Authors: Arthur Koestler
“Now I would like to give you a short report on our work, comrade.”
“Good,” said Rubashov. “I’m listening.”
Richard made his report. He sat slightly bent forward, a couple of feet away from Rubashov, on the narrow plush sofa, his big red hands on the knees of his Sunday suit; he did not change his position once while speaking. He spoke of the flags on the chimney stacks, the inscriptions on the walls and the pamphlets which were left in the factory latrines, stiffly and matter-of-factly as a book-keeper. Opposite him the trumpet-blowing angels flew into the thunderstorm, at the back of his head an invisible Virgin Mary stretched out her thin hands; from all around the walls colossal breasts, thighs and hips stared at them.
Breasts fitting to champagne glasses came into Rubashov’s head. He stood still on the third black tile from the cell-window, to hear whether No. 402 was still tapping. There was no sound. Rubashov went to the spy-hole and looked over to No. 407, who had stretched out his hands for the bread. He saw the grey steel door of cell 407 with the small black Judas. Electric light was burning in the corridor as always; it was bleak and silent; one could hardly believe that human beings lived behind those doors.
While the young man called Richard was giving his report, Rubashov did not interrupt him. Of the thirty men and women whom Richard had grouped together after the catastrophe, only seventeen remained. Two, a factory hand and his girl, had thrown themselves out of the window when they came to fetch them. One had deserted—had left the town, vanished. Two were suspected of being spies for the police, but this was not certain. Three had left the Party as a protest against the policy of the Central Committee; two of them had founded a new oppositional group, the third had joined the Moderates. Five had been arrested last night, among them Anny; it was known that at least two of these five were no longer alive. So there remained seventeen, who continued to distribute pamphlets and scribble on walls.
Richard told him all this in minute detail, so that Rubashov should understand all the personal connections and causes which were particularly important; he did not know that the Central Committee had their own man in the group, who had long ago given Rubashov most of the facts. He did not know either that this man was his pal, the cinema operator, in whose cabin he slept; neither that this person had been for a long time on intimate terms with his wife Anny, arrested last night. None of this did Richard know; but Rubashov knew it. The movement lay in ruins, but its Intelligence and Control Department still functioned; it was perhaps the only part of it which did function, and at that time Rubashov stood at the head of it. The bull-necked young man in the Sunday suit did not know that either; he only knew that Anny had been taken away and that one had to go on distributing pamphlets and scribbling on walls; and that Rubashov, who was a comrade from the Central Committee of the Party, was to be trusted like a father; but that one must not show this feeling nor betray any weakness. For he who was soft and sentimental was no good for the task and had to be pushed aside—pushed out of the movement, into solitude and the outer darkness.
Outside in the corridor steps were approaching. Rubashov went to the door, took his pince-nez off and put his eye to the Judas. Two officials with leather revolver-belts were conducting a young peasant along the corridor; behind them came the old warder with the bunch of keys. The peasant had a swollen eye and dry blood on his upper lip; as he passed he wiped his sleeve over his bleeding nose; his face was flat and expressionless. Further down the corridor, outside Rubashov’s range, a cell door was unlocked and slammed. Then the officials and the warder came back alone.
Rubashov walked up and down in his cell. He saw himself, sitting on the round plush sofa next to Richard; he heard again the silence which had fallen when the boy had finished his report. Richard did not move; sat with his hands on his knees and waited. He sat as one who had confessed and was waiting for the father-confessor’s sentence. For a long while Rubashov said nothing. Then he said:
“Good. Is that all?”
The boy nodded; his Adam’s apple moved up and down.
“Several things are not clear in your report,” said Rubashov. “You spoke repeatedly of the leaflets and pamphlets which you made yourselves. They are known to us and their content was criticized sharply. There are several phrases which the Party cannot accept.”
Richard looked at him frightenedly: he reddened. Rubashov saw the skin over his cheek-bones becoming hot and the net of red veins in his inflamed eyes become denser.
“On the other hand,” continued Rubashov, “we have repeatedly sent you our printed material for distribution, amongst which was the special small-size edition of the official Party organ. You received these consignments.”
Richard nodded. The heat did not leave his face.
