1984

I

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.

Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.

Outside, even through the shut window pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The black moustachio’d face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Winston’s own. Down at street level another poster, torn at one corner, flapped fitfully in the wind, alternately covering and uncovering the single word INGSOC. In the far distance a helicopter skimmed down between the roofs, hovered for an instant like a bluebottle, and darted away again with a curving flight. It was the police patrol, snooping into people’s windows. The patrols did not matter, however. Only the Thought Police mattered.

Behind Winston’s back the voice from the telescreen was still babbling away about pig iron and the overfulfilment of the Ninth Three Year Plan. The telescreen received and transmitted simultaneously. Any sound that Winston made, above the level of a very low whisper, would be picked up by it, moreover, so long as he remained within the field of vision which the metal plaque commanded, he could be seen as well as heard. There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time. But at any rate they could plug in your wire whenever they wanted to. You had to live – did live, from habit that became instinct – in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinized.

Winston kept his back turned to the telescreen. It was safer, though, as he well knew, even a back can be revealing. A kilometre away the Ministry of Truth, his place of work, towered vast and white above the grimy landscape. This, he thought with a sort of vague distaste – this was London, chief city of Airstrip One, itself the third most populous of the provinces of Oceania. He tried to squeeze out some childhood memory that should tell him whether London had always been quite like this. Were there always these vistas of rotting nineteenth century houses, their sides shored up with baulks of timber, their windows patched with cardboard and their roofs with corrugated iron, their crazy garden walls sagging in all directions? And the bombed sites where the plaster dust swirled in the air and the willow herb straggled over the heaps of rubble; and the places where the bombs had cleared a larger patch and there had sprung up sordid colonies of wooden dwellings like chicken houses? But it was no use, he could not remember: nothing remained of his childhood except a series of bright lit tableaux occurring against no background and mostly unintelligible.

The Ministry of Truth – Minitrue, in Newspeak – was startlingly different from any other object in sight. It was an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 metres into the air. From where Winston stood it was just possible to read, picked out on its white face in elegant lettering, the three slogans of the Party:

The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about London there were just three other buildings of similar appearance and size. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of Victory Mansions you could see all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of the four Ministries between which the entire apparatus of government was divided. The Ministry of Truth, which concerned itself with news, entertainment, education, and the fine arts. The Ministry of Peace, which concerned itself with war. The Ministry of Love, which maintained law and order. And the Ministry of Plenty, which was responsible for economic affairs. Their names, in Newspeak: Minitrue, Minipax, Miniluv, and Miniplenty.

The Ministry of Love was the really frightening one. There were no windows in it at all. Winston had never been inside the Ministry of Love, nor within half a kilometre of it. It was a place impossible to enter except on official business, and then only by penetrating through a maze of barbed wire entanglements, steel doors, and hidden machine gun nests. Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.

Winston turned round abruptly. He had set his features into the expression of quiet optimism which it was advisable to wear when facing the telescreen. He crossed the room into the tiny kitchen. By leaving the Ministry at this time of day he had sacrificed his lunch in the canteen, and he was aware that there was no food in the kitchen except a hunk of dark coloured bread which had got to be saved for tomorrow’s breakfast. He took down from the shelf a bottle of colourless liquid with a plain white label marked VICTORY GIN. It gave off a sickly, oily smell, as of Chinese rice spirit. Winston poured out nearly a teacupful, nerved himself for a shock, and gulped it down like a dose of medicine.

Instantly his face turned scarlet and the water ran out of his eyes. The stuff was like nitric acid, and moreover, in swallowing it one had the sensation of being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club. The next moment, however, the burning in his belly died down and the world began to look more cheerful. He took a cigarette from a crumpled packet marked VICTORY CIGARETTES and incautiously held it upright, whereupon the tobacco fell out on to the floor. With the next he was more successful. He went back to the living room and sat down at a small table that stood to the left of the telescreen. From the table drawer he took out a penholder, a bottle of ink, and a thick, quarto sized blank book with a red back and a marbled cover.

