for in the equation.”
“Pretty,” said Ivanov. But unfortunately rather abstract. To return to more tangible things: you mean, therefore, that ‘we’—namely, Party and State—no longer represent the interests of the Revolution, of the masses or, if you like, the progress of humanity.”
“This time you have grasped it,” said Rubashov smiling. Ivanov did not answer his smile.
“When did you develop this opinion?”
“Fairly gradually: during the last few years,” said Rubashov.
“Can’t you tell me more exactly? One year? Two? Three years?”
“That’s a stupid question,” said Rubashov. “At what age did you become adult? At seventeen? At eighteen and a half? At nineteen?”
“It’s you who are pretending to be stupid,” said Ivanov. “Each step in one’s spiritual development is the result of definite experiences. If you really want to know: I became a man at seventeen, when I was sent into exile for the first time.”
“At that time you were quite a decent fellow,” said Rubashov. “Forget it.” He, again looked at the light patch on the wall and threw away his cigarette.
“I repeat my question,” said Ivanov and bent forward slightly. “For how long have you belonged to the organized opposition?”
The telephone rang. Ivanov took the receiver off, said, “I am busy,” and hung it up again. He leant back in his chair, leg stretched out, and waited for Rubashov’s answer.
“You know as well as I do,” said Rubashov, “that I never joined an oppositional organization.”
“As you like,” said Ivanov. “You put me into the painful position of having to act the bureaucrat.” He put a hand in a drawer and pulled out a bundle of files.
“Let’s start with 1933,” he said and spread the papers out in front of him. “Outbreak of the dictatorship and crushing of the Party in the very country where victory seemed closest. You are sent there illegally, with the task of carrying through a purging and reorganization of the ranks. ...”
Rubashov had leant back and was listening to his biography. He thought of Richard, and of the twilight in the avenue in front of the museum, where he had stopped the taxi.
“… Three months later: you are arrested. Two years’ imprisonment. Behaviour exemplary, nothing can be proved against you. Release and triumphal return. ...”
Ivanov paused, threw him a quick glance and went on:
“You were much fêted on your return. We did not meet then; you were probably too busy. ... I did not take it amiss, by the way. After all, one could not expect you to look up all your old friends. But I saw you twice at meetings, up on the platform. You were still on crutches and looked very worn-out. The logical thing would have been for you to go to a sanatorium for a few months, and then to take some Government post—after having been four years away on foreign mission. But after a fortnight you were already applying for another mission abroad. ...”
He bent forward suddenly, moving his face closer to Rubashov:
“Why—?” he asked, and for the first time his voice was sharp. “You did not feel at ease here, presumably? During your absence certain changes had taken place in the country, which you evidently did not appreciate.”
He waited for Rubashov to say something; but Rubashov was sitting quietly in his chair, rubbing his pince-nez on his sleeve, and did not answer.
“It was shortly after the first crop of the opposition had been convicted and liquidated. You had intimate friends amongst them. When it became known what degree of decay the opposition had attained, there was an outbreak of indignation throughout the country. You said nothing. After a fortnight, you went abroad, although you could not yet walk without crutches. ...”
To Rubashov it seemed that he smelt again the smell of the docks in the little port, a mixture of seaweed and petrol; wrestler Paul wagging his ears; Little Loewy saluting with his pipe. ... He had hanged
“Pretty,” said Ivanov. But unfortunately rather abstract. To return to more tangible things: you mean, therefore, that ‘we’—namely, Party and State—no longer represent the interests of the Revolution, of the masses or, if you like, the progress of humanity.”
“This time you have grasped it,” said Rubashov smiling. Ivanov did not answer his smile.
“When did you develop this opinion?”
“Fairly gradually: during the last few years,” said Rubashov.
“Can’t you tell me more exactly? One year? Two? Three years?”
“That’s a stupid question,” said Rubashov. “At what age did you become adult? At seventeen? At eighteen and a half? At nineteen?”
“It’s you who are pretending to be stupid,” said Ivanov. “Each step in one’s spiritual development is the result of definite experiences. If you really want to know: I became a man at seventeen, when I was sent into exile for the first time.”
“At that time you were quite a decent fellow,” said Rubashov. “Forget it.” He, again looked at the light patch on the wall and threw away his cigarette.
“I repeat my question,” said Ivanov and bent forward slightly. “For how long have you belonged to the organized opposition?”
The telephone rang. Ivanov took the receiver off, said, “I am busy,” and hung it up again. He leant back in his chair, leg stretched out, and waited for Rubashov’s answer.
“You know as well as I do,” said Rubashov, “that I never joined an oppositional organization.”
“As you like,” said Ivanov. “You put me into the painful position of having to act the bureaucrat.” He put a hand in a drawer and pulled out a bundle of files.
“Let’s start with 1933,” he said and spread the papers out in front of him. “Outbreak of the dictatorship and crushing of the Party in the very country where victory seemed closest. You are sent there illegally, with the task of carrying through a purging and reorganization of the ranks. ...”
Rubashov had leant back and was listening to his biography. He thought of Richard, and of the twilight in the avenue in front of the museum, where he had stopped the taxi.
“… Three months later: you are arrested. Two years’ imprisonment. Behaviour exemplary, nothing can be proved against you. Release and triumphal return. ...”
Ivanov paused, threw him a quick glance and went on:
“You were much fêted on your return. We did not meet then; you were probably too busy. ... I did not take it amiss, by the way. After all, one could not expect you to look up all your old friends. But I saw you twice at meetings, up on the platform. You were still on crutches and looked very worn-out. The logical thing would have been for you to go to a sanatorium for a few months, and then to take some Government post—after having been four years away on foreign mission. But after a fortnight you were already applying for another mission abroad. ...”
He bent forward suddenly, moving his face closer to Rubashov:
“Why—?” he asked, and for the first time his voice was sharp. “You did not feel at ease here, presumably? During your absence certain changes had taken place in the country, which you evidently did not appreciate.”
He waited for Rubashov to say something; but Rubashov was sitting quietly in his chair, rubbing his pince-nez on his sleeve, and did not answer.
“It was shortly after the first crop of the opposition had been convicted and liquidated. You had intimate friends amongst them. When it became known what degree of decay the opposition had attained, there was an outbreak of indignation throughout the country. You said nothing. After a fortnight, you went abroad, although you could not yet walk without crutches. ...”
To Rubashov it seemed that he smelt again the smell of the docks in the little port, a mixture of seaweed and petrol; wrestler Paul wagging his ears; Little Loewy saluting with his pipe. ... He had hanged
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