“But you did not distribute our material; it is not even mentioned in your report. Instead, you circulated the material made by yourselves—without the control or approval of the Party.”
“B-but we had to,” Richard brought out with a great effort. Rubashov looked at him attentively through his pince-nez; he had not noticed before that the boy stammered. “Curious,” he thought, “this is the third case in a fortnight. We have a surprising number of defectives in the Party. Either it is because of the circumstances under which we work—or the movement itself promotes a selection of defectives. ...”
“You m-must understand, c-comrade,” said Richard in growing distress. “The t-tone of your propaganda material was wrong, b-because—”
“Speak quietly,” said Rubashov suddenly in a sharp tone, “and don’t turn your head to the door.”
A tall young man in the uniform of the black bodyguard of the régime had entered the room with his girl. The girl was a buxom blonde; he held her round her broad hip, her arm lay on his shoulder. They paid no attention to Rubashov and his companion and stopped in front of the trumpeting angels, with their backs to the sofa.
“Go on talking,” said Rubashov in a calm, low voice and automatically took his cigarette case out of his pocket. Then he remembered that one may not smoke in museums and put the case back. The boy sat as if paralysed by an electric shock, and stared at the two. “Go on talking,” said Rubashov quietly. “Did you stammer as a child? Answer and don’t look over there.”
“S-sometimes,” Richard managed to bring out with a great effort.
The couple moved along the row of pictures. They stopped in front of a nude of a very fat woman, who lay on a satin couch and looked at the spectator. The man murmured something presumably funny, for the girl giggled and glanced fleetingly at the two figures on the sofa. They moved on a bit, to a still-life of dead pheasants and fruit.
“Sh-shouldn’t we go?” asked Richard.
“No,” said Rubashov. He was afraid that when they stood up the boy in his agitation would behave conspicuously. “They will soon go. We have our backs to the light; they cannot see us clearly. Breathe slowly and deeply several times. It helps.”
The girl went on giggling and the pair moved slowly towards the way out. In passing, they both turned their heads towards Rubashov and Richard. They were just about to leave the room, when the girl pointed her finger at the pen drawing on the
Pietà
; they stopped to look at it. “Is it very di-disturbing when I s-stammer?” asked Richard in a low voice, staring down at the floor.
“One must control oneself,” said Rubashov shortly. He could not now let any feeling of intimacy creep into the conversation.
“It will b-be b-better in a minute,” said Richard, and his Adam’s apple moved convulsively up and down. “Anny always laughed at me about it, you kn-now.” As long as the couple remained in the room, Rubashov could not steer the conversation. The back of the man in uniform nailed him down next to Richard. The common danger helped the boy over his shyness; he even slid a bit closer to Rubashov.
“She was fond of me all the s-same,” he continued, whispering in another, quieter kind of agitation. “I n-never knew quite how to take her. She did not want to have the child, b-but she could not get rid of it. P-perhaps they won’t do anything to her as she is p-pregnant. You c-can see it quite clearly, you know. Do you think that they beat pregnant women, t-too?”
With his chin, he indicated the young man in uniform. In the same instant the young man suddenly turned his head towards Richard. For a second they looked at each other. The young man in uniform said something to the girl in a low voice; she too turned her head. Rubashov again grasped his cigarette case, but this time let it go while still in his pocket. The girl said something and pulled the young man away with her. The pair of them left the gallery slowly, the man rather hesitatingly. One heard the girl giggling again outside and their footsteps receding.
Richard turned his head and followed them with his eyes. As he moved, Rubashov gained a better view of the drawing; he could now see the Virgin’s thin arms up to the elbow. They were meagre, little girl’s arms, raised weightlessly towards the invisible shaft of the cross.
Rubashov looked at his watch. The boy moved a bit further away from him on the sofa.
“We must come to a conclusion,” said Rubashov. “If I understand you rightly, you said that you purposely did not distribute our material because you did not agree with its contents. But neither did we agree with the contents of your leaflets. You will understand, comrade, that certain consequences must come of that.”
Richard turned his reddened eyes towards him. Then he lowered his head. “You know yourself that the material you sent was full of nonsense,” he said in a flat voice. He had suddenly stopped stammering.
“Of that I know nothing,” said Rubashov drily.
