Nineteen
Eighty-Four is a rare work that grows more haunting as its
futuristic purgatory becomes more real. Published in 1949, the book
offers political satirist George Orwell's nightmare vision of a
totalitarian, bureaucratic world and one poor stiff's attempt to find
individuality. The brilliance of the novel is Orwell's prescience of
modern life--the ubiquity of television, the distortion of the
language--and his ability to construct such a thorough version of
hell. Required reading for students since it was published, it ranks
among the most terrifying novels ever written.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
They had done it, they had done it at last!
The
room they were standing in was long-shaped and softly lit. The telescreen was
dimmed to a low murmur; the richness of the dark-blue carpet gave one the
impression of treading on velvet. At the far end of the room O'Brien was
sitting at a table under a green-shaded lamp, with a mass of papers on either
side of him. He had not bothered to look up when the servant showed Julia and
Winston in.
Winston's
heart was thumping so hard that he doubted whether he would be able to speak.
They had done it, they had done it at last, was all he could think. It had been
a rash act to come here at all, and sheer folly to arrive together; though it
was true that they had come by different routes and only met on O'Brien's
doorstep. But merely to walk into such a place needed an effort of the nerve.
It was only on very rare occasions that one saw inside the dwelling-places of
the Inner Party, or even penetrated into the quarter of the town where they
lived. The whole atmosphere of the huge block of flats, the richness and
spaciousness of everything, the unfamiliar smells of good food and good
tobacco, the silent and incredibly rapid lifts sliding up and down, the
white-jacketed servants hurrying to and fro — everything was intimidating.
Although he had a good pretext for coming here, he was haunted at every step by
the fear that a black-uniformed guard would suddenly appear from round the
corner, demand his papers, and order him to get out. O'Brien's servant,
however, had admitted the two of them without demur. He was a small, dark-
haired man in a white jacket, with a diamond-shaped, completely expressionless
face which might have been that of a Chinese. The passage down which he led
them was softly carpeted, with cream-papered walls and white wainscoting, all
exquisitely clean. That too was intimidating. Winston could not remember ever
to have seen a passageway whose walls were not grimy from the contact of human
bodies.
O'Brien
had a slip of paper between his fingers and seemed to be studying it intently.
His heavy face, bent down so that one could see the line of the nose, looked
both formidable and intelligent. For perhaps twenty seconds he sat without stirring.
Then he pulled the speakwrite towards him and rapped out a message in the
hybrid jargon of the Ministries:
'Items
one comma five comma seven approved fullwise stop suggestion contained item
six doubleplus ridiculous verging crimethink cancel stop unproceed
constructionwise antegetting plusfull estimates machinery overheads stop end
message.'
He
rose deliberately from his chair and came towards them across the soundless
carpet. A little of the official atmosphere seemed to have fallen away from him
with the Newspeak words, but his expression was grimmer than usual, as though
he were not pleased at being disturbed. The terror that Winston already felt
was suddenly shot through by a streak of ordinary embarrassment. It seemed to
him quite possible that he had simply made a stupid mistake. For what evidence
had he in reality that O'Brien was any kind of political conspirator? Nothing
but a flash of the eyes and a single equivocal remark: beyond that, only his
own secret imaginings, founded on a dream. He could not even fall back on the
pretence that he had come to borrow the dictionary, because in that case
Julia's presence was impossible to explain. As O'Brien passed the telescreen a
thought seemed to strike him. He stopped, turned aside and pressed a switch on
the wall. There was a sharp snap. The voice had stopped.
Julia
uttered a tiny sound, a sort of squeak of surprise. Even in the midst of his
panic, Winston was too much taken aback to be able to hold his tongue.
'You
can turn it off!' he said.
'Yes,'
said O'Brien, 'we can turn it off. We have that privilege.'
He
was opposite them now. His solid form towered over the pair of them, and the
expression on his face was still indecipherable. He was waiting, somewhat
sternly, for Winston to speak, but about what? Even now it was quite
conceivable that he was simply a busy man wondering irritably why he had been
interrupted. Nobody spoke. After the stopping of the telescreen the room seemed
deadly silent. The seconds marched past, enormous. With difficulty Winston
continued to keep his eyes fixed on O'Brien's. Then suddenly the grim face
broke down into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. With his
characteristic gesture O'Brien resettled his spectacles on his nose.
'Shall
I say it, or will you?' he said.
'I
will say it,' said Winston promptly. 'That thing is really turned off?'
'Yes,
everything is turned off. We are alone.'
