“The old man sacrifices space to gain time,” a witty friend of Rubashov’s had remarked.
The forgotten, “harmless” conversation fitted into the chain so well that it was now difficult for Rubashov to see it otherwise than through Gletkin’s eyes.
This same Gletkin, who read clumsily, whose brain worked just as clumsily and arrived at simple, graspable results—perhaps precisely because he understood nothing of guinea-pigs. ...
How, by the way, did Gletkin know of this conversation?
Either it had been overheard, which in the circumstances was rather unlikely; or else the comfortable Herr von Z. had been acting as agent provocateur—God only knew for what complicated reasons.
Such things had happened often enough before.
A trap had been laid for Rubashov—a trap planned according to the primitive mentality of Gletkin and No. 1; and he, Rubashov, had promptly walked into it. ...
“Being so well informed of my conversation with Herr von Z.,” Rubashov said, “you must also know that it had no consequences.”
“Certainly,” said Gletkin. “Thanks to the fact that we arrested you in time, and destroyed the opposition throughout the country.
The results of the attempted treason would have appeared if we had not.”
What could he answer to that?
That it would not in any case have led to serious results, if only for the reason that he, Rubashov, was too old and worn-out to act as consequentially as the Party traditions required, and as Gletkin would have done in his place?
That the whole activity of the so-called opposition had been senile chatter, because the whole generation of the old guard was just as worn-out as he himself?
Worn by the years of illegal struggle, eaten by the damp of the prison walls, between which they had spent half their youth; spiritually sucked dry by the permanent nervous strain of holding down the physical fear, of which one never spoke, which each had to deal with alone—for years, for tens of years.
Worn by the years of exile, the acid sharpness of factions within the Party, the unscrupulousness with which they were fought out; worn out by the endless defeats, and the demoralization of the final victory?
Should he say that an active, organized opposition to No. 1’s dictatorship had never really existed; that it had all only been talk, impotent playing with fire, because this generation of the old guard had given all it had, had been squeezed out to the last drop, to the last spiritual calorie; and like the dead in the graveyard at Errancis, had only one thing left to hope for: to sleep and to wait until posterity did them justice.
What could he answer this immovable Neanderthal man?
That he was right in everything, but had made one fundamental mistake: to believe that it was still the old Rubashov sitting opposite him, whilst it was only his shadow?
That the whole thing came to this—to punish him, not for deeds he had committed, but for those he had neglected to commit?
“One can only be crucified in the name of one’s own faith,” had said comfortable Herr von Z. ...
Before Rubashov had signed the statement and was conducted back to his cell, to he unconscious on his bunk until the torment started anew, he put a question to Gletkin.
It had nothing to do with the point under discussion, but Rubashov knew that each time a new deposition was to be signed, Gletkin became a shade more tractable—Gletkin paid cash.
The question Rubashov asked—concerned the fate of Ivanov.
“Citizen Ivanov is under arrest,” said Gletkin.
“May one know the reason?” asked Rubashov.
“Citizen Ivanov conducted the examination of your case negligently, and in private conversation expressed cynical doubts as to the well-foundedness of the accusation.”
“What if he really could not believe in it?” asked Rubashov.
“He had perhaps too good an opinion of me?”
“In that case,” said Gletkin, “he should have suspended the enquiry and should have officially informed the competent authorities that in his opinion you were innocent.”
Was Gletkin mocking him?
He looked as correct and expressionless as ever.
The next time that Rubashov again stood bowed over the day’s record, with Gletkin’s warm fountain pen in his hand—the stenographer had already left the room—he said:
“May I ask you another question?”
While speaking, he looked at the broad scar on Gletkin’s skull.
“I was told that you were a partisan of certain drastic methods—the so-called ‘hard method’.
Why have you never used direct physical pressure on me?”
“You mean physical torture,” said Gletkin in a matter-of-fact tone.
“As you know, that is forbidden by our criminal code.”
He paused.
Rubashov had just finished signing the protocol.
“Besides,” Gletkin continued, “there is a certain type of accused who confess under pressure, but recant at the public trial.
You belong to that tenacious kind.
The political utility of your confession at the trial will lie in its voluntary character.”
It was the first time that Gletkin had spoken of a public trial.
But on the way back along the corridor, walking behind the giant, with short tired steps, it was not this perspective which occupied Rubashov, but the sentence “you belong to that tenacious kind”.
Against his will, this sentence filled him with a pleasant self-satisfaction.
I am becoming senile and childish, he thought as he lay down on his bunk.
Yet the pleasant feeling lasted until he fell asleep.
Each time he had, after tenacious argument, signed a new confession and lain down on his bunk, exhausted and yet in a strange way satisfied, with the knowledge that he would be wakened in an hour or at most two—each time Rubashov had but one wish: that Gletkin would just once let him sleep and come to his senses.
He knew that this desire would not be fulfilled until the fight was fought to the bitter end, and the last dot put on the last “i”—and he knew, too, that each new duel would end in a new defeat and that there could be no possible doubt about the final result.