Darkness at Noon (10 page)

Rubashov still stood at the door. “What a pleasant surprise,” he said drily.

“Sit down,” said Ivanov with a polite gesture. He had risen; standing, he was half a head taller than Rubashov. He looked at him smilingly. They both sat down—Ivanov behind the desk, Rubashov in front of it. They stared at each other for some time and with unrestrained curiosity—Ivanov with his almost tender smile, Rubashov expectant and watchful. His glance slid to Ivanov's right leg under the table.

“Oh, that's all right,” said Ivanov. “Artificial leg with automatic joints and rustless chromium-plating; I can swim, ride, drive a car and dance. Will you have a cigarette.”

He held out a wooden cigarette case to Rubashov.

Rubashov looked at the cigarettes and thought of his
first visit to the military hospital after Ivanov's leg had been amputated. Ivanov had asked him to procure veronal for him, and in a discussion which lasted the whole afternoon, had tried to prove that every man had a right to suicide. Rubashov had finally asked for time to reflect, and had in the same night been transferred to another sector of the front. It was only years later that he had met Ivanov again. He looked at the cigarettes in the wooden case. They were hand-made, of loose, blonde American tobacco.

“Is this still an unofficial prelude, or have the hostilities started?” asked Rubashov. “In the latter case, I won't have one. You know the etiquette.”

“Rubbish,” said Ivanov.

“Well then, rubbish,” said Rubashov and lit one of Ivanov's cigarettes. He inhaled deeply, trying not to let his enjoyment be seen. “And how is the rheumatism in your shoulders?” he asked.

“All right, thank you,” said Ivanov, “and how is your burn?”

He smiled and pointed innocently at Rubashov's left hand. On the back of the hand, between the bluish veins, in the place where three days ago he had stubbed out his cigarette, was a blister the size of a copper coin. For a minute both looked at Rubashov's hand lying in his lap. How does he know that? thought Rubashov. He has had me spied on. He felt more shame than anger; he took one last deep pull at his cigarette and threw it away. “As far as I am concerned the unofficial part is over,” he said.

Ivanov blew smoke rings and watched him with the same tenderly ironic smile. “Don't become aggressive,” he said.

“Make allowances,” said Rubashov. “Did I arrest you or did you people arrest me?”

“We arrested you,” said Ivanov. He put out his cigarette, lit another one and held out the box to Rubashov, who did not move. “The devil take you,” said Ivanov. “Do you remember the story of the veronal?” He bent forward and blew the smoke of his cigarette into Rubashov's face.

“I do not want you to be shot,” he said slowly. He leaned back again in his chair. “The devil take you,” he repeated, smiling again.

“Touching of you,” said Rubashov. “Why actually do you people intend to have me shot?”

Ivanov let a few seconds go by. He smoked and drew figures with his pencil on the blotting-paper. He seemed to be searching for the exact words.

“Listen, Rubashov,” he said finally. “There is one thing I would like to point out to you. You have now repeatedly said ‘you'—meaning State and Party, as opposed to ‘I'—that is, Nicolas Salmanovitch Rubashov. For the public, one needs, of course, a trial and legal justification. For us, what I have just said should be enough.”

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….”