In your case a refusal would amount to a disavowal of the declaration of willingness to confess, which you wrote two days ago, and would automatically bring the investigation to an end.
In that eventuality I have the order to send your case back to the competent authority, which would pronounce your sentence administratively.”
Rubashov thought this over quickly.
Something had obviously gone wrong with Ivanov.
Suddenly sent on leave, or dismissed, or arrested.
Perhaps because his former friendship with Rubashov had been remembered; perhaps because he was mentally superior and too witty, and because his loyalty to No. 1 was based on logical considerations and not on blind faith.
He was too clever; he was of the old school: the new school was Gletkin and his methods. ...
Go in peace, Ivanov.
Rubashov had no time for pity; he had to think quickly, and the light hindered him.
He took his pince-nez off and blinked; he knew that without glasses he looked naked and helpless, and that Gletkin’s expressionless eyes registered every trait in his face.
If he now remained silent he would be lost; there was no going back now.
Gletkin was a repellent creature, but he represented the new generation; the old had to come to terms with it or be crashed; there was no other alternative.
Rubashov felt suddenly old; he had never known this feeling up till now. He had never held in account the fact that he was in his fifties.
He put his pince-nez on and tried to meet Gletkin’s gaze, but the shrill light made his eyes water; he took it off again.
“I am ready to make a statement,” he said and tried to control the irritation in his voice.
“But on the condition that you cease your tricks.
Put out that dazzle-light and keep these methods for crooks and counter-revolutionaries.”
“You are not in a position to make conditions,” said Gletkin in his calm voice.
“I cannot change the lighting in my room for you.
You do not seem fully to realize your position, especially the fact that you are yourself accused of counter-revolutionary activities, and that in the course of these last years you have twice admitted to them in public declarations.
You are mistaken if you believe you will get off as cheaply this time.”
You swine, thought Rubashov.
You filthy swine in uniform.
He went red.
He felt himself going red and knew that Gletkin had noticed it.
How old might this Gletkin be?
Thirty-six or seven, at the most; he must have taken part in the Civil War as a youth and seen the outbreak of the Revolution as a mere boy.
That was the generation which had started to think after the flood.
It had no traditions, and no memories to bind it to the old, vanished world.
It was a generation born without umbilical cord. ...
And yet it had right on its side.
One must tear that umbilical cord, deny the last tie which bound one to the vain conceptions of honour and the hypocritical decency of the old world.
Honour was to serve without vanity, without sparing oneself, and until the last consequence.
Rubashov’s temper gradually quietened down.
He kept his pince-nez in his hand and turned his face towards Gletkin.
As he had to keep his eyes shut, he felt even more naked, but this no longer disturbed him.
Behind his shut lids shimmered a reddish light.
He had never had such an intense feeling of solitude.
“I will do everything which may serve the Party,” he said.
The hoarseness had gone from his voice; he kept his eyes shut.
“I beg you to state the accusation in detail.
Up till now this has not been done.”
He heard rather than saw through his blinking eyes, that a short movement went through Gletkin’s stiff figure.
His cuffs on the chair-arms crackled, he breathed a shade deeper, as if for an instant his whole body had relaxed.
Rubashov guessed that Gletkin was experiencing the triumph of his life.
To have laid out a Rubashov meant the beginning of a great career; and up to a minute ago all had still hung in the balance for Gletkin—with Ivanov’s fate as a reminder before his eyes.
Rubashov understood suddenly that he had just as much power over this Gletkin as the latter over him.
I hold you by the throat, my lad, he thought with an ironic grimace; we each hold the other by the throat, and if I throw myself off the swing, I drag you down with me.
For a moment Rubashov played with this idea, while Gletkin, again stiff and precise, searched in his documents; then he rejected the temptation and slowly shut his painful eyes.
One must burn out the last vestiges of vanity—and what else was suicide but an inverted form of vanity?