They had been talking to one another for a couple of minutes at the most.There was only one meaning that the episode could possibly have.It had been contrived as a way of letting Winston know O'Brien's address.This was necessary,because except by di-rect inquiry it was never possible to discover where anyone lived. There were no directories of any kind."If you ever want to see me, this is where I can be found,"was what O'Brien had been saying to him.Perhaps there would even be a message concealed somewhere in the dictionary.But at any rate,one thing was certain.The conspir-acy that he had dreamed of did exist,and he had reached the outer edges of it.
He knew that sooner or later he would obey O'Brien's sum-mons.Perhaps tomorrow,perhaps after a long delay—he was not certain.What was happening was only the working-out of a process that had started years ago.The first step had been a secret,involun-tary thought; the second had been the opening of the diary.He had moved from thoughts to words,and now from words to actions.The last step was something that would happen in the Ministry of Love. He had accepted it.The end was contained in the beginning.But it was frightening; or,more exactly,it was like a foretaste of death, like being a little less alive.Even while he was speaking to O'Brien, when the meaning of the words had sunk in,a chilly shuddering feeling had taken possession of his body.He had the sensation of stepping into the dampness of a grave,and it was not much better because he had always known that the grave was there and waiting for him.
Chapter 7
W inston had woken up with his eyes full of tears.Juliarolled sleepily against him,murmuring something thatmight have been"What's the matter?"
"I dreamt—"he began,and stopped short.It was too complex to be put into words.There was the dream itself,and there was a memory connected with it that had swum into his mind in the few seconds after waking.
He lay back with his eyes shut,still sodden in the atmosphere of the dream.It was a vast,luminous dream in which his whole life seemed to stretch out before him like a landscape on a summer eve-ning after rain.It had all occurred inside the glass paperweight,but the surface of the glass was the dome of the sky,and inside the dome everything was flooded with clear soft light in which one could see into interminable distances.The dream had also been com-prehended by—indeed,in some sense it had consisted in—a gesture of the arm made by his mother,and made again thirty years later by the Jewish woman he had seen on the news film,trying to shelter the small boy from the bullets,before the helicopter blew them both to pieces.
"Do you know,"he said,"that until this moment I believed I had murdered my mother?"
"Why did you murder her?"said Julia,almost asleep.
"I didn't murder her.Not physically."
In the dream he had remembered his last glimpse of his moth-er,and within a few moments of waking the cluster of small events surrounding it had all come back.It was a memory that he must have deliberately pushed out of his consciousness over many years. He was not certain of the date,but he could not have been less than ten years old,possibly twelve,when it had happened.
His father had disappeared some time earlier;how much earli-er, he could not remember.He remembered better the rackety,un-easy circumstances of the time:the periodical panics about air raids and the sheltering in Tube stations,the piles of rubble everywhere, the unintelligible proclamations posted at street corners,the gangs of youths in shirts all the same color,the enormous queues outside the bakeries,the intermittent machine-gun fire in the distance—above all,the fact that there was never enough to eat.He remem-bered long afternoons spent with other boys in scrounging round dustbins and rubbish heaps,picking out the ribs of cabbage leaves, potato peelings,sometimes even scraps of stale breadcrust from which they carefully scraped away the cinders;and also in waiting for the passing of trucks which travelled over a certain route and were known to carry cattle feed,and which,when they j olted over the bad patches in the road,sometimes spilt a few fragments of oil-cake.
When his father disappeared,his mother did not show any sur-prise or any violent grief,but a sudden change came over her.She seemed to have become completely spiritless.It was evident even to Winston that she was waiting for something that she knew must happen.She did everything that was needed—cooked,washed,men-ded,made the bed,swept the floor,dusted the mantelpiece—always very slowly and with a curious lack of superfluous motion,like an artist's lay-figure moving of its own accord.Her large shapely body seemed to relapse naturally into stillness.For hours at a time she would sit almost immobile on the bed,nursing his young sister,a ti-ny,ailing,very silent child of two or three,with a face made simian by thinness.Very occasionally she would take Winston in her arms and press him against her for a long time without saying anything. He was aware,in spite of his youthfulness and selfishness,that this was somehow connected with the never-mentioned thing that was about to happen.
