He knew from experience that confrontation with death always altered the mechanism of thought and caused the most surprising reactions—like the movements of a compass brought close to the magnetic pole.
The sky was still heavy with an imminent fall of snow; in the courtyard two men were doing their daily walk on the shovelled path.
One of the two repeatedly looked up at Rubashov’s window—apparently the news of his arrest had already spread.
He was an emaciated man with a yellow skin and a hare-lip, wearing a thin waterproof which he clutched round his shoulders as if freezing.
The other man was older and had wrapped a blanket round himself.
They did not speak to each other during their round, and after ten minutes they were fetched back into the building by an official in uniform with a rubber truncheon and a revolver. The door in which the official waited for them lay exactly opposite Rubashov’s window; before it closed behind the man with the hare-lip, he once more looked up towards Rubashov.
He certainly could not see Rubashov, whose window must have appeared quite dark from the courtyard; yet his eyes lingered on the window searchingly.
I see you and do not know you; you cannot see me and yet obviously you know me, thought Rubashov.
He sat down on the bed and tapped to No. 402:
WHO ARE THEY?
He thought that No. 402 was probably offended and would not answer. But the officer did not seem to bear grudges; he answered immediately: POLITICAL.
Rubashov was surprised; he had held the thin man with the here-lip for a criminal.
OF YOUR SORT?he asked.
NO—OF YOURS, tapped No. 402, in all probability grinning with a certain satisfaction.
The next sentence was louder-tapped with the monocle, perhaps.
HARE-LIP, MY NEIGHBOUR, NO. 400, WAS TORTURED YESTERDAY.
Rubashov remained silent a minute and rubbed his pince-nez on his sleeve, although he was only using it to tap with.
He first wanted to ask “WHY?” but tapped instead:
HOW?
402 tapped back drily: STEAMBATH.
Rubashov had been beaten up repeatedly during his last imprisonment, but of this method he only knew by hearsay.
He had learned that every known physical pain was bearable; if one knew beforehand exactly what was going to happen to one, one stood it as a surgical operation—for instance, the extraction of a tooth.
Really bad was only the unknown, which gave one no chance to foresee one’s reactions and no scale to calculate one’s capacity of resistance.
And the worst was the fear that one would then do or say something which could not be recalled.
WHY? asked Rubashov.
POLITICAL DIVERGENCIES, tapped No. 402 ironically.
Rubashov put his pince-nez on again and felt in his pocket for his cigarette case.
He had only two cigarettes left.
Then he tapped: AND HOW ARE THINGS WITH YOU?
THANKS, VERY WELL ... tapped No. 402 and dropped the conversation.
Rubashov shrugged his shoulders; he lit his last cigarette but one and resumed his walking up and down.
Strangely enough, what was in store for him made him nearly glad.
He felt his stale melancholia leave him, his head become clearer, his nerves tauten.
He washed face, arms and chest in cold water over the wash-basin, rinsed his mouth and dried himself with his handkerchief.
He whistled a few bars and smiled—he was always hopelessly out of tune, and only a few days ago somebody had said to him:
“If No. 1 were musical, he would long ago have found a pretext to have you shot.”
“He will anyhow,” he had answered, without seriously believing it.
He lit his last cigarette and with a clear head began to work out the line to take when he would be brought up for cross-examination.
He was filled by the same quiet and serene self-confidence as he had felt as a student before a particularly difficult examination.
He called to memory every particular he knew about the subject “steambath.”
He imagined the situation in detail and tried to analyse the physical sensations to be expected, in order to rid them of their uncanniness.
The important thing was not to let oneself be caught unprepared.
He now knew for certain that they would not succeed in doing so, any more than had the others over there; he knew he would not say anything he did not want to say.
He only wished they would start soon.
His dream came to his mind: Richard and the old taxi-driver pursuing him, because they felt themselves cheated and betrayed by him.
I will pay my fare, he thought with an awkward smile.
His last cigarette was nearly at an end; it was burning his finger-tips; he let it drop.
He was about to stamp it out, but thought better of it; he bent down, picked it up and stubbed out the glowing stump slowly on the back of his hand, between the blue snaky veins.
He drew out this procedure for exactly half a minute, checking it by the second hand of his watch.
He was pleased with himself: his hand had not twitched once during the thirty seconds. Then he continued his walk.