For some reason the telescreen in the living room was in an unusual position. Instead of being placed, as was normal, in the end wall, where it could command the whole room, it was in the longer wall, opposite the window. To one side of it there was a shallow alcove in which Winston was now sitting, and which, when the flats were built, had probably been intended to hold bookshelves. By sitting in the alcove, and keeping well back, Winston was able to remain outside the range of the telescreen, so far as sight went. He could be heard, of course, but so long as he stayed in his present position he could not be seen. It was partly the unusual geography of the room that had suggested to him the thing that he was now about to do.

But it had also been suggested by the book that he had just taken out of the drawer. It was a peculiarly beautiful book. Its smooth creamy paper, a little yellowed by age, was of a kind that had not been manufactured for at least forty years past. He could guess, however, that the book was much older than that. He had seen it lying in the window of a frowsy little junk shop in a slummy quarter of the town (just what quarter he did not now remember) and had been stricken immediately by an overwhelming desire to possess it. Party members were supposed not to go into ordinary shops (“dealing on the free market”, it was called), but the rule was not strictly kept, because there were various things, such as shoelaces and razor blades, which it was impossible to get hold of in any other way. He had given a quick glance up and down the street and then had slipped inside and bought the book for two dollars fifty. At the time he was not conscious of wanting it for any particular purpose. He had carried it guiltily home in his briefcase. Even with nothing written in it, it was a compromising possession.

The thing that he was about to do was to open a diary. This was not illegal (nothing was illegal, since there were no longer any laws), but if detected it was reasonably certain that it would be punished by death, or at least by twenty five years in a forced labour camp. Winston fitted a nib into the penholder and sucked it to get the grease off. The pen was an archaic instrument, seldom used even for signatures, and he had procured one, furtively and with some difficulty, simply because of a feeling that the beautiful creamy paper deserved to be written on with a real nib instead of being scratched with an ink pencil. Actually he was not used to writing by hand. Apart from very short notes, it was usual to dictate everything into the speakwrite which was of course impossible for his present purpose. He dipped the pen into the ink and then faltered for just a second. A tremor had gone through his bowels. To mark the paper was the decisive act. In small clumsy letters he wrote:

He sat back. A sense of complete helplessness had descended upon him. To begin with, he did not know with any certainty that this was 1984. It must be round about that date, since he was fairly sure that his age was thirty nine, and he believed that he had been born in 1944 or 1945; but it was never possible nowadays to pin down any date within a year or two.

For whom, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder, was he writing this diary? For the future, for the unborn. His mind hovered for a moment round the doubtful date on the page, and then fetched up with a bump against the Newspeak word doublethink. For the first time the magnitude of what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him, or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.

For some time he sat gazing stupidly at the paper. The telescreen had changed over to strident military music. It was curious that he seemed not merely to have lost the power of expressing himself, but even to have forgotten what it was that he had originally intended to say. For weeks past he had been making ready for this moment, and it had never crossed his mind that anything would be needed except courage. The actual writing would be easy. All he had to do was to transfer to paper the interminable restless monologue that had been running inside his head, literally for years. At this moment, however, even the monologue had dried up. Moreover his varicose ulcer had begun itching unbearably. He dared not scratch it, because if he did so it always became inflamed. The seconds were ticking by. He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the gin.

