Darkness at Noon by Arthur Koestler Page B

in your opinion, was the only right one. In your place, I would, of course, have acted in the same way. So far everything is in order.”
    “And what follows?” asked Rubashov.
    Ivanov had again his former amiable smile.
    “What I don’t understand,” he said, “is this. You now openly admit that for years you have had the conviction that we were ruining the Revolution; and in the same breath you deny that you belonged to the opposition and that you plotted against us. Do you really expect me to believe that you sat watching us with your hands in your lap—while, according to your conviction, we led country and Party to destruction?”
    Rubashov shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps I was too old and used up. ... But believe what you like,” he said.
    Ivanov lit another cigarette. His voice became quiet and penetrating:
    “Do you really want me to believe that you sacrificed Arlova and denied those”—he jerked his chin towards the light patch on the wall— “only in order to save your own head?”
    Rubashov was silent. Quite a long time passed. Ivanov’s head bent even closer over the writing desk.
    “I don’t understand you,” he said. “Half an hour ago you made me a speech full of the most impassioned attacks against our policy, any fraction of which would have been enough to finish you off. And now you deny such a simple logical deduction as that you belonged to an oppositional group, for which, in any case, we hold all the proofs.”
    “Really?” said Rubashov. “If you have all the proofs, why do you need my confession? Proofs of what, by the way?”
    “Amongst others,” said Ivanov slowly, “proofs of a projected attempt on No. 1’s life.”
    Again there was a silence. Rubashov put on his pince-nez.
    “Allow me to ask you a question in my turn,” he said “Do you really believe this idiocy or do you only pretend to?”
    In the corners of Ivanov’s eyes appeared the same nearly tender smile as before:
    “I told you. We have proofs. To be more exact: confessions. To be still more exact: the confession of the man who was actually to commit the attempt on your instigation.”
    “Congratulations,” said Rubashov. “What is his name?” Ivanov went on smiling.
    “An indiscreet question.”
    “May I read that confession? Or be confronted with the man?”
    Ivanov smiled. He blew the smoke of his cigarette with friendly mockery into Rubashov’s face. It was unpleasant to Rubashov, but he did not move his head.
    “Do you remember the veronal?” said Ivanov slowly. “I think I have already asked you that. Now the rôles are interchanged: to-day it is you who are about to throw yourself head first down the precipice. But not with my help. You then convinced me that suicide was petty bourgeois romanticism. I shall see that you do not succeed in committing it. Then we shall be quits.”
    Rubashov was silent. He was thinking over whether Ivanov was lying or sincere—and at the same time he had the strange wish, almost a physical impulse, to touch the light patch on the wall with his fingers. “Nerves,” he thought. “Obsessions. Stepping only on the black tiles, murmuring senseless phrases, rubbing my pince-nez on my sleeve—there, I am doing it again. ...”
    “I am curious to know,” he said aloud, “what scheme you have for my salvation. The way in which you have examined me up till now seems to have exactly the opposite aim.”
    Ivanov’s smile became broad and beaming. “You old fool,” he said, and, reaching over the table, he grasped Rubashov’s coat button. “I was obliged to let you explode once, else you would have exploded at the wrong time. Haven’t you even noticed that I have no stenographer present?”
    He took a cigarette out of the case and forced it into Rubashov’s mouth without letting go his coat button. “You’re behaving like an infant. bike a romantic infant,” he added. “Now we are going to concoct a nice little confession and that will be all for