'We
have come here because-'
He
paused, realizing for the first time the vagueness of his own motives. Since he
did not in fact know what kind of help he expected from O'Brien, it was not
easy to say why he had come here. He went on, conscious that what he was saying
must sound both feeble and pretentious:
'We
believe that there is some kind of conspiracy, some kind of secret organization
working against the Party, and that you are involved in it. We want to join it
and work for it. We are enemies of the Party. We disbelieve in the principles
of Ingsoc. We are thought-criminals. We are also adulterers. I tell you this
because we want to put ourselves at your mercy. If you want us to incriminate
ourselves in any other way, we are ready.'
He
stopped and glanced over his shoulder, with the feeling that the door had
opened. Sure enough, the little yellow-faced servant had come in without
knocking. Winston saw that he was carrying a tray with a decanter and glasses.
'Martin
is one of us,' said O'Brien impassively. 'Bring the drinks over here, Martin.
Put them on the round table. Have we enough chairs? Then we may as well sit
down and talk in comfort. Bring a chair for yourself, Martin. This is business.
You can stop being a servant for the next ten minutes.'
The
little man sat down, quite at his ease, and yet still with a servant-like air,
the air of a valet enjoying a privilege. Winston regarded him out of the corner
of his eye. It struck him that the man's whole life was playing a part, and
that he felt it to be dangerous to drop his assumed personality even for a
moment. O'Brien took the decanter by the neck and filled up the glasses with a
dark-red liquid. It aroused in Winston dim memories of something seen long ago
on a wall or a hoarding — a vast bottle composed of electric lights which
seemed to move up and down and pour its contents into a glass. Seen from the
top the stuff looked almost black, but in the decanter it gleamed like a ruby.
It had a sour-sweet smell. He saw Julia pick up her glass and sniff at it with
frank curiosity.
'It
is called wine,' said O'Brien with a faint smile. 'You will have read about it
in books, no doubt. Not much of it gets to the Outer Party, I am afraid.' His
face grew solemn again, and he raised his glass: 'I think it is fitting that we
should begin by drinking a health. To our Leader: To Emmanuel Goldstein.'
Winston
took up his glass with a certain eagerness. Wine was a thing he had read and
dreamed about. Like the glass paperweight or Mr Charrington's half-remembered
rhymes, it belonged to the vanished, romantic past, the olden time as he liked
to call it in his secret thoughts. For some reason he had always thought of
wine as having an intensely sweet taste, like that of blackberry jam and an
immediate intoxicating effect. Actually, when he came to swallow it, the stuff
was distinctly disappointing. The truth was that after years of gin-drinking he
could barely taste it. He set down the empty glass.
'Then
there is such a person as Goldstein?' he said.
'Yes,
there is such a person, and he is alive. Where, I do not know.'
'And
the conspiracy — the organization? Is it real? It is not simply an invention of
the Thought Police?'
'No,
it is real. The Brotherhood, we call it. You will never learn much more about
the Brotherhood than that it exists and that you belong to it. I will come back
to that presently.' He looked at his wrist-watch. 'It is unwise even for
members of the Inner Party to turn off the telescreen for more than half an
hour. You ought not to have come here together, and you will have to leave
separately. You, comrade' — he bowed his head to Julia — 'will leave first. We
have about twenty minutes at our disposal. You will understand that I must
start by asking you certain questions. In general terms, what are you prepared
to do?'
'Anything
that we are capable of,' said Winston.
O'Brien
had turned himself a little in his chair so that he was facing Winston. He
almost ignored Julia, seeming to take it for granted that Winston could speak
for her. For a moment the lids flitted down over his eyes. He began asking his
questions in a low, expressionless voice, as though this were a routine, a sort
of catechism, most of whose answers were known to him already.
'You
are prepared to give your lives?'
'Yes.'
'You
are prepared to commit murder?'
'Yes.'
'To
commit acts of sabotage which may cause the death of hundreds of innocent
people?'
'Yes.'
'To
betray your country to foreign powers?'
'Yes.'
'You
are prepared to cheat, to forge, to blackmail, to corrupt the minds of
children, to distribute habit-forming drugs, to encourage prostitution, to
disseminate venereal diseases — to do anything which is likely to cause
demoralization and weaken the power of the Party?'
'Yes.'
'If,
for example, it would somehow serve our interests to throw sulphuric acid in a
child's face — are you prepared to do that?'
'Yes.'
'You
are prepared to lose your identity and live out the rest of your life as a
waiter or a dock-worker?'
'Yes.'
'You
are prepared to commit suicide, if and when we order you to do so?'
'Yes.'
'You
are prepared, the two of you, to separate and never see one another again?'
'No!'
broke in Julia.
It
appeared to Winston that a long time passed before he answered. For a moment he
seemed even to have been deprived of the power of speech. His tongue worked
soundlessly, forming the opening syllables first of one word, then of the
other, over and over again. Until he had said it, he did not know which word he
was going to say. 'No,' he said finally.
