The Jacobins were moralists; we were empirics.
We dug in the primeval mud of history and there we found her laws.
We knew more than ever men have known about mankind; that is why our revolution succeeded.
And now you have buried it all again. ...”
Ivanov was sitting back with his legs stretched out, listening and drawing figures on his blotting-paper.
“Go on,” he said.
“I am curious to know what you are driving at.” Rubashov was smoking with relish. He felt the nicotine making him slightly dizzy after his long abstinence.
“As you notice, I am talking my head off my neck,” he said and looked up smilingly at the faded patch on the wall where the photograph of the old guard had once hung. This time Ivanov did not follow his glance.
“Well,” said Rubashov, “one more makes no difference.
Everything is buried; the men, their wisdom and their hopes.
You killed the ‘We’; you destroyed it.
Do you really maintain that the masses are still behind you?
Other usurpers in Europe pretend the same thing with as much right as you ...”
He took another cigarette and lit it himself this time, as Ivanov did not move.
“Forgive my pompousness,” he went on, “but do you really believe the people are still behind you?
It bears you, dumb and resigned, as it bears others in other countries, but there is no response in its depths.
The masses have become deaf and dumb again, the great silent x of history, indifferent as the sea carrying the ships.
Every passing light is reflected on its surface, but underneath is darkness and silence.
A long time ago we stirred up the depths, but that is over.
In other words”—he paused and put on his pince-nez—“in those days we made history; now you make politics.
That’s the whole difference.”
Ivanov leant back in his chair and blew smoke rings.
“I’m sorry, but the difference is not quite clear to me,” he said.
“Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to explain.”
“Certainly,” said Rubashov.
“A mathematician once said that algebra was the science for lazy people—one does not work out x, but operates with it as if one knew it.
In our case, x stands for the anonymous masses, the people.
Politics mean operating with this x without worrying about its actual nature.
Making history is to recognize x for what it stands for in the equation.”
“Pretty,” said Ivanov. But unfortunately rather abstract.
To return to more tangible things: you mean, therefore, that ‘we’—namely, Party and State—no longer represent the interests of the Revolution, of the masses or, if you like, the progress of humanity.”
“This time you have grasped it,” said Rubashov smiling.
Ivanov did not answer his smile.
“When did you develop this opinion?”
“Fairly gradually: during the last few years,” said Rubashov.
“Can’t you tell me more exactly?
One year?
Two?
Three years?”
“That’s a stupid question,” said Rubashov.
“At what age did you become adult?
At seventeen?
At eighteen and a half?
At nineteen?”
“It’s you who are pretending to be stupid,” said Ivanov.
“Each step in one’s spiritual development is the result of definite experiences.
If you really want to know: I became a man at seventeen, when I was sent into exile for the first time.”
“At that time you were quite a decent fellow,” said Rubashov.
“Forget it.”
He, again looked at the light patch on the wall and threw away his cigarette.