Gletkin had started to read the accusation. His monotonous voice was more irritating than ever; Rubashov listened with averted head and shut eyes. He was decided to regard his “confession” as a formality, as an absurd yet necessary comedy, the tortuous sense of which could only be understood by the initiated; but the text which Gletkin was reading surpassed his worst expectations in absurdity. Did Gletkin really believe that he, Rubashov, had planned these childish plots? That for years he had thought of nothing else than to break up the building, the foundations of which he and the old guard had laid? And all of them, the men with the numbered heads, the heroes of Gletkin’s boyhood—did Gletkin believe that they had suddenly fallen victims to an epidemic which rendered them all venal and corruptible and gave them but one wish—to undo the Revolution? And that with methods which these great political tacticians appeared to have borrowed from a cheap detective story?
Gletkin read monotonously, without any intonation, in the colourless, barren voice of people who have learnt the alphabet late, when already grown-up. He was just reading about the alleged negotiations with the representative of a foreign Power which, it was pretended, Rubashov had started during his stay in B., with the object of a reinstatement of the old regime by force. The name of the foreign diplomat was mentioned, also the time and place of their meeting. Rubashov listened more attentively now. In his memory flashed an unimportant little scene, which he had immediately forgotten at the time and had never thought of again. He quickly worked out the approximate date; it seemed to fit. So that was to be the rope which would hang him? Rubashov smiled and rubbed his weeping eyes with his handkerchief….
Gletkin read straight on, stiffly and with deadly monotony. Did he really believe what he was reading? Was he not aware of the grotesque absurdity of the text? Now he was at the point of Rubashov’s activity at the head of the aluminum trust. He read out statistics which showed the appalling disorganization in that too hastily developed branch of industry; the number of workers victims of accidents, the series of aeroplanes crashed as a result of defective material. This all was the consequence of his, Rubashov’s, devilish sabotage. The word “devilish” actually occurred several times in the text, in between technical terms and columns of figures. For a few seconds Rubashov entertained the hypothesis that Gletkin had gone mad; this mixture of logic and absurdity recalled the methodical lunacy of schizophrenia. But the accusation had not been drawn up by Gletkin; he was only reading it along—and either actually believed it, or at any rate considered it credible….
Rubashov turned his head to the stenographer in her dimly lit corner. She was small, thin and wore spectacles. She was sharpening her pencil with equanimity and did not once turn her head towards him. Obviously, she too considered the monstrous things Gletkin was reading as quite convincing. She was still young, perhaps twenty-five or six; she too had grown up after the flood. What did the name Rubashov mean to this generation of modern Neanderthalers? There he sat in front of the blinding reflector light, could not keep open his watering eyes, and they read to him in their colourless voices and looked at him with their expressionless eyes, indifferently, as though he were an object on the dissecting table.
Gletkin was at the last paragraph of the accusation. It contained the crowning feature: the plot for an attempt on No. 1’s life. The mysterious X mentioned by Ivanov in the course of the first hearing had appeared again. It turned out that he was an assistant manager of the restaurant from which No. 1 had his cold lunch brought to him on busy days. This cold snack was a feature of No. 1’s Spartan mode of life, most carefully fostered by propaganda; and it was just by means of this proverbial cold snack that X, on Rubashov’s instigation, was to prepare a premature end for No. 1. Rubashov smiled to himself with eyes shut; when he opened them, Gletkin had stopped reading and was looking at him. After a few seconds of silence, Gletkin said, in his usual even tone, more as a statement than a question:
“You have heard the accusation and plead guilty.”
Rubashov tried to look into his face. He could not, and had to shut his eyes again. He had had a biting answer on his tongue; instead he said, so quietly that the thin secretary had to stretch out her head to hear:
“I plead guilty to not having understood the fatal compulsion behind the policy of the Government, and to have therefore held oppositional views. I plead guilty to having followed sentimental impulses, and in so doing to have been led into contradiction with historical necessity. I have lent my ear to the laments of the sacrificed, and thus became deaf to the arguments which proved the necessity to sacrifice them. I plead guilty to having rated the question of guilt and innocence higher than that of utility and harmfulness. Finally, I plead guilty to having placed the idea of man above the idea of mankind….”
