Outside in the corridor steps were approaching.
Rubashov went to the door, took his pince-nez off and put his eye to the Judas.
Two officials with leather revolver-belts were conducting a young peasant along the corridor; behind them came the old warder with the bunch of keys.
The peasant had a swollen eye and dry blood on his upper lip; as he passed he wiped his sleeve over his bleeding nose; his face was flat and expressionless.
Further down the corridor, outside Rubashov’s range, a cell door was unlocked and slammed.
Then the officials and the warder came back alone.
Rubashov walked up and down in his cell. He saw himself, sitting on the round plush sofa next to Richard; he heard again the silence which had fallen when the boy had finished his report.
Richard did not move; sat with his hands on his knees and waited.
He sat as one who had confessed and was waiting for the father-confessor’s sentence.
For a long while Rubashov said nothing.
Then he said:
“Good. Is that all?”
The boy nodded; his Adam’s apple moved up and down.
“Several things are not clear in your report,” said Rubashov.
“You spoke repeatedly of the leaflets and pamphlets which you made yourselves.
They are known to us and their content was criticized sharply.
There are several phrases which the Party cannot accept.”
Richard looked at him frightenedly: he reddened.
Rubashov saw the skin over his cheek-bones becoming hot and the net of red veins in his inflamed eyes become denser.
“On the other hand,” continued Rubashov, “we have repeatedly sent you our printed material for distribution, amongst which was the special small-size edition of the official Party organ.
You received these consignments.”
Richard nodded.
The heat did not leave his face.
“But you did not distribute our material; it is not even mentioned in your report.
Instead, you circulated the material made by yourselves—without the control or approval of the Party.”
“B-but we had to,” Richard brought out with a great effort.
Rubashov looked at him attentively through his pince-nez; he had not noticed before that the boy stammered.
“Curious,” he thought, “this is the third case in a fortnight.
We have a surprising number of defectives in the Party. Either it is because of the circumstances under which we work—or the movement itself promotes a selection of defectives. ...”
“You m-must understand, c-comrade,” said Richard in growing distress. “The t-tone of your propaganda material was wrong, b-because—”
“Speak quietly,” said Rubashov suddenly in a sharp tone, “and don’t turn your head to the door.”
A tall young man in the uniform of the black bodyguard of the regime had entered the room with his girl. The girl was a buxom blonde; he held her round her broad hip, her arm lay on his shoulder.
They paid no attention to Rubashov and his companion and stopped in front of the trumpeting angels, with their backs to the sofa.
“Go on talking,” said Rubashov in a calm, low voice and automatically took his cigarette case out of his pocket.
Then he remembered that one may not smoke in museums and put the case back.
The boy sat as if paralysed by an electric shock, and stared at the two.
“Go on talking,” said Rubashov quietly. “Did you stammer as a child?
Answer and don’t look over there.”
“S-sometimes,” Richard managed to bring out with a great effort.
The couple moved along the row of pictures.
They stopped in front of a nude of a very fat woman, who lay on a satin couch and looked at the spectator.
The man murmured something presumably funny, for the girl giggled and glanced fleetingly at the two figures on the sofa.
They moved on a bit, to a still-life of dead pheasants and fruit.
“Sh-shouldn’t we go?” asked Richard.
“No,” said Rubashov.
He was afraid that when they stood up the boy in his agitation would behave conspicuously.
“They will soon go. We have our backs to the light; they cannot see us clearly.
Breathe slowly and deeply several times.
It helps.”
The girl went on giggling and the pair moved slowly towards the way out.