CHAPTER 8

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, darkhaired 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 creampapered 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 bluntfeatured 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.