'You
did well to tell me,' said O'Brien. 'It is necessary for us to know
everything.'
He
turned himself toward Julia and added in a voice with somewhat more expression
in it:
'Do
you understand that even if he survives, it may be as a different person? We
may be obliged to give him a new identity. His face, his movements, the shape
of his hands, the colour of his hair — even his voice would be different. And
you yourself might have become a different person. Our surgeons can alter
people beyond recognition. Sometimes it is necessary. Sometimes we even
amputate a limb.'
Winston
could not help snatching another sidelong glance at Martin's Mongolian face.
There were no scars that he could see. Julia had turned a shade paler, so that
her freckles were showing, but she faced O'Brien boldly. She murmured something
that seemed to be assent.
'Good.
Then that is settled.'
There
was a silver box of cigarettes on the table. With a rather absent- minded air
O'Brien pushed them towards the others, took one himself, then stood up and
began to pace slowly to and fro, as though he could think better standing. They
were very good cigarettes, very thick and well-packed, with an unfamiliar silkiness
in the paper. O'Brien looked at his wrist-watch again.
'You
had better go back to your Pantry, Martin,' he said. 'I shall switch on in a
quarter of an hour. Take a good look at these comrades' faces before you go.
You will be seeing them again. I may not.
Exactly
as they had done at the front door, the little man's dark eyes flickered over
their faces. There was not a trace of friendliness in his manner. He was
memorizing their appearance, but he felt no interest in them, or appeared to
feel none. It occurred to Winston that a synthetic face was perhaps incapable
of changing its expression. Without speaking or giving any kind of salutation,
Martin went out, closing the door silently behind him. O'Brien was strolling up
and down, one hand in the pocket of his black overalls, the other holding his
cigarette.
'You
understand,' he said, 'that you will be fighting in the dark. You will always
be in the dark. You will receive orders and you will obey them, without knowing
why. Later I shall send you a book from which you will learn the true nature of
the society we live in, and the strategy by which we shall destroy it. When you
have read the book, you will be full members of the Brotherhood. But between
the general aims that we are fighting for and the immediate tasks of the
moment, you will never know anything. I tell you that the Brotherhood exists,
but I cannot tell you whether it numbers a hundred members, or ten million.
From your personal knowledge you will never be able to say that it numbers even
as many as a dozen. You will have three or four contacts, who will be renewed
from time to time as they disappear. As this was your first contact, it will be
preserved. When you receive orders, they will come from me. If we find it
necessary to communicate with you, it will be through Martin. When you are
finally caught, you will confess. That is unavoidable. But you will have very
little to confess, other than your own actions. You will not be able to betray
more than a handful of unimportant people. Probably you will not even betray
me. By that time I may be dead, or I shall have become a different person, with
a different face.'
He
continued to move to and fro over the soft carpet. In spite of the bulkiness of
his body there was a remarkable grace in his movements. It came out even in the
gesture with which he thrust a hand into his pocket, or manipulated a
cigarette. More even than of strength, he gave an impression of confidence and
of an understanding tinged by irony. However much in earnest he might be, he
had nothing of the single-mindedness that belongs to a fanatic. When he spoke
of murder, suicide, venereal disease, amputated limbs, and altered faces, it
was with a faint air of persiflage. 'This is unavoidable,' his voice seemed to
say; 'this is what we have got to do, unflinchingly. But this is not what we
shall be doing when life is worth living again.' A wave of admiration, almost
of worship, flowed out from Winston towards O'Brien. For the moment he had
forgotten the shadowy figure of Goldstein. When you looked at O'Brien's
powerful shoulders and his blunt-featured face, so ugly and yet so civilized,
it was impossible to believe that he could be defeated. There was no stratagem
that he was not equal to, no danger that he could not foresee. Even Julia seemed
to be impressed. She had let her cigarette go out and was listening intently.
O'Brien went on:
'You
will have heard rumours of the existence of the Brotherhood. No doubt you have
formed your own picture of it. You have imagined, probably, a huge underworld
of conspirators, meeting secretly in cellars, scribbling messages on walls,
recognizing one another by codewords or by special movements of the hand.
Nothing of the kind exists. The members of the Brotherhood have no way of
recognizing one another, and it is impossible for any one member to be aware of
the identity of more than a few others. Goldstein himself, if he fell into the
hands of the Thought Police, could not give them a complete list of members, or
any information that would lead them to a complete list. No such list exists.
The Brotherhood cannot be wiped out because it is not an organization in the
ordinary sense. Nothing holds it together except an idea which is
indestructible. You will never have anything to sustain you, except the idea.
