The air is thin; he who becomes dizzy is lost.”
Dusk had now progressed so far that Rubashov could no longer see the hands on the drawing.
A bell rang twice, shrill and penetratingly; in a quarter of an hour the museum would be closed.
Rubashov looked at his watch; he still had the decisive word to say, then it would be over.
Richard sat motionless next to him, elbows on knees.
“Yes, to that I have no answer,” he said finally, and again his voice was flat and very tired.
“What you say is doubtless true.
And what you said about that mountain path is very fine.
But all I know is that we are beaten.
Those who are still left desert us.
Perhaps, because it is too cold up on our mountain path.
The others—they have music and bright banners and they all sit round a nice warm fire.
Perhaps that is why they have won.
And why we are breaking our necks.”
Rubashov listened in silence.
He wanted to hear whether the young man had any more to say, before he himself pronounced the decisive sentence.
Whatever Richard said, it could not now change that sentence in any way; but yet he waited.
Richard’s heavy form was more and more obscured by the dusk. He had moved still further away on the round sofa; he sat with bent shoulders and his face nearly buried in his hands.
Rubashov sat straight up on the sofa and waited.
He felt a slight drawing pain in his upper jaw; probably the defective eye-tooth.
After a while he heard Richard’s voice:
“What will happen to me now?”
Rubashov felt for the aching tooth with his tongue.
He felt the need to touch it with his finger before pronouncing the decisive word, but forbade himself. He said quietly:
“I have to inform you, in accordance with the Central Committee’s decision, that you are no longer a member of the Party, Richard.”
Richard did not stir. Again Rubashov waited for a while, before standing up.
Richard remained sitting. He merely lifted his head, looked up at him and asked:
“Is that what you came here for?”
“Chiefly,” said Rubashov.
He wanted to go, but still stood there in front of Richard and waited
“What will now become of me?” asked Richard.
Rubashov said nothing. After a while, Richard said:
“Now I suppose I cannot live at my friend’s cabin either?”
After a short hesitation Rubashov said:
“Better not.”
He was at once annoyed with himself for having said it, and he was not certain whether Richard had understood the meaning of the phrase.
He looked down on the seated figure:
“It will be better for us to leave the building separately.
Good-bye.”
Richard straightened himself, but remained sitting.
In the twilight Rubashov could only guess the expression of the inflamed, slightly prominent eyes; yet it was just this blurred image of the clumsy, seated figure which stamped itself in his memory for ever.
He left the room and crossed the next one, which was equally empty and dark. His steps creaked on the parquet floor.
Only when he had reached the way out did he remember that he had forgotten to look at the picture of the Pieta; now he would only know the detail of the folded hands and part of the thin arms, up to the elbow.
On the steps which led down from the entrance he stopped.
His tooth was hurting him a bit more; it was cold outside.
He wrapped the faded grey woollen scarf more tightly round his neck.
The street lamps were already lit in the big quiet square in front of the gallery; at this hour there were few people about; a narrow tram ringing its bell clanged up the elm-bordered avenue.
He wondered whether he would find a taxi here.
On the bottom step Richard caught him up, panting breathlessly.
Rubashov went straight on, neither hastening nor slacking his pace and without turning his head.