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By Root 3734 0

and the names of the political leaders of to-day were unknown. Nobody foresaw the new mass movements, the great political landslides,nor the twisted roads, the bewildering stages which the Revolutionary State was to go through; at that time one believed that the gates of Utopia stood open, and that mankind stood on its threshold. ... Rubashov found that by no stretch of his imagination could he picture his neighbour's state of mind, in spite of all his practice in the art of "thinking through others' minds". He could do it without much effort as far as Ivanov was concerned, or No. 1, or even the officer with the monocle; but with Rip Van Winkle he failed. He looked at him sideways; the old man had just turned his head towards him; he was smiling; holding the blanket round his shoulders with both hands, he was walking beside him with his short steps, humming almost inaudibly the tune of "Arise, ye wretched of the earth". When they had been conducted back into the building, at his cell-door, the old man turned round once again and nodded to Rubashov; his eyes blinked with a suddenly changed expression, terrified and hopeless; Rubashov thought he was going to call out to him, but the warder had already slammed the door of 406. When Rubashov was shut into his cell, he went at once to the wall; but Rip Van Winkle was silent and gave no answer to his tapping. No. 402, on the other hand, who had looked at them from his window, wanted to be told everything about the walk, down to the smallest detail. Rubashov had to inform him how the air had smelled, whether it had been cold or just cool, whether he had met any other prisoners in the corridor, and whether he had, after all, been able to exchange a few words with Rip Van Winkle. Rubashov patiently answered every question; compared with No. 402, who was never allowed out, he felt a privileged person; he was sorry for him and had almost a feeling of guilt.

The next day and the day after, Rubashov was fetched for his walk at the same hour after breakfast. Rip Van Winkle was always his companion in the round about. They circled slowly side by side, each with a blanket over his shoulders, both in silence; Rubashov sunk in thought, from time to time glancing attentively through his pince-nez at the other prisoners or at the windows of the building; the old man, with the growing stubble of beard and his gentle, childlike smile, humming his eternal song. Up to their third walk together they had not exchanged a word, although Rubashov saw that the officials did not seriously try to enforce the rule of silence, and that the other pairs in the circle talked almost incessantly; they did so looking stiffly ahead and speaking with the prison technique familiar to Rubashov, hardly moving their lips. The third day, Rubashov had brought his note-book and pencil with him; the note-book stuck out of his left outside pocket. After ten minutes the old man noticed it; his eyes lit up. He glanced covertly at the warders in the centre of the circle, who were holding an animated conversation and did not seem interested in the prisoners; then he rapidly pulled pencil and note-book out of Rubashov's pocket and began to scribble something, under cover of his bell-like blanket. He finished it quickly, tore off the page, and pressed it into Rubashov's hand; he retained, however, block and pencil and went on scribbling. Rubashov made certain their guards were paying no attention to them, and looked at the page. Nothing was written on it, it was a drawing: a geographical sketch of the country they were in, drawn with astonishing accuracy. It showed the principal towns, mountains and rivers, and had a flag planted in the middle, bearing the symbol of the Revolution. When they had gone half the way round again, No. 406 tore off a second page and pressed it into Rubashov's hand. It contained the same drawing over again, an exactly identical map of the Country of the Revolution. No. 406 looked at him and waited smilingly for the effect. Rubashov became slightly embarrassed under his gaze and murmured something indicative