Rubashov paused and again tried to open his eyes. He blinked over to the secretary’s corner, his head turned away from the light. She had just finished taking down what he had said; he believed he saw an ironic smile on her pointed profile.
“I know,” Rubashov went on, “that my aberration, if carried into effect, would have been a mortal danger to the Revolution. Every opposition at the critical turning-points of history carries in itself the germ of a split in the Party, and hence the germ of civil war. Humanitarian weakness and liberal democracy, when the masses are not mature, is suicide for the Revolution. And yet my oppositional attitude was based on a craving for just these methods—in appearance so desirable, actually so deadly. On a demand for a liberal reform of the dictatorship; for a broader democracy, for the abolition of the Terror, and a loosening of the rigid organization of the Party, I admit that these demands, in the present situation, are objectively harmful and therefore counter-revolutionary in character….”
He paused again, as his throat was dry and his voice had become husky. He heard the scratching of the secretary’s pencil in the silence; he raised his head a little, with eyes shut, and went on:
“In this sense, and in this sense only, can you call me a counter-revolutionary. With the absurd criminal charges made in the accusation, I have nothing to do.”
“Have you finished?” asked Gletkin.
His voice sounded so brutal that Rubashov looked at him in surprise. Gletkin’s brightly-lit silhouette showed behind the desk in his usual correct position. Rubashov had long sought for a simple characterization of Gletkin: “correct brutality”—that was it.
“Your statement is not new,” Gletkin went on in his dry, rasping voice. “In both your preceding confessions, the first one two years ago, the second time twelve months ago, you have already publicly confessed that your attitude had been ‘objectively counter-revolutionary and opposed to the interests of the people.’ Both times you humbly asked the forgiveness of the Party, and vowed loyalty to the policy of the leadership. Now you expect to play the same game a third time. The statement you have just made is mere eye-wash. You admit your ‘oppositional attitude’, but deny the acts which are the logical consequence of it. I have already told you that this time you will not get off so easily.”
Gletkin broke off as suddenly as he began. In the ensuing silence Rubashov heard the faint buzzing of the current in the lamp behind the desk. At the same time the light became another grade stronger.
“The declarations I made at that time,” Rubashov said in a low voice, “were made for tactical purposes. You certainly know that a whole row of oppositional politicians were obliged to pay with such declarations for the privilege of remaining in the Party. But this time I mean it differently….”
“That is to say, this time you are sincere?” asked Gletkin. He asked the question quickly, and his correct voice held no irony.
“Yes,” said Rubashov quietly.
“And, before, you lied?”
“Call it that,” said Rubashov.
“To save your neck?”
“To be able to go on working.”
“Without a neck one cannot work. Hence, to save your neck?”
“Call it
that.”
In the short intervals between the questions shot out by Gletkin and his own answers, Rubashov heard only the scratching of the secretary’s pencil and the buzzing of the lamp. The lamp gave off cascades of white light, and radiated a steady heat which forced Rubashov to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He strained to keep his smarting eyes open, but the intervals at which he opened them became longer and longer; he felt a growing sleepiness, and when Gletkin, after his last series of rapid questions, let several moments go by in silence, Rubashov, with a kind of distant interest, felt his chin sinking on to his chest. When Gletkin’s next question jerked him up again, he had the impression of having slept for an indeterminable time.
“I repeat,” Gletkin’s voice said. “Your former declarations of repentance had the object of deceiving the Party as to your true opinions, and of saving your neck.”
“I have already admitted that,” said Rubashov.
“And your public disavowal of your secretary Arlova, had that the same object?”