Suddenly he began writing in sheer panic, only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down. His small but childish handwriting straggled up and down the page, shedding first its capital letters and finally even its full stops:

April 4th, 1984. Last night to the flicks. All war films. One very good one of a ship full of refugees being bombed somewhere in the Mediterranean. Audience much amused by shots of a great huge fat man trying to swim away with a helicopter after him, first you saw him wallowing along in the water like a porpoise, then you saw him through the helicopters gunsights, then he was full of holes and the sea round him turned pink and he sank as suddenly as though the holes had let in the water, audience shouting with laughter when he sank. then you saw a lifeboat full of children with a helicopter hovering over it. there was a middle aged woman might have been a jewess sitting up in the bow with a little boy about three years old in her arms. little boy screaming with fright and hiding his head between her breasts as if he was trying to burrow right into her and the woman putting her arms round him and comforting him although she was blue with fright herself, all the time covering him up as much as possible as if she thought her arms could keep the bullets off him. then the helicopter planted a 20 kilo bomb in among them terrific flash and the boat went all to matchwood. then there was a wonderful shot of a child’s arm going up up up right up into the air a helicopter with a camera in its nose must have followed it up and there was a lot of applause from the party seats but a woman down in the prole part of the house suddenly started kicking up a fuss and shouting they didnt oughter of showed it not in front of kids they didnt it aint right not in front of kids it aint until the police turned her turned her out i dont suppose anything happened to her nobody cares what the proles say typical prole reaction they never —

Winston stopped writing, partly because he was suffering from cramp. He did not know what had made him pour out this stream of rubbish. But the curious thing was that while he was doing so a totally different memory had clarified itself in his mind, to the point where he almost felt equal to writing it down. It was, he now realized, because of this other incident that he had suddenly decided to come home and begin the diary today.

It had happened that morning at the Ministry, if anything so nebulous could be said to happen.

It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Winston worked, they were dragging the chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the centre of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for the Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just taking his place in one of the middle rows when two people whom he knew by sight, but had never spoken to, came unexpectedly into the room. One of them was a girl whom he often passed in the corridors. He did not know her name, but he knew that she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably – since he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a spanner – she had some mechanical job on one of the novel writing machines. She was a bold looking girl, of about twenty seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the Junior Anti Sex League, was wound several times round the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was because of the atmosphere of hockey fields and cold baths and community hikes and general clean mindedness which she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones. It was always the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers out of unorthodoxy. But this particular girl gave him the impression of being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed in the corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled him with black terror. The idea had even crossed his mind that she might be an agent of the Thought Police. That, it was true, was very unlikely. Still, he continued to feel a peculiar uneasiness, which had fear mixed up in it as well as hostility, whenever she was anywhere near him.

The other person was a man named O’Brien, a member of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature. A momentary hush passed over the group of people round the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party member approaching. O’Brien was a large, burly man with a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face. In spite of his formidable appearance he had a certain charm of manner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose which was curiously disarming – in some indefinable way, curiously civilized. It was a gesture which, if anyone had still thought in such terms, might have recalled an eighteenth century nobleman offering his snufbox. Winston had seen O’Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many years. He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because he was intrigued by the contrast between O’Brien’s urbane manner and his prize fighter’s physique. Much more it was because of a secretly held belief – or perhaps not even a belief, merely a hope – that O’Brien’s political orthodoxy was not perfect. Something in his face suggested it irresistibly. And again, perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy that was written in his face, but simply intelligence. But at any rate he had the appearance of being a person that you could talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and get him alone. Winston had never made the smallest effort to verify this guess: indeed, there was no way of doing so. At this moment O’Brien glanced at his wrist watch, saw that it was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently decided to stay in the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate was over. He took a chair in the same row as Winston, a couple of places away. A small, sandy-haired woman who worked in the next cubicle to Winston was between them. The girl with dark hair was sitting immediately behind.

The next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the big telescreen at the end of the room. It was a noise that set one’s teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one’s neck. The Hate had started.

As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. Goldstein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago (how long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big Brother himself, and then had engaged in counter revolutionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes of the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure. He was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party’s purity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps even – so it was occasionally rumoured – in some hiding place in Oceania itself.

