Now the old guard was used up; the logic of history ordained that the more stable the régime became, the more rigid it had to become, in order to prevent the enormous dynamic forces which the Revolution had released from turning inwards and blowing the Revolution itself into the air. The time of philosophizing congresses was over; instead of the old portraits, a light patch shone from Ivanov’s wallpaper; philosophical incendiarism had given place to a period of wholesome sterility. Revolutionary theory had frozen to a dogmatic cult, with a simplified, easily graspable catechism, and with No. 1 as the high priest celebrating the Mass. His speeches and articles had, even in their style, the character of an infallible catechism; they were divided into question and answer, with a marvellous consistency in the gross simplification of the actual problems and facts. No. 1 doubtless had an instinct for applying the “law of the relative maturity of the masses”…. The dilettantes in tyranny had forced their subjects to act at command; No. 1 had taught them to think at command.
Rubashov was amused by the thought of what the present-day “theorists” of the Party would say to his letter. Under actual conditions, it represented the wildest heresy; the fathers of the doctrine, whose word was taboo, were criticized; spades were called spades, and even No. 1’s sacrosanct person was treated objectively in its historical context. They must writhe in agony, those unfortunate theorists of to-day, whose only task was to dress up No. 1’s jumps and sudden changes of course as the latest revelations of philosophy.
No. 1 sometimes indulged in strange tricks on his theorists. Once he had demanded an analysis of the American industrial crisis from the committee of experts who edited the Party’s economic periodical. This required several months to complete; at last appeared the special number in which—based on the thesis exposed by No. 1 in his last Congress speech—it was proved, over approximately three hundred pages, that the American boom was only a sham-boom, and that in actual fact America was at the bottom of a depression, which would only be overcome by the victorious revolution. On the very day on which the special number appeared, No. 1 received an American journalist and staggered him and the world, between two pulls at his pipe, by the pithy sentence:
“The crisis in America is over and business is normal again.”
The members of the Committee of Experts, expecting their dismissal and possible arrest, composed in the same night letters in which they confessed their “misdemeanours committed by the setting-up of counter-revolutionary theories and misleading analyses”; they emphasized their repentance and promised public atonement. Only Isakovitch, a contemporary of Rubashov, and the only one in the Board of Editors who belonged to the old guard—preferred to shoot himself. The initiated afterwards asserted that No. 1 had set the whole affair going with the sole intention of destroying Isakovitch, whom he suspected of oppositional tendencies.
The whole thing was a pretty grotesque comedy, Rubashov thought; at bottom all this jugglery with “revolutionary philosophy” was merely a means to consolidate the dictatorship, which, though so depressing a phenomenon, yet seemed to represent a historical necessity. So much the worse for him who took the comedy seriously, who only saw what happened on the stage, and not the machinery behind it. Formerly the revolutionary policy had been decided at open congresses; now it was decided behind the scenes—that also was a logical consequence of the law of relative maturity of the masses….
Rubashov yearned to work again in a quiet library with green lamps, and to build up his new theory on a historical basis. The most productive times for revolutionary philosophy had always been the time of exile, the forced rests between periods of political activity. He walked up and down in his cell and let his imagination play with the idea of passing the next two years, when he would be politically excommunicated, in a kind of inner exile; his public recantation would buy him the necessary breathing-space. The outward form of capitulation did not matter much; they should have as many mea culpas and declarations of faith in No. 1’s infallibility as the paper would hold. That was purely a matter of etiquette—a Byzantine ceremonial which had developed out of the necessity to drill every sentence into the masses by vulgarization and endless repetition; what was presented as right must shine like gold, what was presented as wrong must be as black as pitch; political statements had to be coloured like ginger-bread figures at a fair.
These were matters of which No. 402 understood nothing, Rubashov reflected. His narrow conception of honour belonged to another epoch. What was decency? A certain form of convention, still bound by the traditions and rules of the knightly jousts. The new conception of honour should be formulated differently: to serve without vanity and unto the last consequence….
“Better die than dishonour oneself,” No. 402 had announced, and, one imagines, twirled his moustache. That was the classic expression of personal vanity. No. 402 tapped his sentences with his monocle; he, Rubashov, with his pince-nez; that was the whole difference. The only thing which mattered to him now was to work peacefully in a library and build up his new ideas. It would need many years, and produce a massive volume; but it would be the first useful clue to the understanding of the history of democratic institutions and throw a light on the pendulum-like movements of mass psychology, which at the present time were particularly in evidence, and which the classical class struggle theory failed to explain.
Rubashov walked rapidly up and down his cell, smiling to himself. Nothing mattered as long as he was allowed time to develop his new theory. His toothache was gone; he felt wide awake, enterprising, and full of nervous impatience. Two days had passed since the nocturnal conversation with Ivanov and the sending off of his declaration, and still nothing happened. Time, which had flown so quickly during the first two weeks of his arrest, now crawled. The hours disintegrated into minutes and seconds. He worked in fits and starts, but was brought to a standstill every time by lack of historical documentation. He stood for whole quarters of an hour at the judas, in the hope of catching sight of the warder who would take him to Ivanov. But the corridor was deserted, the electric light was burning, as always.