Rubashov nodded dumbly. The pressure in his eye-sockets radiated over all the nerves in the right side of his face. He noticed that his tooth had started to throb again.
“You know that Citizen Arlova had constantly called on you as the chief witness for her defence?”
“I was informed of it,” said Rubashov. The throbbing in his tooth became stronger.
“You doubtless also know that the declaration you made at that time, which you have just described as a lie, was decisive for the passing of the death sentence on Arlova?”
“I was informed of it.”
Rubashov had the feeling that the whole right side of his face was drawn into a cramp. His head became duller and heavier; it was with difficulty that he prevented it sinking on his breast. Gletkin’s voice bored into his ear:
“So it is possible that Citizen Arlova was innocent?”
“It is possible,” said Rubashov, with a last remainder of irony, which lay on his tongue like a taste of blood and gall.
“… And was executed as a consequence of the lying declaration you made, with the object of saving your head?”
“That is about it,” said Rubashov. You scoundrel, he thought with a slack, impotent rage. Of course what you say is the naked truth. One would like to know which of us two is the greater scoundrel. But he has me by the throat and I cannot defend myself, because it is not allowed to throw oneself out of the swing. If only he would let me sleep. If he goes on tormenting me for long, I’ll take everything back and refuse to speak—and then I will be done for, and he too.
“… And after all that, you demand to be treated with consideration?” Gletkin’s voice went on, with the same brutal correctness. “You still dare to deny criminal activities? After all that, you demand that we should believe you?”
Rubashov gave up the efforts to keep his head straight. Of course Gletkin was right not to believe him. Even he himself was beginning to get lost in the labyrinth of calculated lies and dialectic pretences, in the twilight between truth and illusion. The ultimate truth always receded a step; visible remained only the penultimate lie with which one had to serve it. And what pathetic contortions and St. Vitus’s dances did it compel one to! How could he convince Gletkin that this time he was really sincere, that he had arrived at the last station? Always one had to convince someone, talk, argue—while one’s only wish was to sleep and to fade out….
“I demand nothing,” said Rubashov, and turned his head painfully in the direction whence had come Gletkin’s voice, “except to prove once more my devotion to the Party.”
“There is only one proof you can give,” came Gletkin’s voice, “a complete confession. We have heard enough of your ‘oppositional attitude’ and your lofty motives. What we need is a complete, public confession of your criminal activities, which were the necessary outcome of that attitude. The only way in which you can still serve the Party is as a warning example—by demonstrating to the masses, in your own person, the consequences to which opposition to the Party policy inevitably leads.”
Rubashov thought of No. 1’s cold snack. His inflamed facial nerves throbbed at full pressure, but the pain was no longer acute and burning; it now came in dull, numbing blows. He thought of No. 1’s cold snack, and the muscles of his face distorted themselves into a grimace.
“I can’t confess to crimes I have not committed,” he said flatly.
“No,” sounded Gletkin’s voice. “No, that you certainly can’t”—and it seemed to Rubashov that for the first time he heard something like mockery in that voice.
From that moment onwards Rubashov’s recollection of the hearing was rather hazy. After the sentence “that you certainly can’t,” which had remained in his ear because of its peculiar intonation, there was a gap of uncertain length in his memory. Later on it seemed to him that he had fallen asleep and he even remembered a strangely pleasant dream. It must have lasted only a few seconds—a loose, timeless sequence of luminous landscapes, with the familiar poplars which had lined the drive of his father’s estate, and a special kind of white cloud which as a boy he had once seen above them.
The next thing he remembered was the presence of a third person in the room, and Gletkin’s voice booming over him—Gletkin must have stood up and bent forward over his desk:
“I beg you to attend the proceedings…. Do you recognize this person?”
Rubashov nodded. He had at once recognized Hare-lip, although he was not wearing the waterproof in which he used to wrap himself, with freezingly hunched shoulders, during his walks in the yard. A familiar row of figures flashed into Rubashov’s mind: 2-3; 1-1; 4-3; 1-5; 3-2; 2-4 … “Hare-lip sends you his greetings.” On what occasion had No. 402 given him this message?
