Rubashov breathed deeply several times and, like a convalescent, his hands folded on his breast, enjoyed the delicious feeling of freedom and safety. He dried his forehead and the bald patch on the back of his head with the sheet, and blinked up with already returning irony at the colour-print of No. 1, leader of the Party, which hung over his bed on the wall of his room—and on the walls of all the rooms next to, above or under his; on all the walls of the house, of the town, and of the enormous country for which he had fought and suffered, and which now had taken him up again in its enormous, protecting lap.
He was now fully awake; but the hammering on his door went on.
3
The two men who had come to arrest Rubashov stood outside on the dark landing and consulted each other.
The porter Vassilij, who had shown them the way upstairs, stood in the open lift doorway and panted with fear.
He was a thin old man; above the torn collar of the military overcoat he had thrown over his nightshirt appeared a broad red scar which gave him a scrofulous look. It was the result of a neck wound received in the Civil War, throughout which he had fought in Rubashov’s Partisan regiment.
Later Rubashov had been ordered abroad and Vassilij had heard of him only occasionally, from the newspaper which his daughter read to him in the evenings.
She had read to him the speeches which Rubashov made to the Congresses; they were long and difficult to understand, and Vassilij could never quite manage to find in them the tone of voice of the little bearded Partisan commander who had known such beautiful oaths that even the Holy Madonna of Kasan must have smiled at them.
Usually Vassilij fell asleep in the middle of these speeches, but always woke up when his daughter came to the final sentences and the applause, solemnly raising her voice.
To every one of the ceremonial endings,
“Long live the International!
Long live the Revolution, Long live No. 1”, Vassilij added a heartfelt
“Amen” under his breath, so that the daughter should not hear it; then took his jacket off, crossed himself secretly and with a bad conscience and went to bed.
Above his bed also hung a portrait of No. 1, and next to it a photograph of Rubashov as Partisan commander.
If that photograph were found, he would probably also be taken away.
It was cold, dark and very quiet on the staircase.
The younger of the two men from the Commissariat of the Interior proposed to shoot the lock of the door to pieces.
Vassilij leant against the lift door; he had not had the time to put on his boots properly, and his hands trembled so much that he could not tie the laces.
The elder of the two men was against shooting; the arrest had to be carried out discreetly.
They; both blew on their stiff hands and began again to hammer against the door; the younger banged on it with the butt of his revolver.
A few floors below them a woman screamed in a piercing voice.
“Tell her to shut up,” said the young man to Vassilij.
“Be quiet,” shouted Vassilij. “Here is Authority.”
The woman became quiet at once.
The young man changed over to belabouring the door with his boots.
The noise filled the whole staircase; at last the door fell open.
The three of them stood by Rubashov’s bed, the young man with his pistol in his hand, the old man holding himself stiffly as though standing to attention; Vassilij stood a few steps behind them, leaning against the wall.
Rubashov was still drying the sweat from the back of his head; he looked at them short-sightedly with sleepy eyes.
“Citizen Rubashov, Nicolas Saimanovitch, we arrest you in the name of the law,” said the young man.
Rubashov felt for his glasses under the pillow and propped himself up a bit.
Now that he had his glasses on, his eyes had the expression which Vassilij and the elder official knew from old photographs and colour-prints.
The elder official stood more stiffly to attention; the young one, who had grown up under new heroes, went a step closer to the bed; all three saw that he was about to say or do something brutal to hide his awkwardness.
“Put that gun away, comrade,” said Rubashov to him. “What do you want with me, anyhow?”
“You hear you are arrested,” said the boy.
“Put your clothes on and don’t make a fuss.”
“Have you got a warrant?” asked Rubashov.
The elder official pulled a paper out of his pocket, passed it to Rubashov and stood again to attention.
Rubashov read it attentively.
“Well, good,” he said.
“One never is any the wiser from those things; the devil take you.”
“Put your clothes on and hurry up,” said the boy.
One saw that his brutality was no longer put on, but was natural to him.
A fine generation have we produced, thought Rubashov.
He recalled the propaganda posters on which youth was always represented with a laughing face. He felt very tired.
“Pass me my dressing-gown, instead of fumbling about with your revolver,” he said to the boy.
The boy reddened, but remained silent.
The elder official passed the dressing-gown to Rubashov. Rubashov worked his arm into the sleeve.
“This time it goes at least,” he said with a strained smile.
The three others did not understand and said nothing.
They watched him as he got slowly out of bed and collected his crumpled clothes together.