"They got me a long time ago,"said O'Brien with a mild,al-most regretful irony.He stepped aside.From behind him there emerged a broad-chested guard with a long black truncheon in his hand.
"You know this,Winston,"said O'Brien."Don't deceive your-self.You did know it—you have always known it."
Yes,he saw now,he had always known it.But there was no time to think of that.All he had eyes for was the truncheon in the guard's hand.It might fall anywhere:on the crown,on the tip of the ear,on the upper arm,on the elbow—
The elbow! He had slumped to his knees,almost paralyzed, clasping the stricken elbow with his other hand.Everything had ex-ploded into yellow light.Inconceivable,inconceivable that one blow could cause such pain! The light cleared and he could see the other two looking down at him.The guard was laughing at his contor-tions.One question at any rate was answered.Never,for any reason on earth,could you wish for an increase of pain.Of pain you could wish only one thing:that it should stop.Nothing in the world was so bad as physical pain.In the face of pain there are no heroes,no he-roes,he thought over and over as he writhed on the floor,clutching uselessly at his disabled left arm.
Chapter 2
H e was lying on something that felt like a camp bed,exceptthat it was higher off the ground and that he was fixeddown in some way so that he could not move.Light thatseemed stronger than usual was falling on his face.O'Brien was standing at his side,looking down at him intently.At the other side of him stood a man in a white coat,holding a hypodermic syringe.
Even after his eyes were open he took in his surroundings only gradually.He had the impression of swimming up into this room from some quite different world,a sort of underwater world far be-neath it.How long he had been down there he did not know.Since the moment when they arrested him he had not seen darkness or daylight.Besides,his memories were not continuous.There had been times when consciousness,even the sort of consciousness that one has in sleep,had stopped dead and started again after a blank inter-val.But whether the intervals were of days or weeks or only sec-onds,there was no way of knowing.
With that first blow on the elbow the nightmare had started. Later he was to realize that all that then happened was merely a preliminary,a routine interrogationto which nearly all prisoners were subj ected.There was a long range of crimes—espionage,sabo tage,and the like—to which everyone had to confess as a matter of course.The confession was a formality,though the torture was real. How many times he had been beaten,how long the beatings had continued,he could not remember.Always there were five or six men in black uniforms at him simultaneously.Sometimes it was fists,sometimes it was truncheons,sometimes it was steel rods, sometimes it was boots.There were times when he rolled about the floor,as shameless as an animal,writhing his body this way and that in an endless,hopeless effort to dodge the kicks,and simply in-viting more and yet more kicks,in his ribs,in his belly,on his el-bows,on his shins,in his groin,in his testicles,on the bone at the base of his spine.There were times when it went on and on until the cruel,wicked,unforgivable thing seemed to him not that the guards continued to beat him but that he could not force himself into losing consciousness.There were times when his nerve so forsook him that he began shouting for mercy even before the beating began,when the mere sight of a fist drawn back for a blow was enough to make him pour forth a confession of real and imaginary crimes.There were other times when he started out with the resolve of confessing nothing,when every word had to be forced out of him between gasps of pain,and there were times when he feebly tried to compro-mise,when he said to himself:"I will confess,but not yet.I must hold out till the pain becomes unbearable.Three more kicks,two more kicks,and then I will tell them what they want."Sometimes he was beaten till he could hardly stand,then flung like a sack of potatoes onto the stone floor of a cell,left to recuperate for a few hours,and then taken out and beaten again.There were also longer periods of recovery.He remembered them dimly,because they were spent chiefly in sleep or stupor.He remembered a cell with a plank bed,a sort of shelf sticking out from the wall,and a tin wash basin, and meals of hot soup and bread and sometimes coffee.He remem bered a surly barber arriving to scrape his chin and crop his hair, and businesslike,unsympathetic men in white coats feeling his pulse,tapping his reflexes,turning up his eyelids,running harsh fin-gers over him in search of broken bones,and shooting needles into his arm to make him sleep.