Occasionally he hoped Ivanov himself would come, and the whole formality of his disposition would be settled in his cell; that would be far pleasanter. This time he would not even object to the bottle of brandy. He pictured the conversation in detail; how they would together work out the pompous phraseology of the “confession”, and Ivanov’s cynical witticisms while they did it. Smiling, Rubashov wandered up and down through his cell, and looked at his watch every ten minutes. Had Ivanov not promised in that night to have him fetched the very next day?
Rubashov’s impatience became more and more feverish; in the third night after his conversation with Ivanov he could not sleep. He lay in the dark on the bunk, listening to the faint, stifled sounds in the building, threw himself from one side to another, and for the first time since his arrest wished for the presence of a warm female body. He tried breathing regularly to help himself fall asleep, but became more and more on edge. He fought for a long time against the desire to start a conversation with No. 402, who since the question “What is decency?” had not been heard of again.
About midnight, when he had been lying awake for three hours, staring at the newspaper stuck on the broken windowpane, he could no longer hold out, and tapped against the wall with his knuckles. He waited eagerly; the wall remained silent. He tapped again and waited, feeling a hot wave of humiliation mounting in his head. No. 402 still did not answer. And yet certainly he was lying awake on the other side of the wall, killing time by chewing the cud of old adventures; he had confessed to Rubashov that he could never get to sleep before one or two o’clock in the morning, and that he had returned to the habits of his boyhood.
Rubashov lay on his back and stared into the dark. The mattress under him was pressed flat; the blanket was too warm and drew an unpleasant dampness from the skin, yet he shivered when he threw it off. He was smoking the seventh or eighth cigarette of a chain; the stumps lay scattere
d round the bed on the stone floor. The slightest sound had died out; time stood still; it had resolved itself into shapeless darkness. Rubashov shut his eyes and imagined Arlova lying beside him, the familiar curve of her breast raised against the darkness. He forgot that she had been dragged over the corridor like Bogrov; the silence became so intense that it seemed to hum and sway. What were the two thousand men doing who were walled into the cells of this bee-hive? The silence was inflated by their inaudible breath, their invisible dreams, the stifled gasping of their fears and desires. If history were a matter of calculation, how much did the sum of two thousand nightmares weigh, the pressure of a two-thousandfold helpless craving? Now he really felt the sisterly scent of Arlova; his body under the woolen blanket was covered with sweat…. The cell-door was torn open janglingly; the light from the corridor stabbed into his eyes.
He saw enter two uniformed officials with revolver-belts, as yet unknown to him. One of the two men approached the bunk; he was tall, had a brutal face and a hoarse voice which seemed very loud to Rubashov. He ordered Rubashov to follow him, without explaining where to.
Rubashov felt for his pince-nez under the blanket, put them on, and got up from the bunk. He felt leadenly tired as he walked along the corridor beside the uniformed giant, who towered a head above him. The other man followed behind them.
Rubashov looked at his watch; it was two o’clock in the morning, so he must have slept, after all. They went the way which led towards the barber’s shop—the same way as Bogrov had been taken. The second official remained three paces behind Rubashov. Rubashov felt the impulse to turn his head round as an itching in the back of his neck, but controlled it. After all, they can’t bump me off so completely without ceremony, he thought, without being entirely convinced. At the moment it did not matter to him much; he only wished to get it over quickly. He tried to find out whether he was afraid or not, but was aware only of the physical discomfort caused by the strain of not turning his head round towards the man behind him.
When they turned the corner beyond the barber’s shop, the narrow cellar staircase came into view. Rubashov watched the giant at his side to see whether he would slacken his pace. He still felt no fear, only curiosity and uneasiness; but when they had passed the staircase, he noticed to his surprise that his legs felt shaky, so that he had to pull himself together. At the same time he caught himself mechanically rubbing his spectacles on his sleeve; apparently, he must have taken them off before reaching the barber’s shop without noticing it. It is all swindle, he thought. Above, it is possible to kid oneself, but below, from the stomach downwards, one knows. If they beat me now, I will sign anything they like; but tomorrow I will recall it….
A few steps further on, the “theory of relative maturity” came to his mind again, and the fact that he had already decided to give in and to sign his submission. A great relief came over him; but at the same time he asked himself in astonishment how it was possible that he should have so completely forgotten his decisions of the last few days. The giant stopped, opened a door and stood aside. Rubashov saw a room before him similar to Ivanov’s, but with unpleasantly bright lighting, which stabbed his eyes. Opposite the door, behind the desk, sat Gletkin.
The door shut behind Rubashov and Gletkin looked up from his pile of documents. “Please sit down,” he said in that dry, colourless tone which Rubashov remembered from that first scene in his cell. He also recognized the broad scar on Gletkin’s skull; his face was in shadow, as the only light in the room came from a tall metal standing lamp behind Gletkin’s armchair. The sharp white light which streamed from the exceptionally strong bulb blinded Rubashov, so that it was only after a few seconds that he became aware of a third person—a secretary sitting behind a screen at a small table, with her back to the room.
Rubashov sat down opposite Gletkin, in front of the desk, on the only chair. It was an uncomfortable chair, without arms.
“I am commissioned to examine you during the absence of Commissar Ivanov,” said Gletkin. The light of the lamp hurt Rubashov’s eyes; but if he turned his profile to Gletkin, the effect of the light in the corner of his eye was nearly as unpleasant. Besides, to talk with averted head seemed absurd and embarrassing.
“I prefer to be examined by Ivanov,” said Rubashov.
“The examining magistrate is appointed by the authorities,” said Gletkin. “You have the right to make a statement or to refuse. In your case a refusal would amount to a disavowal of the declaration of willingness to confess, which you wrote two days ago, and would automatically bring the investigation to an end. In that eventuality I have the order to send your case back to the competent authority, which would pronounce your sentence administratively.”
Rubashov thought this over quickly. Something had obviously gone wrong with Ivanov. Suddenly sent on leave, or dismissed, or arrested. Perhaps because his former friendship with Rubashov had been remembered; perhaps because he was mentally superior and too witty, and because his loyalty to No. 1 was based on logical considerations and not on blind faith. He was too clever; he was of the old school: the new school was Gletkin and his methods…. Go in peace, Ivanov. Rubashov had no time for pity; he had to think quickly, and the light hindered him. He took his pince-nez off and blinked; he knew that without glasses he looked naked and helpless, and that Gletkin’s expressionless eyes registered every trait in his face. If he now remained silent he would be lost; there was no going back now. Gletkin was a repellent creature, but he represented the new generation; the old had to come to terms with it or be crushed; there was no other alternative. Rubashov felt suddenly old; he had never known this feeling up till now. He had never held in account the fact that he was in his fifties. He put his pince-nez on and tried to meet Gletkin’s gaze, but the shrill light made his eyes water; he took it off again.
“I am ready to make a statement,” he said and tried to control the irritation in his voice. “But on the condition that you cease your tricks. Put out that dazzle-light and keep these methods for crooks and counter-revolutionaries.”
“You are not in a position to make conditions,” said Gletkin in his calm voice. “I cannot change the lighting in my room for you. You do not seem fully to realize your position, especially the fact that you are yourself accused of counter-revolutionary activities, and that in the course of these last years you have twice admitted to them in public declarations. You are mistaken if you believe you will get off as cheaply this time.”
You swine, thought Rubashov. You filthy swine in uniform. He went red. He felt himself going red and knew that Gletkin had noticed it. How old might this Gletkin be? Thirty-six or seven, at the most; he must have taken part in the Civil War as a youth and seen the outbreak of the Revolution as a mere boy. That was the generation which had started to think after the flood. It had no traditions, and no memories to bind it to the old, vanished world. It was a generation born without umbilical cord …. And yet it had right on its side. One must tear that umbilical cord, deny the last tie which bound one to the vain conceptions of honour and the hypocritical decency of the old world. Honour was to serve without vanity, without sparing oneself, and until the last consequence.
Rubashov’s temper gradually quietened down. He kept his pince-nez in his hand and turned his face towards Gletkin. As he had to keep his eyes shut, he felt even more naked, but this no longer disturbed him. Behind his shut lids shimmered a reddish light. He had never had such an intense feeling of solitude.
“I will do everything which may serve the Party,” he said. The hoarseness had gone from his voice; he kept his eyes shut. “I beg you to state the accusation in detail. Up till now this has not been done.”
He heard rather than saw through his blinking eyes, that a short movement went through Gletkin’s stiff figure. His cuffs on the chair-arms crackled, he breathed a shade deeper, as if for an instant his whole body had relaxed. Rubashov guessed that Gletkin was experiencing the triumph of his life. To have laid out a Rubashov meant the beginning of a
great career; and up to a minute ago all had still hung in the balance for Gletkin—with Ivanov’s fate as a reminder before his eyes.
Rubashov understood suddenly that he had just as much power over this Gletkin as the latter over him. I hold you by the throat, my lad, he thought with an ironic grimace; we each hold the other by the throat, and if I throw myself off the swing, I drag you down with me. For a moment Rubashov played with this idea, while Gletkin, again stiff and precise, searched in his documents; then he rejected the temptation and slowly shut his painful eyes. One must burn out the last vestiges of vanity—and what else was suicide but an inverted form of vanity? This Gletkin, of course, believed that it was his tricks, and not Ivanov’s arguments, which had induced him to capitulate; probably Gletkin had also succeeded in persuading the higher authorities of this, and had thus brought about Ivanov’s fall. Swine, thought Rubashov, but this time without anger. You consequential brute in the uniform we crated—barbarian of the new age which is now starting. You don’t understand the issue; but, did you understand, you would be useless to us…. He noticed that the light of the lamp had become yet another grade shriller—Rubashov knew that there were arrangements for heightening or decreasing the power of these reflector lamps during a cross-examination. He was forced to turn his head away completely and wipe his watering eyes. You brute, he thought again. Yet it is just such a generation of brutes that we need now….
Darkness at Noon Page 16
