In the first year, the foremen would lie down to sleep between two emptyings of the blast furnace, until they were shot.
In all other countries, the peasants had one or two hundred years to develop the habit of industrial precision and of the handling of machines.
Here they only had ten years.
If we didn’t sack them and shoot them for every trifle, the whole country would come to a standstill, and the peasants would lie down to sleep in the factory yards until grass grew out of the chimneys and everything became as it was before.
Last year a women’s delegation came to us from Manchester in England.
They were shown everything, and afterwards they wrote indignant articles, saying that the textile workers in Manchester would never stand such treatment.
I have read that the cotton industry in Manchester is two hundred years old.
I have also read, what the treatment of the workers there was like two hundred years ago, when it started.
You, Comrade Rubashov, have just used the same arguments as this women’s delegation from Manchester.
You, of course, know better than these women.
So one may wonder at your using the same arguments.
But then, you have something in common with them: you were given a watch as a child. ...”
Rubashov said nothing and looked at Gletkin with a new interest.
What was this?
Was the Neanderthaler coming out of his shell?
But Gletkin sat stiffly on his chair, as expressionless as ever.
“You may be right in some ways,” Rubashov said finally.
“But it was you who started me off on this question. What use is it to invent scapegoats for difficulties, the natural causes of which you have just so convincingly described?”
“Experience teaches,” said Gletkin, “that the masses must be given for all difficult and complicated processes a simple, easily grasped explanation.
According to what I know of history, I see that mankind could never do without scapegoats.
I believe it was at all times an indispensable institution; your friend Ivanov taught me that it was of religious origin.
As far as I remember, he explained that the word itself came from a custom of the Hebrews, who once a year sacrificed to their god a goat, laden with all their sins.”
Gletkin paused and shoved his cuffs into place.
“Besides, there are also examples in history of voluntary scapegoats.
At the age when you were given a watch, I was being taught by the village priest that Jesus Christ called himself a lamb, which had taken on itself all sin.
I have never understood in what way it could help mankind if someone declares he is being sacrificed for its sake.
But for two thousand years people have apparently found it quite natural.”
Rubashov looked at Gletkin.
What was he aiming at?
What was the object of this conversation?
In what labyrinth was the Neanderthaler straying?
“However that may be,” said Rubashov, “it would be more in accordance with our ideas to tell the people the truth, instead of populating the world with saboteurs and devils.”
“If one told the people in my village,” said Gletkin, “that they were still slow and backward in spite of the Revolution and the factories, it would have no effect on them.
If one tells them that they are heroes of work, more efficient than the Americans, and that all evil only comes from devils and saboteurs, it has at least some effect.
Truth is what is useful to humanity, falsehood what is harmful.
In the outline of history published by the Party for the evening classes for adults, it is emphasized that during the first few centuries the Christian religion realized an objective progress for mankind.
Whether Jesus spoke the truth or not, when he asserted he was the son of God and of a virgin, is of no interest to any sensible person.
It is said to be symbolical, but the peasants take it literally. We have the same right to invent useful symbols which the peasants take literally.”
“Your reasoning,” said Rubashov, “sometimes reminds me of Ivanov’s.”
“Citizen Ivanov,” said Gletkin, “belonged, as you do, to the old intelligentsia; by conversing with him, one could acquire some of that historical knowledge which one had missed through insufficient schooling.
The difference is that I try to use that knowledge in the service of the Party; but Citizen Ivanov was a cynic.”
“Was ... ?” asked Rubashov, taking off his pince-nez.
“Citizen Ivanov,” said Gletkin, looking at him with expressionless eyes, “was shot last night, in execution of an administrative decision.”
After this conversation, Gletkin let Rubashov sleep for two full hours.
On the way back to his cell, Rubashov wondered why the news of Ivanov’s death had not made a deeper impression on him.
It had merely caused the cheering effect of his little victory to vanish and made him tired and drowsy again.
Apparently he had reached a state which precluded any deeper emotion.
Anyhow, even before he had learnt of Ivanov’s death, he had been ashamed of that idle feeling of triumph.
Gletkin’s personality had gained such power over him that even his triumphs were turned into defeats.
Massive and expressionless, he sat there, the brutal embodiment of the State which owed its very existence to the Rubashovs and Ivanovs.