The beatings grew less frequent,and became mainly a threat,a horror to which he could be sent back at any moment when his an-swers were unsatisfactory.His questioners now were not ruffians in black uniforms but Party intellectuals,little rotund men with quick movements and flashing spectacles,who worked on him in relays o-ver periods which lasted—he thought,he could not be sure—ten or twelve hours at a stretch.These other questioners saw to it that he was in constant slight pain,but it was not chiefly pain that they re-lied on.They slapped his face,wrung his ears,pulled his hair,made him stand on one leg,refused him leave to urinate,shone glaring lights in his face until his eyes ran with water;but the aim of this was simply to humiliate him and destroy his power of arguing and reasoning.Their real weapon was the merciless questioning that went on and on hour after hour,tripping him up,laying traps for him,twisting everything that he said,convicting him at every step of lies and self-contradiction until he began weeping as much from shame as from nervous fatigue.Sometimes he would weep half a dozen times in a single session.Most of the time they screamed a-buse at him and threatened at every hesitation to deliver him over to the guards again;but sometimes they would suddenly change their tune,call him comrade,appeal to him in the name of Ingsoc and Big Brother,and ask him sorrowfully whether even now he had not enough loyalty to the Party left to make him wish to undo the evil he had done.When his nerves were in rags after hours of ques-tioning,even this appeal could reduce him to snivelling tears.In the end the nagging voices broke him down more completely than the boots and fists of the guards.He became simply a mouth that ut-tered,a hand that signed whatever was demanded of him.His sole concern was to find out what they wanted him to confess,and then confess it quickly,before the bullying started anew.He confessed to the assassination of eminent Party members,the distribution of se-ditious pamphlets,embezzlement of public funds,sale of military secrets,sabotage of every kind.He confessed that he had been a spy in the pay of the Eastasian government as far back as 1968.He con-fessed that he was a religious believer,an admirer of capitalism,and a sexual pervert.He confessed that he had murdered his wife,al-though he knew,and his questioners must have known,that his wife was still alive.He confessed that for years he had been in per-sonal touch with Goldstein and had been a member of an under-ground organization which had included almost every human being he had ever known.It was easier to confess everything and implicate everybody.Besides,in a sense it was all true.It was true that he had been the enemy of the Party,and in the eyes of the Party there was no distinction between the thought and the deed.
There were also memories of another kind.They stood out in his mind disconnectedly,like pictures with blackness all round them.
He was in a cell which might have been either dark or light, because he could see nothing except a pair of eyes.Near at hand some kind of instrument was ticking slowly and regularly.The eyes grew larger and more luminous.Suddenly he floated out of his seat, dived into the eyes,and was swallowed up.
He was strapped into a chair surrounded by dials,under daz-zling lights.A man in a white coat was reading the dials.There was a tramp of heavy boots outside.The door clanged open.The waxed faced officer marched in,followed by two guards.
"Room 101,"said the officer.
The man in the white coat did not turn round.He did not look at Winston either;he was looking only at the dials.
He was rolling down a mighty corridor,a kilometer wide,full of glorious,golden light,roaring with laughter and shouting out confessions at the top of his voice.He was confessing everything,e-ven the things he had succeeded in holding back under the torture. He was relating the entire history of his life to an audience who knew it already.With him were the guards,the other questioners, the men in white coats,O'Brien,Julia,Mr.Charrington,all rolling down the corridor together and shouting with laughter.Some dread-ful thing which had lain embedded in the future had somehow been skipped over and had not happened.Everything was all right,there was no more pain,the last detail of his life was laid bare,under-stood,forgiven.
