Rubashov had the feeling that the whole right side of his face was drawn into a cramp.
His head became duller and heavier; it was with difficulty that he prevented it sinking on his breast.
Gletkin’s voice bored into his ear:
“So it is possible that Citizen Arlova was innocent?”
“It is possible,” said Rubashov, with a last remainder of irony, which lay on his tongue like a taste of blood and gall.
“... And was executed as a consequence of the lying declaration you made, with the object of saving your head?”
“That is about it,” said Rubashov.
“You scoundrel,” he thought with a slack, impotent rage.
“Of course what you say is the naked truth.
One would like to know which of us two is the greater scoundrel.
But he has me by the throat and I cannot defend myself, because it is not allowed to throw oneself out of the swing.
If only he would let me sleep.
If he goes on tormenting me for long, I’ll take everything back and refuse to speak—and then I will be done for, and he too.”
“... And after all that, you demand to be treated with consideration?”
Gletkin’s voice went on, with the same brutal correctness.
“You still dare to deny criminal activities?
After all that, you demand that we should believe you?”
Rubashov gave up the efforts to keep his head straight.
Of course Gletkin was right not to believe him.
Even he himself was beginning to get lost in the labyrinth of calculated lies and dialectic pretences, in the twilight between truth and illusion.
The ultimate truth always receded a step; visible remained only the penultimate lie with which one had to serve it.
And what pathetic contortions and St. Vitus’s dances did it compel one to!
How could he convince Gletkin that this time he was really sincere, that he had arrived at the last station?
Always one had to convince someone, talk, argue—while one’s only wish was to sleep and to fade out. ...
“I demand nothing,” said Rubashov, and turned his head painfully in the direction whence had come Gletkin’s voice, “except to prove once more my devotion to the Party.”
“There is only one proof you can give,” came Gletkin’s voice, “a complete confession.
We have heard enough of your ‘oppositional attitude’ and your lofty motives.
What we need is a complete, public confession of your criminal activities, which were the necessary outcome of that attitude.
The only way in which you can still serve the Party is as a warning example—by demonstrating to the masses, in your own person, the consequences to which opposition to the Party policy inevitably leads.”
Rubashov thought of No. 1’s cold snack.
His inflamed facial nerves throbbed at full pressure, but the pain was no longer acute and burning; it now came in dull, numbing blows.
He thought of No. 1’s cold snack, and the muscles of his face distorted themselves into a grimace.
“I can’t confess to crimes I have not committed,” he said flatly.
“No,” sounded Gletkin’s voice.
“No, that you certainly can’t”—and it seemed to Rubashov that for the first time he heard something like mockery in that voice.
From that moment onwards Rubashov’s recollection of the hearing was rather hazy.
After the sentence “that you certainly can’t,” which had remained in his ear because of its peculiar intonation, there was a gap of uncertain length in his memory.
Later on it seemed to him that he had fallen asleep and he even remembered a strangely pleasant dream.
It must have lasted only a few seconds—a loose, timeless sequence of luminous landscapes, with the familiar poplars which had lined the drive of his father’s estate, and a special kind of white cloud which as a boy he had once seen above them.
The next thing he remembered was the presence of a third person in the room, and Gletkin’s voice booming over him—Gletkin must have stood up and bent forward over his desk:
“I beg you to attend the proceedings. ... Do you recognize this person?”
Rubashov nodded.
He had at once recognized Hare-lip, although he was not wearing the waterproof in which he used to wrap himself, with freezingly hunched shoulders, during his walks in the yard.
A familiar row of figures flashed into Rubashov’s mind: 2-3; 1-1; 4-3; 1-5; 3-2; 2-4 ... “Hare-lip sends you his greetings.”
On what occasion had No. 402 given him this message?
“When and where have you known him?”
It cost Rubashov a certain effort to speak; the bitter taste had remained on his parched tongue:
“I have seen him repeatedly from my window, walking in the yard.”
“And you have not known him before?”
Hare-lip stood at the door, at a distance of a few steps behind Rubashov’s chair; the light of the reflector fell full on him.