any more. Once, when the great ‘we’ still existed, we understood them as no one had ever understood them before. We had penetrated into their depths, we worked in the amorphous raw material of history itself….”
Without noticing it, he had taken a cigarette out of Ivanov’s case, which still lay open on the table. Ivanov bent forward and lit it for him.
“At that time,” Rubashov went on, “we were called the Party of the Plebs. What did the others know of history? Passing ripples, little eddies and breaking waves. They wondered at the changing forms of the surface and could not explain them. But we had descended into the depths, into the formless, anonymous masses, which at all times constituted the substance of history; and we were the first to discover her laws of motion. We had discovered the laws of inertia, of the slow changing of her molecular structure, and of her sudden eruptions. That was the greatness of our doctrine. The Jacobins were moralists; we were empirics. We dug in the primeval mud of history and there we found her laws. We knew more than ever men have known about mankind; that is why our revolution succeeded. And now you have buried it all again….”
Ivanov was sitting back with his legs stretched out, listening and drawing figures on his blotting-paper.
“Go on,” he said. “I am curious to know what you are driving at.”
Rubashov was smoking with relish. He felt the nicotine making him slightly dizzy after his long abstinence.
“As you notice, I am talking my head off my neck,” he said and looked up smilingly at the faded patch on the wall where the photograph of the old guard had once hung. This time Ivanov did not follow his glance. “Well,” said Rubashov, “one more makes no difference. Everything is buried; the men, their wisdom and their hopes. You killed the ‘We’; you destroyed it. Do you really maintain that the masses are still behind you? Other usurpers in Europe pretend the same thing with as much right as you….”
He took another cigarette and lit it himself this time, as Ivanov did not move.
“Forgive my pompousness,” he went on, “but do you really believe the people are still behind you? It bears you, dumb and resigned, as it bears others in other countries, but there is no response in its depths. The masses have become deaf and dumb again, the great silent x of history, indifferent as the sea carrying the ships. Every passing light is reflected on its surface, but underneath is darkness and silence. A long time ago we stirred up the depths, but that is over. In other words”—he paused and put on his pince-nez—“in those days we made history; now you make politics. That’s the whole difference.”
Ivanov leant back in his chair and blew smoke rings. “I’m sorry, but the difference is not quite clear to me,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to explain.”
“Certainly,” said Rubashov. “A mathematician once said that algebra was the science for lazy people—one does not work out x, but operates with it as if one knew it. In our case, x stands for the anonymous masses, the people. Politics mean operating with this x without worrying about its actual nature. Making history is to recognize x for what it stands for in the equation.”
“Pretty,” said Ivanov. “But unfortunately rather abstract. To return to more tangible things: you mean, therefore, that ‘we’—namely, Party and State—no longer represent the interests of the Revolution, of the masses or, if you like, the progress of humanity.”
“This time you have grasped it,” said Rubashov smiling. Ivanov did not answer his smile.
“When did you develop this opinion?”
“Fairly gradually: during the last few years,” said Rubashov.
“Can’t you tell me more exactly? One year? Two? Three years?”
“That’s a stupid question,” said Rubashov. “At what age did you become adult? At seventeen? At eighteen and a half? At nineteen?”
“It’s you who are pretending to be stupid,” said Ivanov. “Each step in one’s spiritual development is the result of definite experiences. If you really want to know: I became a man at seventeen, when I was sent into exile for the first time.”
“At the time you were quite a decent fellow,” said Rubashov. “Forget it.” He again looked at the light patch on the wall and threw away his cigarette.
“I repeat my question,” said Ivanov and bent forward slightly. “For how long have you belonged to the organized opposition?”
The telephone rang. Ivanov took the receiver off, said, “I am busy,” and hung it up again. He leant back in his chair, leg stretched out, and waited for Rubashov’s answer.
“You know as well as I do,” said Rubashov, “that I never joined an oppositional organization.”
“As you like,” said Ivanov. “You put me into the painful position of having to act the bureaucrat.” He put a hand in a drawer and pulled out a bundle of files.
“Let’s start with 1933,” he said and spread the papers out in front of him. “Outbreak of the dictatorship and crushing of the Party in the very country where victory seemed closest. You are sent there illegally, with the task of carrying through a purging and reorganization of the ranks….”
Rubashov had leant back and was listening to his biography. He thought of Richard, and of the twilight in the avenue in front of the museum, where he had stopped the taxi.