He was starting up from the plank bed in the half-certainty that he had heard O'Brien's voice.All through his interrogation,al-though he had never seen him,he had had the feeling that O'Brien was at his elbow,just out of sight.It was O'Brien who was direc-ting everything.It was he who set the guards onto Winston and who prevented them from killing him.It was he who decided when Win-ston should scream with pain,when he should have a respite,when he should be fed,when he should sleep,when the drugs should be pumped into his arm.It was he who asked the questions and sugges-ted the answers.He was the tormentor,he was the protector,he was the inquisitor,he was the friend.And once—Winston could not re-member whether it was in drugged sleep,or in normal sleep,or e-ven in a moment of wakefulness—a voice murmured in his ear:"Don't worry,Winston;you are in my keeping.For seven years I have watched over you.Now the turning point has come.I shall save you,I shall make you perfect."He was not sure whether it was O' Brien's voice;but it was the same voice that had said to him,"We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,"in that other dream,seven years ago.
He did not remember any ending to his interrogation.There was a period of blackness and then the cell,or room,in which he now was had gradually materialized round him.He was almost flat on his back,and unable to move.His body was held down at every essential point.Even the back of his head was gripped in some man-ner.O'Brien was looking down at him gravely and rather sadly.His face,seen from below,looked coarse and worn,with pouches under the eyes and tired lines from nose to chin.He was older than Win-ston had thought him;he was perhaps forty-eight or fifty.Under his hand there was a dial with a lever on top and figures running round the face.
"I told you,"said O'Brien,"that if we met again it would be here."
"Yes,"said Winston.
Without any warning except a slight movement of O'Brien's hand,a wave of pain flooded his body.It was a frightening pain,be-cause he could not see what was happening,and he had the feeling that some mortal injury was being done to him.He did not know whether the thing was really happening,or whether the effect was electrically produced;but his body was being wrenched out of shape,the joints were being slowly torn apart.Although the pain had brought the sweat out on his forehead,the worst of all was the fear that his backbone was about to snap.He set his teeth and breathed hard through his nose,trying to keep silent as long as pos-sible.
"You are afraid,"said O'Brien,watching his face,"that in an-other moment something is going to break.Your especial fear is that it will be your backbone.You have a vivid mental picture of the vertebrae snapping apart and the spinal fluid dripping out of them. That is what you are thinking,is it not,Winston?"
Winston did not answer.O'Brien drew back the lever on the d-i al.The wave of pain receded almost as quickly as it had come.
"That was forty,"said O'Brien."You can see that the num-bers on this dial run up to a hundred.Will you please remember, throughout our conversation,that I have it in my power to inflict pain on you at any moment and to whatever degree I choose.If you tell me any lies,or attempt to prevaricate in any way,or even fall below your usual level of intelligence,you will cry out with pain,in-stantly.Do you understand that?"
"Yes,"said Winston.
O'Brien's manner became less severe.He resettled his specta-cles thoughtfully,and took a pace or two up and down.When he spoke his voice was gentle and patient.He had the air of a doctor,a teacher,even a priest,anxious to explain and persuade rather than to punish.
"I am taking trouble with you,Winston,"he said,"because you are worth trouble.You know perfectly well what is the matter with you.You have known it for years,though you have fought a-gainst the knowledge.You are mentally deranged.You suffer from a defective memory.You are unable to remember real events and you persuade yourself that you remember other events which never hap-pened.Fortunately it is curable.You have never cured yourself of it,because you did not choose to.There was a small effort of the will that you were not ready to make.Even now,I am well aware,you are clinging to your disease under the impression that it is a virtue. Now we will take an example.At this moment,which power is Oce-ania at war with?"
"When I was arrested,Oceania was at war with Eastasia."
"With Eastasia.Good.And Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia,has it not?"
Winston drew in his breath.He opened his mouth to speak and then did not speak.He could not take his eyes away from the dial.
"The truth,please,Winston.Your truth.Tell me what you think you remember."
"I remember that until only a week before I was arrested,we were not at war with Eastasia at all.We were in alliance with them. The war was against Eurasia.That had lasted for four years.Before that—"
O'Brien stopped him with a movement of the hand.
"Another example,"he said."Some years ago you had a very serious delusion indeed.You believed that three men,three one-time Party members named Jones,Aaronson,and Rutherford—men who were executed for treachery and sabotage after making the fullest possible confession—were not guilty of the crimes they were charged with.You believed that you had seen unmistakable docu-mentary evidence proving that their confessions were false.There was a certain photograph about which you had a hallucination.You believed that you had actually held it in your hands.It was a photo-graph something like this."
An oblong slip of newspaper had appeared between O'Brien's fingers.For perhaps five seconds it was within the angle of Win-ston's vision.It was a photograph,and there was no question of its identity.It was the photograph.It was another copy of the photo-graph of Jones,Aaronson,and Rutherford at the party function in New York, which he had chanced upon eleven years ago and promptly destroyed.For only an instant it was before his eyes; then it was out of sight again.But he had seen it,unquestionably he had seen it! He made a desperate,agonizing effort to wrench the top half of his body free.It was impossible to move so much as a centi-metre in any direction.For the moment he had even forgotten the dial.All he wanted was to hold the photograph in his fingers again, or at least to see it.
"It exists!"he cried.
"No,"said O'Brien.
He stepped across the room.There was a memory hole in the opposite wall.O'Brien lifted the grating.Unseen,the frail slip of pa-per was whirling away on the current of warm air;it was vanishing in a flash of flame.O'Brien turned away from the wall.
"Ashes,"he said."Not even identifiable ashes.Dust.It does not exist.It never existed."
"But it did exist! It does exist! It exists in memory.I remem-ber it.You remember it."
"I do not remember it,"said O'Brien.
Winston's heart sank.That was doublethink.He had a feeling of deadly helplessness.If he could have been certain that O'Brien was lying,it would not have seemed to matter.But it was perfectly possible that O'Brien had really forgotten the photograph.And if so,then already he would have forgotten his denial of remembering it,and forgotten the act of forgetting.How could one be sure that it was simple trickery? Perhaps that lunatic dislocation in the mind could really happen:that was the thought that defeated him.
O'Brien was looking down at him speculatively.More than ever he had the air of a teacher taking pains with a wayward but promis-ing child.
"There is a Party slogan dealing with the control of the past,"he said."Repeat it,if you please."
"'Who controls the past controls the future; who controls the present controls the past,'"repeated Winston obediently.
"'Who controls the present controls the past,'"said O'Brien, nodding his head with slow approval."Is it your opinion,Winston, that the past has real existence?"
Again the feeling of helplessness descended upon Winston.His eyes flitted toward the dial.He not only did not know whether"yes"or"no"was the answer that would save him from pain;he did not even know which answer he believed to be the true one.
O'Brien smiled faintly."You are no metaphysician,Winston,"he said."Until this moment you had never considered what is meant by existence.I will put it more precisely.Does the past exist con-cretely,in space? Is there somewhere or other a place,a world of solid obj ects,where the past is still happening?"
"No."
"Then where does the past exist,if at all?"
"In records.It is written down."
"In records.And—?"
"In the mind.In human memories."
"In memory.Very well,then.We,the Party,control all records, and we control all memories.Then we control the past,do we not?"
"But how can you stop people remembering things?"cried Winston again momentarily forgetting the dial."It is involuntary.It is outside oneself.How can you control memory?You have not con-trolled mine!"
O'Brien's manner grew stern again.He laid his hand on the d-i al.
"On the contrary,"he said,"you have not controlled it.That is what has brought you here.You are here because you have failed in humility,in self-discipline.You would not make the act of submis-sion which is the price of sanity.You preferred to be a lunatic,a mi-nority of one.Only the disciplined mind can see reality,Winston. You believe that reality is something obj ective,external,existing in its own right.You also believe that the nature of reality is self-evi-dent.When you delude yourself into thinking that you see some-thing,you assume that everyone else sees the same thing as you.But I tell you,Winston,that reality is not external.Reality exists in the human mind,and nowhere else.Not in the individual mind,which can make mistakes,and in any case soon perishes; only in the mind of the Party,which is collective and immortal.Whatever the Party holds to be the truth is truth.It is impossible to see reality except by looking through the eyes of the Party.That is the fact that you have got to relearn,Winston.It needs an act of self-destruction,an effort of the will.You must humble yourself before you can become sane."
He paused for a few moments,as though to allow what he had been saying to sink in.
"Do you remember,"he went on,"writing in your diary,'Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four'?"
"Yes,"said Winston.
O'Brien held up his left hand,its back toward Winston,with the thumb hidden and the four fingers extended.
"How many fingers am I holding up,Winston?"
"Four."
"And if the party says that it is not four but five—then how many?"
"Four."
The word ended in a gasp of pain.The needle of the dial had shot up to fifty-five.The sweat had sprung out all over Winston's body.The air tore into his lungs and issued again in deep groans which even by clenching his teeth he could not stop.O'Brien watched him,the four fingers still extended.He drew back the le-ver.This time the pain was only slightly eased.
"How many fingers,Winston?"
"Four."
The needle went up to sixty.
"How many fingers,Winston?"
"Four! Four! What else can I say? Four!"
The needle must have risen again,but he did not look at it.The heavy,stern face and the four fingers filled his vision.The fingers stood up before his eyes like pillars,enormous,blurry,and seeming to vibrate,but unmistakably four.
"How many fingers,Winston?"
"Four! Stop it,stop it! How can you go on? Four! Four!"
"How many fingers,Winston?"
"Five! Five! Five!"
"No,Winston,that is no use.You are lying.You still think there are four.How many fingers,please?"
"Four! five! Four! Anything you like.Only stop it,stop the pain!"
Abruptly he was sitting up with O'Brien's arm round his shoulders.He had perhaps lost consciousness for a few seconds.The bonds that had held his body down were loosened.He felt very cold,he was shaking uncontrollably,his teeth were chattering,the tears were rolling down his cheeks.For a moment he clung to O'Brien like a baby,curiously comforted by the heavy arm round his shoulders.He had the feeling that O'Brien was his protector, that the pain was something that came from outside,from some other source,and that it was O'Brien who would save him from it.
"You are a slow learner,Winston,"said O'Brien gently.
"How can I help it?"he blubbered."How can I help seeing what is in front of my eyes? Two and two are four."
"Sometimes,Winston.Sometimes they are five.Sometimes they are three.Sometimes they are all of them at once.You must try har-der.It is not easy to become sane."
He laid Winston down on the bed.The grip of his limbs tight-ened again,but the pain had ebbed away and the trembling had stopped,leaving him merely weak and cold.O'Brien motioned with his head to the man in the white coat,who had stood immobile throughout the proceedings.The man in the white coat bent down and looked closely into Winston's eyes,felt his pulse,laid an ear a-gainst his chest,tapped here and there;then he nodded to O'Brien.
"Again,"said O'Brien.
The pain flowed into Winston's body.The needle must be at seventy,seventy-five.He had shut his eyes this time.He knew that the fingers were still there,and still four.All that mattered was somehow to stay alive until the spasm was over.He had ceased to notice whether he was crying out or not.The pain lessened again.He opened his eyes.O'Brien had drawn back the lever.
"How many fingers,Winston?"
"Four.I suppose there are four.I would see five if I could.I am trying to see five."
"Which do you wish:to persuade me that you see five,or really to see them?"
"Really to see them."
"Again,"said O'Brien.
Perhaps the needle was eighty—ninety.Winston could not in-termittently remember why the pain was happening.Behind his screwed-up eyelids a forest of fingers seemed to be moving in a sort of dance,weaving in and out,disappearing behind one another and reappearing again.He was trying to count them,he could not re-member why.He knew only that it was impossible to count them, and that this was somehow due to the mysterious identity between five and four.The pain died down again.When he opened his eyes it was to find that he was still seeing the same thing.Innumerable fin-gers,like moving trees,were still streaming past in either direction, crossing and recrossing.He shut his eyes again.
"How many fingers am I holding up,Winston?"
"I don't know.I don't know.You will kill me if you do that again.Four,five,six—in all honesty I don't know."
"Better,"said O'Brien.