“You wrote as if nothing had happened,” said Richard in the same tired voice. “They beat the Party to shambles, and you just wrote phrases about our unbroken will to victory—the same kind of lies as the communiqué in the Great War. Whoever we showed it to would just spit. You must know all that yourself.” Rubashov looked at the boy, who now sat leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his chin on his red fists. He answered drily:
“For the second time you ascribe to me an opinion which I do not hold. I must ask you to stop doing so.”
Richard looked at him unbelievingly out of his inflamed eyes. Rubashov went on.
“The Party is going through a severe trial. Other revolutionary parties have been through even more difficult ones. The decisive factor is our unbroken will. Whoever now goes soft and weak does not belong in our ranks. Whoever spreads an atmosphere of panic plays into our enemy’s hands. What his motives are in doing so does not make any difference. By his attitude he becomes a danger to our movement, and will be treated accordingly.”
Richard still sat with his chin in his hands, his face turned to Rubashov.
“So I am a danger to the movement,” he said. “I play into the enemy’s hands. Probably I am paid for doing so. And Anny, too. ...”
“In your pamphlets,” continued Rubashov in the same dry tone of voice, “of which you admit to be the author, there frequently appear phrases such as this: that we have suffered a defeat, that a catastrophe has befallen the Party, and that we must start afresh and change our policy fundamentally. That is defeatism. It is demoralizing and it lames the Party’s fighting spirit.”
“I only know,” said Richard, “that one must tell people the truth, as they know it already, in any case. It is ridiculous to pretend to them.”
“The last congress of the Party,” Rubashov went on, “stated in a resolution that the Party has not suffered a defeat and has merely carried out a strategic retreat; and that there is no reason whatever for changing its previous policy.”
“But that’s rubbish,” said Richard.
“If you go on in this style,” said Rubashov, “I am afraid we will have to break off the conversation.”
Richard was silent for a while. The room began to darken, the contours of the angels and women on the walls became still softer and more nebulous.
“I am sorry,” said Richard. “I mean: the Party leadership is mistaken. You talk of a ‘strategic retreat’ while half of our people are killed, and those which are left are so pleased to be still alive that they go over to the other side in shoals. These hair-splitting resolutions which you people outside fabricate are not understood here. ...”
Richard’s features began to become hazy in the growing dusk. He paused, then added:
“I suppose Anny also made a ‘strategic retreat’ last night. Please, you must understand. Here we are all living in the jungle. ...”
Rubashov waited to see whether he still had anything to say, but Richard said nothing. Dusk was falling rapidly now. Rubashov took his pince-nez off- and rubbed it on his sleeve.
“The Party can never be mistaken,” said Rubashov. “You and I can make a mistake. Not the Party. The Party, comrade, is more than you and I and a thousand others like you and I. The Party is the embodiment of the revolutionary idea in history. History knows no scruples and no hesitation. Inert and unerring, she flows towards her goal. At every bend in her course she leaves the mud which she carries and the corpses of the drowned. History knows her way. She makes no mistakes. He who has not absolute faith in History does not belong in the Party’s ranks.”
Richard said nothing; head on his fists, he kept his immovable face turned to Rubashov. As he remained silent, Rubashov went on:
“You have prevented the distribution of our material; you have suppressed the Party’s voice. You have distributed pamphlets in which every word was harmful and false. You wrote: The remains of the revolutionary movement must be gathered together and all powers hostile to tyranny must unite; we must stop our old internal struggles and start the common fight afresh.’ That is wrong. The Party must not join the Moderates. It is they who in all good faith have countless times betrayed the movement, and they will do it again next time, and the time after next. He who compromises with them buries the revolution. You wrote: ‘When the house is on fire, all must help to quench it; if we go on quarrelling about doctrines, we will all be burnt to ashes.’ That is wrong. We fight against the fire with water; the others do with oil. Therefore we must first decide which is the right method, water or oil, before uniting the fire-brigades. One cannot conduct politics that way. It is impossible to form a policy with passion and despair. The Party’s course is sharply defined, like a narrow path in the mountains. The slightest false step, right or left, takes one down the precipice. The air is thin; he who becomes dizzy is lost.”