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By Root 3755 0

he again had rheumatic pains in the stump. He was annoyed with himself for having started this conversation. Gletkin paid. When the canteen waiter had gone, he asked: "What is going to be done about Rubashov?" "I have told you my opinion," said Ivanov. "He should be left in peace." Gletkin stood up. His boots creaked. He stood by the chair on which Ivanov's leg rested. "I recognize his past merits," he said. "But to-day he has become as harmful as my fat peasant was; only more dangerous." Ivanov looked up into Gletkin's expressionless eyes. "I have given him a fortnight's time for reflection," he said. "Until that is over I want him to be left in peace." Ivanov had spoken in his official tone. Gletkin was his subordinate. He saluted and left the canteen with creaking boots. Ivanov remained seated. He drank another glass, lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out in front of him. After a while he stood up and limped over to the two officers to watch their game of chess.

3

Since his first hearing, Rubashov's standard of life had improved miraculously. Already on the following morning the old turnkey had brought him paper, pencil, soap and a towel. At the same time he gave Rubashov prison vouchers to the value of the cash he had had in his possession when he was arrested, and explained to him that he now had the right to order tobacco and extra food from the prisoners' canteen. Rubashov ordered his cigarettes and some food. The old man was just as surly and monosyllabic as ever, but he shuffled up promptly with the things Rubashov had asked for. Rubashov thought for a moment of demanding a doctor from outside the prison, but he forgot about it. His tooth did not hurt for the moment, and when he had washed and had had something to eat, he felt much better. The courtyard had been cleared of snow, and groups of prisoners walked round it for their daily exercise. It had been interrupted because of the snow; only Hare-lip and his companion had been allowed daily ten minutes' walk, perhaps because of special doctor's orders; every time that they entered or left the yard, Hare-lip had looked up to Rubashov's window. The gesture was so clear as to exclude any possibility of doubt. When Rubashov was not working at his notes or walking up and down his cell, he stood at the window with his forehead against the pane, and watched the Prisoners during their round of exercise. This occurred in groups of twelve at a time, who circled round the yard in pairs at a distance of ten paces from each other. In the middle of the yard stood four uniformed officials who saw that the prisoners did not talk; they formed the axis of the roundabout, which turned slowly and steadily for exactly twenty minutes. Then the prisoners were conducted back into the building through the door on the right, while simultaneously a new group entered the yard through the left door, and went through the same monotonous roundabout until the next relief. During the first few days Rubashov had looked for familiar faces, but found none. That relieved him: for the moment he wanted to avoid any possible reminder of the outside world, anything which might distract him from his task. His task was to work his thoughts to a conclusion, to come to terms with the past and future, with the living and the dead. He had still ten days left of the term set by Ivanov. He could only hold his thoughts by writing them down; but writing exhausted him so much that he could at the most force himself to it for an hour or two a day. The rest of the time his brain worked on its own account. Rubashov had always believed that he knew himself rather well. Being without moral prejudices, he had no illusions about the phenomenon called the "first person singular," and had taken for granted, without particular emotion, that this phenomenon was endowed with certain impulses which people are generally reluctant to admit. Now, when he stood with his forehead against the window or suddenly stopped on the third black tile, he made unexpected discoveries. He found out that those processes wrongly known as "monologues"