You will get no comradeship and no encouragement. When finally you are caught,
you will get no help. We never help our members. At most, when it is absolutely
necessary that someone should be silenced, we are occasionally able to smuggle
a razor blade into a prisoner's cell. You will have to get used to living
without results and without hope. You will work for a while, you will be
caught, you will confess, and then you will die. Those are the only results
that you will ever see. There is no possibility that any perceptible change
will happen within our own lifetime. We are the dead. Our only true life is in
the future. We shall take part in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone.
But how far away that future may be, there is no knowing. It might be a
thousand years. At present nothing is possible except to extend the area of
sanity little by little. We cannot act collectively. We can only spread our
knowledge outwards from individual to individual, generation after generation.
In the face of the Thought Police there is no other way.'
He
halted and looked for the third time at his wrist-watch.
'It
is almost time for you to leave, comrade,' he said to Julia. 'Wait. The
decanter is still half full.'
He
filled the glasses and raised his own glass by the stem.
'What
shall it be this time?' he said, still with the same faint suggestion of irony.
'To the confusion of the Thought Police? To the death of Big Brother? To
humanity? To the future?'
'To
the past,' said Winston.
'The
past is more important,' agreed O'Brien gravely.
They
emptied their glasses, and a moment later Julia stood up to go. O'Brien took a
small box from the top of a cabinet and handed her a flat white tablet which he
told her to place on her tongue. It was important, he said, not to go out smelling
of wine: the lift attendants were very observant. As soon as the door had shut
behind her he appeared to forget her existence. He took another pace or two up
and down, then stopped.
'There
are details to be settled,' he said. 'I assume that you have a hiding- place of
some kind?'
Winston
explained about the room over Mr Charrington's shop.
'That
will do for the moment. Later we will arrange something else for you. It is
important to change one's hiding-place frequently. Meanwhile I shall send you a
copy of the book' — even O'Brien, Winston noticed, seemed to pronounce the
words as though they were in italics- 'Goldstein's book, you understand, as
soon as possible. It may be some days before I can get hold of one. There are
not many in existence, as you can imagine. The Thought Police hunt them down
and destroy them almost as fast as we can produce them. It makes very little
difference. The book is indestructible. If the last copy were gone, we could
reproduce it almost word for word. Do you carry a brief-case to work with you?'
he added.
'As
a rule, yes.'
'What
is it like?'
'Black,
very shabby. With two straps.'
'Black,
two straps, very shabby — good. One day in the fairly near future- I cannot
give a date — one of the messages among your morning's work will contain a
misprinted word, and you will have to ask for a repeat. On the following day
you will go to work without your brief-case. At some time during the day, in
the street, a man will touch you on the arm and say "I think you have
dropped your brief-case." The one he gives you will contain a copy of
Goldstein's book. You will return it within fourteen days.'
They
were silent for a moment.
'There
are a couple of minutes before you need go,' said O'Brien. 'We shall meet again
— if we do meet again-'
Winston
looked up at him. 'In the place where there is no darkness?' he said
hesitantly.
O'Brien
nodded without appearance of surprise. 'In the place where there is no
darkness,' he said, as though he had recognized the allusion. 'And in the
meantime, is there anything that you wish to say before you leave? Any message?
Any question?.'
Winston
thought. There did not seem to be any further question that he wanted to ask:
still less did he feel any impulse to utter high-sounding generalities.
Instead of anything directly connected with O'Brien or the Brotherhood, there
came into his mind a sort of composite picture of the dark bedroom where his
mother had spent her last days, and the little room over Mr Charrington's shop,
and the glass paperweight, and the steel engraving in its rosewood frame.
Almost at random he said:
'Did
you ever happen to hear an old rhyme that begins "Oranges and lemons, say
the bells of St Clement's"?'
Again
O'Brien nodded. With a sort of grave courtesy he completed the stanza:
'Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's, You
owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin's, When will you pay me? say
the bells of Old Bailey When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch.' 'You
knew the last line!' said Winston.
'Yes,
I knew the last line. And now, I am afraid, it is time for you to go. But wait.
You had better let me give you one of these tablets.'
As
Winston stood up O'Brien held out a hand. His powerful grip crushed the bones
of Winston's palm. At the door Winston looked back, but O'Brien seemed already
to be in process of putting him out of mind. He was waiting with his hand on
the switch that controlled the telescreen. Beyond him Winston could see the
writing-table with its green- shaded lamp and the speakwrite and the wire
baskets deep-laden with papers. The incident was closed. Within thirty seconds,
it occurred to him, O'Brien would be back at his interrupted and important work
on behalf of the Party.
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