After ten minutes the old man noticed it; his eyes lit up.
He glanced covertly at the warders in the centre of the circle, who were holding an animated conversation and did not seem interested in the prisoners; then he rapidly pulled pencil and note-book out of Rubashov’s pocket and began to scribble something, under cover of his bell-like blanket.
He finished it quickly, tore off the page, and pressed it into Rubashov’s hand; he retained, however, block and pencil and went on scribbling.
Rubashov made certain their guards were paying no attention to them, and looked at the page.
Nothing was written on it, it was a drawing: a geographical sketch of the country they were in, drawn with astonishing accuracy. It showed the principal towns, mountains and rivers, and had a flag planted in the middle, bearing the symbol of the Revolution.
When they had gone half the way round again, No. 406 tore off a second page and pressed it into Rubashov’s hand.
It contained the same drawing over again, an exactly identical map of the Country of the Revolution.
No. 406 looked at him and waited smilingly for the effect.
Rubashov became slightly embarrassed under his gaze and murmured something indicative of his appreciation.
The old man winked at him:
“I can also do it with my eyes shut,” he said.
Rubashov nodded.
“You don’t believe me,” said the old man smiling, “but I have been practising it for twenty years.”
He looked quickly at the guards, shut his eyes, and without altering his pace, began to draw on a new page under the bell of his blanket.
His eyes were tightly shut and he held his chin up stiffly, like a blind man.
Rubashov looked anxiously at the guard; he was afraid the old man would stumble or fall out of the row.
But in another half-round the drawing was finished, a trifle more wobbly than the others, but equally accurate; only the symbol on the flag in the middle of the country had become disproportionately large.
“Now do you believe me?” whispered No. 406, and smiled at him happily.
Rubashov nodded.
Then the old man’s face darkened; Rubashov recognized the expression of fear, which fell on him every time he was shut into his cell.
“It can’t be helped,” he whispered to Rubashov.
“I was put in the wrong train.”
“How do you mean?” asked Rubashov.
Rip Van Winkle smiled at him, gently and sadly. “They took me to the wrong railway station on my departure,” he said, “and they thought I didn’t notice.
Don’t tell anybody that I know,” he whispered, indicating the guards with a wink.
Rubashov nodded.
Soon afterwards the whistle sounded which announced the end of the walk.
Passing through the gate, they had one more moment unobserved. No. 406’s eyes were again clear and friendly:
“Perhaps the same thing happened to you?” he asked Rubashov sympathetically.
Rubashov nodded.
“One must not give up hope.
One day we will get there all the same—,” said Rip Van Winkle, pointing to the crumpled-up map in Rubashov’s hand
Then he shoved note-book and pencil back into Rubashov’s pocket. On the stairs he was again humming his eternal tune.
6
The day before the term set by Ivanov expired, at the serving out of supper, Rubashov had the feeling that there was something unusual in the air.
He could not explain why; the food was doled out according to routine, the melancholy tune of the bugle sounded punctually at the prescribed time; yet it seemed to Rubashov that there was something tense about the atmosphere. Perhaps one of the orderlies had looked at him a shade more expressively than usual; perhaps the voice of the old warder had had a curious undertone.
Rubashov did not know, but he was unable to work; he felt the tension in his nerves, as rheumatic people feel a storm.
After the “Last Post” had died away, he spied out into the corridor; the electric bulbs, lacking current, burnt at half strength and shed their dim light on to the tiles; the silence of the corridor seemed more final and hopeless than ever.
Rubashov lay down on his bunk, stood up again, forced himself to write a few lines, stubbed out his cigarette and lit a new one. He looked down into the yard: it was thawing, the snow had become dirty and soft, the sky was clouded over; on the parapet opposite, the sentinel with his rifle was marching up and down.
Once more Rubashov looked through the judas into the corridor: silence, desolation and electric light.
Against his custom, and in spite of the late hour, he started a conversation with No. 402. ARE YOU ASLEEP? he tapped.
For a while there was no answer and Rubashov waited with a feeling of disappointment. Then it came-quieter and slower than usual:
NO. DO YOU FEEL IT TOO?
FEEL—WHAT? asked Rubashov.
He breathed heavily; he was lying on the bunk, tapping with his pince-nez.
Again No. 402 hesitated a while.
Then he tapped so subduedly that it sounded as if he were speaking in a very low voice:
IT’S BETTER FOR YOU TO SLEEP. ...
Rubashov lay still on his bunk and was ashamed that No. 402 should speak to him in such a paternal tone.
He lay on his back in the dark and looked at his pince-nez, which he held against the wall in his half-raised hand.