“… Three months later: you are arrested. Two years’ imprisonment. Behavior exemplary, nothing can be proved against you. Release and triumphal return….”
Ivanov paused, threw him a quick glance and went on:
“You were much fêted on your return. We did not meet then; you were probably too busy…. I did not take it amiss, by the way. After all, one could not expect you to look up all your old friends. But I saw you twice at meetings, up on the platform. You were still on crutches and looked
very worn-out. The logical thing would have been for you to go to a sanatorium for a few months, and then to take some Government post—after having been four years away on foreign mission. But after a fortnight you were already applying for another mission abroad….”
He bent forward suddenly, moving his face closer to Rubashov:
“Why—?” he asked, and for the first time his voice was sharp. “You did not feel at ease here, presumably? During your absence certain changes had taken place in the country, which you evidently did not appreciate.”
He waited for Rubashov to say something; but Rubashov was sitting quietly in his chair, rubbing his pince-nez on his sleeve, and did not answer.
“It was shortly after the first crop of the opposition had been convicted and liquidated. You had intimate friends among them. When it became known what degree of decay the opposition had attained, there was an outbreak of indignation throughout the country. You said nothing. After a fortnight, you went abroad, although you could not yet walk without crutches….”
To Rubashov it seemed that he smelt again the smell of the docks in the little port, a mixture of seaweed and petrol; wrestler Paul wagging his ears; Little Loewy saluting with his pipe…. He had hanged himself on a beam in his attic. The dilapidated old house trembled every time a lorry passed; Rubashov had been told that on the morning when Little Loewy was found, his body had turned slowly on its own axis, so that at first they thought he still moved….
“The mission successfully concluded, you were nominated leader of our Trade Delegation in B. This time, too, you carried out your duties irreproachably. The new commercial treaty with B. is a definite success. In appearance your behaviour remains exemplary and spotless. But six months after you took over this post, your two closest collaborators, one of whom is your secretary, Arlova, have to be recalled under the suspicion of oppositional conspiracy. This suspicion is confirmed by the inquiry. You are expected to disavow them publicly. You remain silent….
“Another six months later you are yourself recalled. The preparations for the second trial of the opposition are proceeding. Your name occurs repeatedly at the trial; Arlova refers to you for her exculpation. Under these circumstances, to maintain your silence would look like a confession of guilt. You know that and yet you refuse to make a public declaration until the Party sends you an ultimatum. Only then, when your head is at stake, do you condescend to give a declaration of loyalty, which automatically finishes Arlova. Her fate you know….”
Rubashov was silent, and noticed that his tooth was aching again. He knew her fate. Also Richard’s. Also Little Loewy’s. Also his own. He looked at the light patch on the wall, the only trace left by the men with the numbered heads. Their fate, too, was known to him. For once History had taken a run, which at last promised a more dignified form of life for mankind; now it was over. So why all this talk and all this ceremony? If anything in human beings could survive destruction, the girl Arlova lay somewhere in the great emptiness, still staring with her good cow’s eyes at Comrade Rubashov, who had been her idol and had sent her to her death…. His tooth became worse and worse.
“Shall I read you the public statement you made at that time?” asked Ivanov.
“No, thank you,” said Rubashov, and noticed that his voice sounded hoarse.
“As you remember, your statement—which one could also describe as a confession—ended with a sharp condemnation of the opposition and with a declaration of unconditional adhesion both to the policy of the Party and to the person of No. 1.”
“Stop this,” said Rubashov in a flat voice. “You know how this sort of statement is produced. If not, so much the better for you. For God’s sake, stop this comedy.”
“We have nearly finished,” said Ivanov. “We are now only two years from the present time. During these two years you were head of the State Aluminum Trust. A year ago, on the occasion of the third trial of the opposition, the principal accused mentioned your name repeatedly in somewhat obscure contexts. Nothing tangible is revealed, but the suspicion grows in the ranks of the Party. You make a new public statement, in which you proclaim anew your devotion to the policy of the Leadership and condemn the criminality of the opposition in still sharper terms…. That was six months ago. And to-day you admit that for years already you have considered the policy of the Leadership to be wrong and harmful….”
He paused and leant back again comfortably in his chair.
“Your first declarations of loyalty,” he continued, “were therefore merely means to a definite end. I beg you to take note that I am not moralizing. We both grew up in the same tradition and have on these matters the same conception. You were convinced that our policy was wrong and that your own was right. To say that openly at that time would have meant your expulsion from the Party, with the resulting impossibility to continue your work for your own ideas. So you had to throw out ballast in order to be able to serve the policy which, in your opinion, was the only right one. In your place, I would, of course, have acted in the same way. So far everything is in order.”