He remembered the room where they lived,a dark,close-smelling room that seemed half filled by a bed with a white coun-terpane.There was a gas ring in the fender,and a shelf where food was kept,and on the landing outside there was a brown earthenw-are sink,common to several rooms.He remembered his mother's statuesque body bending over the gas ring to stir at something in a saucepan.Above all he remembered his continuous hunger,and the fierce sordid battles at mealtimes.He would ask his mother nag-gingly,over and over again,why there was not more food,he would shout and storm at her(he even remembered the tones of his voice, which was beginning to break prematurely and sometimes boomed in a peculiar way),or he would attempt a snivelling note of pathos in his efforts to get more than his share.His mother was quite ready to give him more than his share.She took it for granted that he,"the boy",should have the biggest portion;but however much she gave him he invariably demanded more.At every meal she would beseech him not to be selfish and to remember that his little sister was sick and also needed food,but it was no use.He would cry out with rage when she stopped ladling,he would try to wrench the saucepan and spoon out of her hands,he would grab bits from his sister's plate.He knew that he was starving the other two,but he could not help it;he even felt that he had a right to do it.The clam-orous hunger in his belly seemed to justify him.Between meals,if his mother did not stand guard,he was constantly pilfering at the wretched store of food on the shelf.
One day a chocolate ration was issued.There had been no such issue for weeks or months past.He remembered quite clearly that precious little morsel of chocolate.It was a two-ounce slab (they still talked about ounces in those days) between the three of them. It was obvious that it ought to be divided into three equal parts. Suddenly,as though he were listening to somebody else,Winston heard himself demanding in a loud booming voice that he should be given the whole piece.His mother told him not to be greedy.There was a long,nagging argument that went round and round,with shouts,whines,tears,remonstrances,bargainings.His tiny sister, clinging to her mother with both hands,exactly like a baby mon-key,sat looking over her shoulder at him with large,mournful eyes. In the end his mother broke off three-quarters of the chocolate and gave it to Winston,giving the other quarter to his sister.The little girl took hold of it and looked at it dully,perhaps not knowing what it was.Winston stood watching her for a moment.Then with a sud-den swift spring he had snatched the piece of chocolate out of his sister's hand and was fleeing for the door.
"Winston,Winston!"his mother called after him."Come back! Give your sister back her chocolate!"
He stopped,but did not come back.His mother's anxious eyes were fixed on his face.Even now she was thinking about the thing, he did not know what it was that was on the point of happening.His sister,conscious of having been robbed of something,had set up a feeble wail.His mother drew her arm round the child and pressed its face against her breast.Something in the gesture told him that his sister was dying.He turned and fled down the stairs,with the chocolate growing sticky in his hand.
He never saw his mother again.After he had devoured the chocolate he felt somewhat ashamed of himself and hung about in the streets for several hours,until hunger drove him home.When he came back his mother had disappeared.This was already becoming normal at that time.Nothing was gone from the room except his mother and his sister.They had not taken any clothes,not even his mother's overcoat.To this day he did not know with any certainty that his mother was dead.It was perfectly possible that she had merely been sent to a forced-labour camp.As for his sister,she might have been removed,like Winston himself,to one of the colo-nies for homeless children (Reclamation Centres,they were called) which had grown up as a result of the civil war;or she might have been sent to the labour camp along with his mother,or simply left somewhere or other to die.
The dream was still vivid in his mind,especially the enveloping protecting gesture of the arm in which its whole meaning seemed to be contained.His mind went back to another dream of two months ago.Exactly as his mother had sat on the dingy white-quilted bed, with the child clinging to her,so she had sat in the sunken ship,far underneath him and drowning deeper every minute,but still looking up at him through the darkening water.
He told Julia the story of his mother's disappearance.Without opening her eyes she rolled over and settled herself into a more comfortable position.
"I expect you were a beastly little swine in those days,"she said indistinctly."All children are swine."
"Yes.But the real point of the story—"
From her breathing it was evident that she was going off to sleep again.He would have liked to continue talking about his mother.He did not suppose,from what he could remember of her, that she had been an unusual woman,still less an intelligent one;and yet she had possessed a kind of nobility,a kind of purity,simply because the standards that she obeyed were private ones.Her feel-ings were her own,and could not be altered from outside.It would not have occurred to her that an action which is ineffectual thereby becomes meaningless.If you loved someone,you loved him,and when you had nothing else to give,you still gave him love.When the last of the chocolate was gone,his mother had clasped the child in her arms.It was no use,it changed nothing,it did not produce more chocolate,it did not avert the child's death or her own;but it seemed natural to her to do it.The refugee woman in the boat had also covered the little boy with her arm,which was no more use a-gainst the bullets than a sheet of paper.The terrible thing that the Party had done was to persuade you that mere impulses,mere feel-ings,were of no account,while at the same time robbing you of all power over the material world.When once you were in the grip of the Party,what you felt or did not feel,what you did or refrained from doing,made literally no difference.Whatever happened you vanished,and neither you nor your actions were ever heard of again. You were lifted clean out of the stream of history.And yet to the people of only two generations ago this would not have seemed all-important,because they were not attempting to alter history.They were governed by private loyalties which they did not question. What mattered were individual relationships,and a completely help-less gesture,an embrace,a tear,a word spoken to a dying man, could have value in itself.The proles,it suddenly occurred to him, had remained in this condition.They were not loyal to a party or a country or an idea,they were loyal to one another.For the first time in his life he did not despise the proles or think of them merely as an inert force which would one day spring to life and regenerate the world.The proles had stayed human.They had not become hardened inside.They had held on to the primitive emotions which he himself had to relearn by conscious effort.And in thinking this he remem-bered,without apparent relevance,how a few weeks ago he had seen a severed hand lying on the pavement and had kicked it into the gutter as though it had been a cabbage stalk.