Winston’s diaphragm was constricted. He could never see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions. It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard – a clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep, and the voice, too, had a sheep like quality. Goldstein was delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines of the Party – an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a child should have been able to see through it, and yet just plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other people, less level headed than oneself, might be taken in by it. He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed – and all this in rapid polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the habitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any Party member would normally use in real life. And all the while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which Goldstein’s specious claptrap covered, behind his head on the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the Eurasian army – row after row of solid looking men with expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others exactly similar. The dull rhythmic tramp of the soldiers’ boots formed the background to Goldstein’s bleating voice.

Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncontrollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half the people in the room. The self-satisfied sheep like face on the screen, and the terrifying power of the Eurasian army behind it, were too much to be borne: besides, the sight or even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger automatically. He was an object of hatred more constant than either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war with one of these Powers it was generally at peace with the other. But what was strange was that although Goldstein was hated and despised by everybody, although every day and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were – in spite of all this, his influence never seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh dupes waiting to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked by the Thought Police. He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood, its name was supposed to be. There were also whispered stories of a terrible book, a compendium of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the author and which circulated clandestinely here and there. It was a book without a title. People referred to it, if at all, simply as the book. But one knew of such things only through vague rumours. Neither the Brotherhood nor the book was a subject that any ordinary Party member would mention if there was a way of avoiding it.

In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy. People were leaping up and down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices in an effort to drown the maddening bleating voice that came from the screen. The little sandy-haired woman had turned bright pink, and her mouth was opening and shutting like that of a landed fish. Even O’Brien’s heavy face was flushed. He was sitting very straight in his chair, his powerful chest swelling and quivering as though he were standing up to the assault of a wave. The dark-haired girl behind Winston had begun crying out “Swine! Swine! Swine!” and suddenly she picked up a heavy Newspeak dictionary and flung it at the screen. It struck Goldstein’s nose and bounced off; the voice continued inexorably. In a lucid moment Winston found that he was shouting with the others and kicking his heel violently against the rung of his chair. The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledgehammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one’s will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp. Thus, at one moment Winston’s hatred was not turned against Goldstein at all, but, on the contrary, against Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police; and at such moments his heart went out to the lonely, derided heretic on the screen, sole guardian of truth and sanity in a world of lies. And yet the very next instant he was at one with the people about him, and all that was said of Goldstein seemed to him to be true. At those moments his secret loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like a rock against the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure of civilization.

It was even possible, at moments, to switch one’s hatred this way or that by a voluntary act. Suddenly, by the sort of violent effort with which one wrenches one’s head away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to the dark haired girl behind him. Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind. He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax. Better than before, moreover, he realized why it was that he hated her. He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweet supple waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.

The Hate rose to its climax. The voice of Goldstein had become an actual sheep’s bleat, and for an instant the face changed into that of a sheep. Then the sheep face melted into the figure of a Eurasian soldier who seemed to be advancing, huge and terrible, his submachine gun roaring, and seeming to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some of the people in the front row actually flinched backwards in their seats. But in the same moment, drawing a deep sigh of relief from everybody, the hostile figure melted into the face of Big Brother, black haired, black moustachio’d, full of power and mysterious calm, and so vast that it almost filled up the screen. Nobody heard what Big Brother was saying. It was merely a few words of encouragement, the sort of words that are uttered in the din of battle, not distinguishable individually but restoring confidence by the fact of being spoken. Then the face of Big Brother faded away again, and instead the three slogans of the Party stood out in bold capitals:

But the face of Big Brother seemed to persist for several seconds on the screen, as though the impact that it had made on everyone’s eyeballs was too vivid to wear off immediately. The little sandy-haired woman had flung herself forward over the back of the chair in front of her. With a tremulous murmur that sounded like “My Saviour!” she extended her arms towards the screen. Then she buried her face in her hands. It was apparent that she was uttering a prayer.

