Darkness at Noon Read Online Free PDF Page A

has perfected his tapping and is devoured by the wish to prove his innocence. Still in the simple belief that his subjective guilt or innocence makes a difference, and with no idea of the higher interests which are really at stake. In all probability he was now sitting on his bunk, writing his hundredth protest to the authorities, who will never read it, or the hundredth letter to his wife, who will never receive it; has in despair grown a beard—a black Pushkin beard—has given up washing and fallen into the habit of biting his nails and of erotic day-dreams. Nothing is worse in prison than the consciousness of one’s innocence; it prevents acclimatization and undermines one’s morale. ... Suddenly the ticking started again.
    Rubashov sat down quickly on the bunk; but he had already missed the first two letters. No. 402 was now tapping quickly and less clearly, he was obviously very excited:
    ... RVES YOU RIGHT.
    “Serves you right.”
    That was unexpected. No. 402 was a conformist. He hated the oppositional heretics, as one should, believed that history ran on rails according to an infallible plan and an infallible pointsman, No. 1. He believed that his own arrest was merely the result of a misunderstanding, and that all the catastrophes of the last years—from China to Spain, from the famine to the extermination of the old guard—were either regrettable accidents or caused by the devilish tricks of Rubashov and his oppositional friends. No. 402’s Pushkin beard vanished; he now had a clean-shaven, fanatical face; he kept his cell painfully tidy and conformed strictly to the regulations. There was no sense in arguing with him; this kind was unteachable. But neither was there any sense in cutting off the only and perhaps the last contact with the world.
    WHO? knocked Rubashov very clearly and slowly.
    The answer came in agitated fits and starts:
    NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.
    AS YOU LIKE, tapped Rubashov, and stood up to resume his wandering through the cell, taking the conversation to be ended. But the tapping started again, this time very loudly and ringingly—No. 402 had obviously taken off a shoe in order to give more weight to his words:
    LONG LIVE H.M. THE EMPEROR!
    So that’s it, thought Rubashov. There still exist genuine and authentic counter-revolutionaries—and we thought that nowadays they only occurred in the speeches of No. 1, as scapegoats for his failures. But there sits a real one, an alibi for No. 1 in flesh and blood, roaring, just as he should: long live the Monarch. ...
    AMEN, tapped out Rubashov, grinning. The answer came immediately, still louder if possible.
    SWINE!
    Rubashov was amusing himself. He took off his pince-nez and tapped with the metal edge, in order to change the tone, with a drawling and distinguished intonation:
    DIDN’T QUITE UNDERSTAND.
    No. 402 seemed to go into a frenzy. He hammered out HOUN’—, but the D did not come. Instead, his fury suddenly flown, he tapped:
    WHY HAVE YOU BEEN LOCKED UP?
    What touching simplicity. ... The face of No. 402 underwent a new transformation. It became that of a young Guards officer, handsome and stupid. Perhaps he even wore a monocle. Rubashov tapped with his pince-nez:
    POLITICAL DIVERGENCIES.
    A short pause. No. 402 was obviously searching his brain for a sarcastic answer. It came at last:
    BRAVO! THE WOLVES DEVOUR EACH OTHER.
    Rubashov gave no answer. He had enough of this sort of entertainment and started on his wanderings again. But the officer in 402 had become conversational. He tapped:
    RUBASHOV ...
    Well, this was just about verging on familiarity.
    YES? answered Rubashov.
    No. 402 seemed to hesitate; then came quite a long sentence:
    WHEN DID YOU LAST SLEEP WITH A WOMAN?
    Certainly No. 402 wore an eye-glass; probably he was tapping with it and the bared eye was twitching nervously. Rubashov did not feel repelled. The man at least showed himself as he was; which was pleasanter than if he had tapped out monarchist manifestos. Rubashov