"The proles are human beings,"he said aloud."We are not hu-man."
"Why not?"said Julia,who had woken up again.
He thought for a little while."Has it ever occurred to you,"he said,"that the best thing for us to do would be simply to walk out of here before it's too late,and never see each other again?"
"Yes,dear,it has occurred to me,several times.But I'm not going to do it,all the same."
"We've been lucky,"he said"but it can't last much longer. You're young.You look normal and innocent.If you keep clear of people like me,you might stay alive for another fifty years."
"No.I've thought it all out.What you do,I'm going to do.And don't be too downhearted.I'm rather good at staying alive."
"We may be together for another six months—a year—there's no knowing.At the end we're certain to be apart.Do you realize how utterly alone we shall be? When once they get hold of us there will be nothing,literally nothing,that either of us can do for the other.If I confess,they'll shoot you,and if I refuse to confess they'll shoot you just the same.Nothing that I can do or say,or stop myself from saying,will put off your death for as much as five minutes.Neither of us will even know whether the other is alive or dead.We shall be utterly without power of any kind.The one thing that matters is that we shouldn't betray one another,although even that can't make the slightest difference."
"If you mean confessing,"she said,"we shall do that,right e-nough.Everybody always confesses.You can't help it.They torture you."
"I don't mean confessing.Confession is not betrayal.What you say or do doesn't matter:only feelings matter.If they could make me stop loving you—that would be the real betrayal."
She thought it over."They can't do that,"she said finally."It's the one thing they can't do.They can make you say any-thing—anything—but they can't make you believe it.They can't get inside you."
"No,"he said a little more hopefully,"no;that's quite true. They can't get inside you.If you can feel that staying human is worth while,even when it can't have any result whatever,you've beaten them."
He thought of the telescreen with its never-sleeping ear.They could spy upon you night and day,but if you kept your head you could still outwit them.With all their cleverness they had never mastered the secret of finding out what another human being was thinking.Perhaps that was less true when you were actually in their hands.One did not know what happened inside the Ministry of Love,but it was possible to guess:tortures,drugs,delicate instru-ments that registered your nervous reactions,gradual wearing-down by sleeplessness and solitude and persistent questioning.Facts,at any rate,could not be kept hidden.They could be tracked down by inquiry,they could be squeezed out of you by torture.But if the ob-j ect was not to stay alive but to stay human,what difference did it ultimately make?They could not alter your feelings;for that matter you could not alter them yourself,even if you wanted to.They could lay bare in the utmost detail everything that you had done or said or thought;but the inner heart,whose workings were mysterious even to yourself,remained impregnable.
Chapter 8
T hey had done it,they had done it at last!
The room they were standing in was long-shapedand 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 wheth-er 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-j acketed servants hurrying to and fro—everything was intimidating.Although he had a good pre-text 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 carpe-ted,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 toward him and rapped out a message in the hybrid jar-gon of the Ministries:
"Items one comma five comma seven approved fullwise stop suggestion contained item six doubleplus ridiculous verging crime-think cancel stop unproceed constructionwise ante-getting plusfull estimates machinery overheads stop end message."
He rose deliberately from his chair and came toward 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 mis-take.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 pretense that he had come to borrow the dictionary,because in that case Jul-ia's presence was impossible to explain.As O'Brien passed the tele-screen 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 privi-lege."
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 specta-cles 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 in-volved in it.We want to j oin 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 *****erers.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 e-nough chairs? Then we may as well sit down and talk in comfort. Bring a chair for yourself,Martin.This is business.You can stop be-ing a servant for the next ten minutes."
The little man sat down,quite at his ease,and yet still with a servantlike air,the air of a valet enj oying a privilege.Winston regar-ded 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 de-canter 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 drink-ing 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 van-ished,romantic past,the olden time as he liked to call it in his se-cret 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 emp-ty 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 a-bout 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 cate-chi**,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 encour-age 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?"