The eye which had been observing him for several minutes through the spy-hole withdrew.
11
The lunch procession went past in the corridor; Rubashov’s cell was again left out.
He wanted to spare himself the humiliation of looking through the spy-hole, so he did not discover what there was for lunch; but the smell of it filled his cell, and it smelled good.
He felt a strong desire for a cigarette.
He would have to procure himself cigarettes somehow, in order to be able to concentrate; they were more important than food.
He waited for half an hour after the doling out of food, then he began to hammer on the door.
It took another quarter of an hour before the old warder shuffled up.
“What do you want?” he asked, in his usual surly tone.
“Cigarettes to be fetched for me from the canteen,” said Rubashov.
“Have you got prison vouchers?”
“My money was taken from me on my arrival,” said Rubashov.
“Then you must wait until it has been changed for vouchers.”
“How long will that take in this model establishment of yours?” asked Rubashov.
“You can write a letter of complaint,” said the old man.
“You know quite well that I have neither paper nor pencil,” said Rubashov.
“To buy writing materials you have to have vouchers,” said the warder.
Rubashov could feel his temper rising, the familiar pressure in the chest and the choking feeling in the throat; but he controlled it.
The old man saw Rubashov’s pupils glitter sharply through his pince-nez; it reminded him of the colour prints of Rubashov in uniform, which in the old days one used to see everywhere; he smiled with senile spite and stepped back a pace.
“You little heap of dung,” said Rubashov slowly, turned his back on him and went back to his window.
“I will report that you used insulting language,” said the voice of the old man at his back; then the door slammed.
Rubashov rubbed his pince-nez on his sleeve and waited until he breathed more calmly.
He had to have cigarettes, else he would not be able to hold out.
He made himself wait ten minutes. Then he tapped through to No. 402:
HAVE YOU ANY TOBACCO?
He had to wait a bit for the answer.
Then it came, clearly and well spaced:
NOT FOR YOU.
Rubashov went slowly back to the window.
He saw the young officer with the small moustache, the monocle stuck in, staring with a stupid grin at the wall which separated them; the eye behind the lens was glassy, the reddish eyelid turned up.
What went on in his head?
Probably he was thinking: I gave it to you all right.
Probably also: Canaille, how many of my people have you had shot?
Rubashov looked at the whitewashed wall; he felt that the other was standing behind it with his face turned towards him; he thought he heard his panting breath.
Yes, how many of yours have I had shot, I wonder?
He really could not remember; it was long, long ago, during the Civil War, there must have been something’ between seventy and a hundred.
What of it? That was all right; it lay on a different plane to a case like Richard’s, and he would do it again to-day.
Even if he knew beforehand that the revolution would in the end put No. 1 in the saddle?
Even then.
With you, thought Rubashov and looked at the whitewashed wall behind which the other stood—in the meantime he had probably lit a cigarette and was blowing the smoke against the wall—with you I have no accounts to settle.
To you I owe no fare.
Between you and us there is no common currency and no common language. ...
Well, what do you want now?
For No. 402 had started to tap again.
Rubashov went back to the wall. ... SENDING YOU TOBACCO, he heard.
Then, more faintly, he heard No. 402 hammering on his door in order to attract the warder’s attention.
Rubashov held his breath; after a few minutes he heard the old man’s shuffling footsteps approaching.
The warder did not unlock No. 402’s door, but asked through the spy-hole: “What do you want?”
Rubashov could not hear the answer, although he would have liked to hear No. 402’s voice.
Then the old man said loudly, so that Rubashov should hear it: