All the while，with one part of his mind，he wondered how soon they would shoot him."Everything depends on yourself，"O'Brien had said；but he knew that there was no conscious act by which he could bring it nearer.It might be ten minutes hence，or ten years. They might keep him for years in solitary confinement；they might send him to a labor camp； they might release him for a while，as they sometimes did.It was perfectly possible that before he was shot the whole drama of his arrest and interrogation would be enac-ted all over again.The one certain thing was that death never came at an expected moment.The tradition—the unspoken tradition：somehow you knew it，though you never heard it said—was that they shot you from behind， always in the back of the head，without warning，as you walked down a corridor from cell to cell.
One day—but"one day"was not the right expression；just as probably it was in the middle of the night：once—he fell into a strange，blissful reverie.He was walking down the corridor，waiting for the bullet.He knew that it was coming in another moment.Eve-rything was settled，smoothed out，reconciled.There were no more doubts，no more arguments，no more pain，no more fear.His body was healthy and strong.He walked easily，with a joy of movement and with a feeling of walking in sunlight.He was not any longer in the narrow white corridors of the Ministry of Love； he was in the enormous sunlit passage，a kilometer wide，down which he had seemed to walk in the delirium induced by drugs.He was in the Golden Country，following the foot-track across the old rabbit cropped pasture.He could feel the short springy turf under his feet and the gentle sunshine on his face.At the edge of the field were the elm trees，faintly stirring，and somewhere beyond that was the stream where the dace lay in the green pools under the willows.
Suddenly he started up with a shock of horror.The sweat broke out on his backbone.He had heard himself cry aloud：
"Julia！Julia！Julia，my love！Julia！"
For a moment he had had an overwhelming hallucination of her presence.She had seemed to be not merely with him，but inside him. It was as though she had got into the texture of his skin.In that mo-ment he had loved her far more than he had ever done when they were together and free.Also he knew that somewhere or other she was still alive and needed his help.
He lay back on the bed and tried to compose himself.What had he done？ How many years had he added to his servitude by that moment of weakness？
In another moment he would hear the tramp of boots outside. They could not let such an outburst go unpunished.They would know now，if they had not known before，that he was breaking the agreement he had made with them.He obeyed the Party，but he still hated the Party.In the old days he had hidden a heretical mind be-neath an appearance of conformity.Now he had retreated a step fur-ther：in the mind he had surrendered，but he had hoped to keep the inner heart inviolate.He knew that he was in the wrong，but he pre-ferred to be in the wrong.They would understand that—O'Brien would understand it.It was all confessed in that single foolish cry.
He would have to start all over again.It might take years.He ran a hand over his face，trying to familiarize himself with the new shape.There were deep furrows in the cheeks，the cheekbones felt sharp，the nose flattened.Besides，since last seeing himself in the glass he had been given a complete new set of teeth.It was not easy to preserve inscrutability when you did not know what your face looked like.In any case，mere control of the features was not e-nough.For the first time he perceived that if you want to keep a secret you must also hide it from yourself.You must know all the while that it is there，but until it is needed you must never let it emerge into your consciousness in any shape that could be given a name.From now on-wards he must not only think right；he must feel right，dream right.And all the while he must keep his hatred locked up inside him like a ball of matter which was part of himself and yet unconnected with the rest of him，a kind of cyst.
One day they would decide to shoot him.You could not tell when it would happen，but a few seconds beforehand it should be possible to guess.It was always from behind，walking down a corri-dor.Ten seconds would be enough.In that time the world inside him could turn over.And then suddenly，without a word uttered，without a check in his step，without the changing of a line in his face—sud-denly the camouflage would be down and bang！ would go the bat-teries of his hatred.Hatred would fill him like an enormous roaring flame.And almost in the same instant bang！ would go the bullet， too late，or too early.They would have blown his brain to pieces be-fore they could reclaim it.The heretical thought would be unpun-ished，unrepented，out of their reach for ever.They would have blown a hole in their own perfection.To die hating them，that was freedom.
He shut his eyes.It was more difficult than accepting an intel-lectual discipline.It was a question of degrading himself，mutilating himself.He had got to plunge into the filthiest of filth.What was the most horrible，sickening thing of all？ He thought of Big Brother. The enormous face (because of constantly seeing it on posters he always thought of it as being a meter wide)，with its heavy black moustache and the eyes that followed you to and fro，seemed to float into his mind of its own accord.What were his true feelings to-ward Big Brother？
There was a heavy tramp of boots in the passage.The steel door swung open with a clang.O'Brien walked into the cell.Behind him were the waxen-faced officer and the black-uniformed guards.
"Get up，"said O'Brien."Come here."
Winston stood opposite him.O'Brien took Winston's shoul-ders between his strong hands and looked at him closely.
"You have had thoughts of deceiving me，"he said."That was stupid.Stand up straighter.Look me in the face."
He paused，and went on in a gentler tone：
"You are improving.Intellectually there is very little wrong with you.It is only emotionally that you have failed to make pro-gress.Tell me，Winston—and remember，no lies；you know that I am always able to detect a lie—tell me，what are your true feelings toward Big Brother？"
"I hate him."
"You hate him.Good.Then the time has come for you to take the last step.You must love Big Brother.It is not enough to obey him； you must love him."
He released Winston with a little push toward the guards.
"Room 101，"he said.
Chapter 5
A t each stage of his imprisonment he had known，or seemedto know，whereabouts he was in the windowless building.Possibly there were slight differences in the air pressure.The cells where the guards had beaten him were below ground lev-el.The room where he had been interrogated by O'Brien was high up near the roof.This place was many meters underground，as deep down as it was possible to go.
It was bigger than most of the cells he had been in.But he hardly noticed his surroundings.All he noticed was that there were two small tables straight in front of him，each covered with green baize.One was only a meter or two from him；the other was further away，near the door.He was strapped upright in a chair，so tightly that he could move nothing，not even his head.A sort of pad gripped his head from behind，forcing him to look straight in front of him.
For a moment he was alone；then the door opened and O'Brien came in.
"You asked me once，"said O'Brien，"what was in Room 101.I told you that you knew the answer already.Everyone knows it.The thing that is in Room 101 is the worst thing in the world."
The door opened again.A guard came in，carrying something made of wire，a box or basket of some kind.He set it down on the further table.Because of the position in which O'Brien was stand-ing.Winston could not see what the thing was.
"The worst thing in the world，"said O'Brien，"varies from in-dividual to individual.It may be burial alive，or death by fire，or by drowning，or by impalement，or fifty other deaths.There are cases where it is some quite trivial thing，not even fatal."
He had moved a little to one side，so that Winston had a better view of the thing on the table.It was an oblong wire cage with a handle on top for carrying it by.Fixed to the front of it was some-thing that looked like a fencing mask，with the concave side out-wards.Although it was three or four meters away from him；he could see that the cage was divided lengthways into two compart-ments，and that there was some kind of creature in each.They were rats.
"In your case，"said O'Brien，"the worst thing in the world happens to be rats."
A sort of premonitory tremor，a fear of he was not certain what，had passed through Winston as soon as he caught his first glimpse of the cage.But at this moment the meaning of the mask like attachment in front of it suddenly sank into him.His bowels seemed to turn to water.
"You can't do that！"he cried out in a high cracked voice."You couldn't，you couldn't！ It's impossible."
"Do you remember，"said O'Brien，"the moment of panic that used to occur in your dreams？ There was a wall of blackness in front of you，and a roaring sound in your ears.There was something terrible on the other side of the wall.You knew that you knew what it was，but you dared not drag it into the open.It was the rats that were on the other side of the wall."
"O'Brien！"said Winston，making an effort to control his voice."You know this is not necessary.What is it that you want me to do？"
O'Brien made no direct answer.When he spoke it was in the schoolmasterish manner that he sometimes affected.He looked thoughtfully into the distance，as though he were addressing an au-dience somewhere behind Winston's back.
"By itself，"he said，"pain is not always enough.There are oc-casions when a human being will stand out against pain，even to the point of death.But for everyone there is something unendurable—something that cannot be contemplated.Courage and cowardice are not involved.If you are falling from a height it is not cowardly to clutch at a rope.If you have come up from deep water it is not cow-ardly to fill your lungs with air.It is merely an instinct which cannot be destroyed.It is the same with the rats.For you，they are unendur-able.They are a form of pressure that you cannot withstand，even if you wish to.You will do what is required of you."
"But what is it，what is it？ How can I do it if I don't know what it is？"
O'Brien picked up the cage and brought it across to the nearer table.He set it down carefully on the baize cloth.Winston could hear the blood singing in his ears.He had the feeling of sitting in utter loneliness.He was in the middle of a great empty plain，a flat desert drenched with sunlight，across which all sounds came to him out of immense distances.Yet the cage with the rats was not two meters a-way from him.They were enormous rats.They were at the age when a rat's muzzle grows blunt and fierce and his fur brown instead of grey.
"The rat，"said O'Brien，still addressing his invisible audi-ence，"although a rodent，is carnivorous.You are aware of that.You will have heard of the things that happen in the poor quarters of this town.In some streets a woman dare not leave her baby alone in the house，even for five minutes.The rats are certain to attack it. Within quite a small time they will strip it to the bones.They also attack sick or dying people.They show astonishing intelligence in knowing when a human being is helpless."
There was an outburst of squeals from the cage.It seemed to reach Winston from far away.The rats were fighting；they were try-ing to get at each other through the partition.He heard also a deep groan of despair.That，too，seemed to come from outside himself.
O'Brien picked up the cage，and，as he did so，pressed some-thing in it.There was a sharp click.Winston made a frantic effort to tear himself loose from the chair.It was hopeless：every part of him， even his head，was held immovably.O'Brien moved the cage nearer. It was less than a meter from Winston's face.
"I have pressed the first lever，"said O'Brien."You understand the construction of this cage.The mask will fit over your head，leav-ing no exit.When I press this other lever，the door of the cage will slide up.These starving brutes will shoot out of it like bullets.Have you ever seen a rat leap through the air？ They will leap onto your face and bore straight into it.Sometimes they attack the eyes first. Sometimes they burrow through the cheeks and devour the tongue."
The cage was nearer；it was closing in.Winston heard a succes-sion of shrill cries which appeared to be occurring in the air above his head.But he fought furiously against his panic.To think，to think，even with a split second left—to think was the only hope.Suddenly the foul musty odor of the brutes struck his nostrils. There was a violent convulsion of nausea inside him，and he almost lost consciousness.Everything had gone black.For an instant he was insane，a screaming animal.Yet he came out of the blackness clutc-hing an idea.There was one and only one way to save himself.He must interpose another human being，the body of another human being，between himself and the rats.
The circle of the mask was large enough now to shut out the vision of anything else.The wire door was a couple of hand-spans from his face.The rats knew what was coming now.One of them was leaping up and down； the other，an old scaly grandfather of the sewers，stood up，with his pink hands against the bars，and fiercely sniffed the air.Winston could see the whiskers and the yellow teeth. Again the black panic took hold of him.He was blind，helpless， mindless.
"It was a common punishment in Imperial China，"said O' Brien as didactically as ever.
The mask was closing on his face.The wire brushed his cheek. And then—no，it was not relief，only hope，a tiny fragment of hope. Too late，perhaps too late.But he had suddenly understood that in the whole world there was just one person to whom he could trans-fer his punishment—one body that he could thrust between himself and the rats.And he was shouting frantically，over and over：
"Do it to Julia！ Do it to Julia！ Not me！ Julia！ I don't care what you do to her.Tear her face off，strip her to the bones.Not me！ Julia！ Not me！"
He was falling backwards，into enormous depths，away from the rats.He was still strapped in the chair，but he had fallen through the floor，through the walls of the building，through the earth，through the oceans，through the atmosphere，into outer space，into the gulfs between the stars—always away，away，away from the rats.He was light-years distant，but O'Brien was still standing at his side.There was still the cold touch of wire against his cheek.But through the darkness that enveloped him he heard another metallic click，and knew that the cage door had clicked shut and not open.
Chapter 6
T he Chestnut Tree was almost empty.A ray of sunlightslanting through a window fell yellow on dusty tabletops.Itwas the lonely hour of fifteen.A tinny music trickled fromthe telescreens.
Winston sat in his usual corner，gazing into an empty glass. Now and again he glanced up at a vast face which eyed him from the opposite wall.BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU，the cap-tion said.Unbidden，a waiter came and filled his glass up with Vic-tory Gin，shaking into it a few drops from another bottle with a quill through the cork.It was saccharine flavored with cloves，the speciality of the café.
Winston was listening to the telescreen.At present only music was coming out of it，but there was a possibility that at any moment there might be a special bulletin from the Ministry of Peace.The news from the African front was disquieting in the extreme.On and off he had been worrying about it all day.A Eurasian army(Oceania was at war with Eurasia；Oceania had always been at war with Eur-asia) was moving southward at terrifying speed.The mid-day bulle-tin had not mentioned any definite area，but it was probable that al-ready the mouth of the Congo was a battlefield.Brazzaville and Leopoldville were in danger.One did not have to look at the map to see what it meant.It was not merely a question of losing Central Af-rica；for the first time in the whole war，the territory of Oceania it-self was menaced.
A violent emotion，not fear exactly but a sort of undifferentiat-ed excitement，flared up in him，then faded again.He stopped think-ing about the war.In these days he could never fix his mind on any one subject for more than a few moments at a time.He picked up his glass and drained it at a gulp.As always，it made him shudder and even retch slightly.The stuff was horrible.The cloves and sac-charine，themselves disgusting enough in their sickly way，could not disguise the flat oily smell；and what was worst of all was that the smell of gin，which dwelt with him night and day，was inextricably mixed up in his mind with the smell of those—