“When and where have you known him?”
It cost Rubashov a certain effort to speak; the bitter taste had remained on his parched tongue:
“I have seen him repeatedly from my window, walking in the yard.”
“And you have not known him before?”
Hare-lip stood at the door, at a distance of a few steps behind Rubashov’s chair; the light of the reflector fell full on him. His face, usually yellow, was chalky white, his nose pointed, the split upper-lip with the weal of flesh trembled over the naked gum. His hands hung slackly to his knees; Rubashov, who now had his back turned to the lamp, saw him like an apparition in the footlights of a stage. A new row of figures went through Rubashov’s memory: “4-5; 3-5; 4-3 …”—“was tortured yesterday”. Almost simultaneously, the shadow of a memory which he could not seize passed through his mind—the memory of having once seen the living original of this human wreck, long before he had entered cell No. 404.
“I don’t know exactly,” he answered hesitantly to Gletkin’s question. “Now that I see him close to, it seems to me that I have met him somewhere already.”
Even before he had finished the phrase, Rubashov felt it would have been better not to have spoken it. He wished intensely that Gletkin would let him have a few minutes to pull himself together. Gletkin’s way of rapping out his questions in a rapid, pauseless sequence called to his mind the image of a bird of prey hacking at its victim with its beak.
“Where have you met this man last? The exactness of your memory was once proverbial in the Party.”
Rubashov was silent. He racked his memory, but could not place anywhere this apparition in the glaring light, with the trembling lips. Hare-lip did not move. He passed his tongue over the red weal on his upper-lip; his gaze wandered from Rubashov to Gletkin and back.
The secretary had stopped writing; one heard only the even buzzing of the lamp and the crackling of Gletkin’s cuffs; he had leaned forward and propped his elbows on the arms of the chair to put his next question:
“So you refuse to answer?”
“I do not remember,” said Rubashov.
“Good,” said Gletkin. He leaned further forward, turning towards Hare-lip with the whole weight of his body, as it were:
“Will you help Citizen Rubashov’s memory a little? Where did you last meet him?”
Hare-lip’s face became, if possible, even whiter. His eyes lingered for a few seconds on the secretary, whose presence he had apparently only just discovered, but wandered on immediately, as though fleeing and seeking a place of rest. He again passed his tongue over his lips and said hurriedly, in one breath:
“I was instigated by Citizen Rubashov to destroy the leader of the Party by poison.”
In the first moment Rubashov was only surprised by the deep, melodious voice which sounded unexpectedly from this human wreck. His voice seemed to be the only thing in him which had remained whole; it stood in uncanny contrast to his appearance. What he actually said, Rubashov seized only a few seconds later. Since Hare-lip’s arrival he had expected something of the sort and scented the danger; but now he was conscious above all of the grotesqueness of the charge. A moment later he heard Gletkin again—this time behind his back, as Rubashov had turned towards Hare-lip. Gletkin’s voice sounded irritated:
“I have not yet asked you that. I asked you, where you had met Citizen Rubashov last.”
Wrong, thought Rubashov. He should not have emphasized that it was the wrong answer. I would not have noticed it. It seemed to him that his head was now quite clear, with a feverish wakefulness. He sought for a comparison. This witness is an automatic barrel-organ, he thought; and just now it played the wrong tune. Hare-lip’s next answer came even more melodiously:
“I met Citizen Rubashov after a reception at the Trade Delegation in B. There he incited me to my terroristic plot against the life of the leader of the Party.”
While he was speaking, his haunted gaze touched on Rubashov and rested there. Rubashov put on his pince-nez and answered his gaze with sharp curiosity. But in the eyes of the young man he read no prayer for forgiveness, rather fraternal trust and the dumb reproach of the helplessly tormented. It was Rubashov who first averted his gaze.
Darkness at Noon Page 17