“And what follows?” asked Rubashov.
Ivanov had again his former amiable smile.
“What I don’t understand,” he said, “is this. You now openly admit that for years you have had the conviction that we were ruining the Revolution; and in the same breath you deny that you belonged to the opposition and that you plotted against us. Do you really expect me to believe that you sat watching us with your hands in your lap—while, according to your conviction, we led country and Party to destruction?”
Rubashov shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps I was too old and used up…. But believe what you like,” he said.
Ivanov lit another cigarette. His voice became quiet and penetrating:
“Do you really want me to believe that you sacrificed Arlova and denied those”—he jerked his chin towards the light patch on the wall—“only in order to save your own head?”
Rubashov was silent. Quite a long time passed. Ivanov’s head bent even closer over the writing desk.
“I don’t understand you,” he said. “Half an hour ago you made me a speech full of the most impassioned attacks against our policy, any fraction of which would have been enough to finish you off. And now you deny such a simple logical deduction as that you belonged to an oppositional group, for which, in any case, we hold all the proofs.”
“Really?” said Rubashov. “If you have all the proofs, why do you need my confession? Proofs of what, by the way?”
“Amongst others,” said Ivanov slowly, “proofs of a projected attempt on No. 1’s life.”
Again there was a silence. Rubashov put on his pince-nez.
“Allow me to ask you a question in my turn,” he said. “Do you really believe this idiocy or do you only pretend to?”
In the corners of Ivanov’s eyes appeared the same nearly tender smile as before:
“I told you. We have proofs. To be more exact: confessions. To be still more exact: the confession of the man who was actually to commit the attempt on your instigation.”
“Congratulations,” said Rubashov. “What is his name?”
Ivanov went on smiling.
“An indiscreet question.”
“May I read the confession? Or be confronted with the man?”
Ivanov smiled. He blew the smoke of his cigarette with friendly mockery into Rubashov’s face. It was unpleasant to Rubashov, but he did not move his head.
“Do you remember the veronal?” said Ivanov slowly. “I think I have already asked you that. Now the rôles are interchanged: to-day it is you who are about to throw yourself head first down the precipice. But not with my help. You then convinced me that suicide was petty bourgeois romanticism. I shall see that you do not succeed in committing it. Then we shall be quits.”
Rubashov was silent. He was thinking over whether Ivanov was lying or sincere—and at the same time he had the strange wish, almost a physical impulse, to touch the light patch on the wall with his finge
rs. “Nerves,” he thought. “Obsessions. Stepping only on the black tiles, murmuring senseless, phrases, rubbing my pince-nez on my sleeve—there, I am doing it again….”
“I am curious to know,” he said aloud, “what scheme you have for my salvation. The way in which you have examined me up till now seems to have exactly the opposite aim.”
Ivanov’s smile became broad and beaming. “You old fool,” he said, and, reaching over the table, he grasped Rubashov’s coat button. “I was obliged to let you explode once, else you would have exploded at the wrong time. Haven’t you even noticed that I have no stenographer present?”
He took a cigarette out of the case and forced it into Rubashov’s mouth without letting go his coat button. “You’re behaving like an infant. Like a romantic infant,” he added. “Now we are going to concoct a nice little confession and that will be all for to-day.”
Rubashov at last managed to free himself from Ivanov’s grip. He looked at him sharply through his pince-nez. “And what would be in this confession?” he asked.
Ivanov beamed at him unabatedly. “In the confession will be written,” he said, “that you admit, since such and such a year, to have belonged to such and such a group of opposition; but that you emphatically deny having organized or planned an assassination; that, on the contrary, you withdrew from the group when you learned of the opposition’s criminal and terrorist plans.”
For the first time during their discussion, Rubashov smiled, too.
“If that is the object of all this talk,” he said, “we can break it off immediately.”
“Let me finish what I was going to say,” said Ivanov without any impatience. “I knew, of course, that you would stall. Let’s first consider the moral or sentimental side of the matter. You do not give away anybody by what you admit. The whole bunch was arrested long before you, and half of them have been already liquidated; you know that yourself. From the rest, we can obtain other confessions than this harmless stuff—in fact, any confession we like…. I take it that you understand me and that my frankness convinces you.”
Darkness at Noon Page 8