At this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow, rhythmical chant of “B—B!.. B—B!..” – over and over again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first “B” and the second – a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tom toms. For perhaps as much as thirty seconds they kept it up. It was a refrain that was often heard in moments of overwhelming emotion. Partly it was a sort of hymn to the wisdom and majesty of Big Brother, but still more it was an act of self-hypnosis, a deliberate drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic noise. Winston’s entrails seemed to grow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he could not help sharing in the general delirium, but this sub-human chanting of “B—B!.. B—B!” always filled him with horror. Of course he chanted with the rest: it was impossible to do otherwise. To dissemble your feelings, to control your face, to do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive reaction. But there was a space of a couple of seconds during which the expression of his eyes might conceivably have betrayed him. And it was exactly at this moment that the significant thing happened – if, indeed, it did happen.

Momentarily he caught O’Brien’s eye. O’Brien had stood up. He had taken off his spectacles and was in the act of resettling them on his nose with his characteristic gesture. But there was a fraction of a second when their eyes met, and for as long as it took to happen Winston knew – yes, he knew! – that O’Brien was thinking the same thing as himself. An unmistakable message had passed. It was as though their two minds had opened and the thoughts were flowing from one into the other through their eyes.

“I am with you,” O’Brien seemed to be saying to him. “I know precisely what you are feeling. I know all about your contempt, your hatred, your disgust. But don’t worry, I am on your side!”

And then the flash of intelligence was gone, and O’Brien’s face was as inscrutable as everybody else’s.

That was all, and he was already uncertain whether it had happened. Such incidents never had any sequel. All that they did was to keep alive in him the belief, or hope, that others besides himself were the enemies of the Party. Perhaps the rumours of vast underground conspiracies were true after all – perhaps the Brotherhood really existed! It was impossible, in spite of the endless arrests and confessions and executions, to be sure that the Brotherhood was not simply a myth. Some days he believed in it, some days not. There was no evidence, only fleeting glimpses that might mean anything or nothing: snatches of overheard conversation, faint scribbles on lavatory walls – once, even, when two strangers met, a small movement of the hand which had looked as though it might be a signal of recognition. It was all guesswork: very likely he had imagined everything. He had gone back to his cubicle without looking at O’Brien again. The idea of following up their momentary contact hardly crossed his mind. It would have been inconceivably dangerous even if he had known how to set about doing it. For a second, two seconds, they had exchanged an equivocal glance, and that was the end of the story. But even that was a memorable event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.

Winston roused himself and sat up straighter. He let out a belch. The gin was rising from his stomach.

His eyes refocused on the page. He discovered that while he sat helplessly musing he had also been writing, as though by automatic action. And it was no longer the same cramped, awkward handwriting as before. His pen had slid voluptuously over the smooth paper, printing in large neat capitals —

over and over again, filling half a page.

He could not help feeling a twinge of panic. It was absurd, since the writing of those particular words was not more dangerous than the initial act of opening the diary, but for a moment he was tempted to tear out the spoiled pages and abandon the enterprise altogether.

He did not do so, however, because he knew that it was useless. Whether he wrote DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER, or whether he refrained from writing it, made no difference. Whether he went on with the diary, or whether he did not go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police would get him just the same. He had committed – would still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper – the essential crime that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed for ever. You might dodge successfully for a while, even for years, but sooner or later they were bound to get you.

It was always at night – the arrests invariably happened at night. The sudden jerk out of sleep, the rough hand shaking your shoulder, the lights glaring in your eyes, the ring of hard faces round the bed. In the vast majority of cases there was no trial, no report of the arrest. People simply disappeared, always during the night. Your name was removed from the registers, every record of everything you had ever done was wiped out, your one time existence was denied and then forgotten. You were abolished, annihilated: vapourized was the usual word.

For a moment he was seized by a kind of hysteria. He began writing in a hurried untidy scrawl:

theyll shoot me i don’t care theyll shoot me in the back of the neck i dont care down with big brother they always shoot you in the back of the neck i dont care down with big brother —

He sat back in his chair, slightly ashamed of himself, and laid down the pen. The next moment he started violently. There was a knocking at the door.

Already! He sat as still as a mouse, in the futile hope that whoever it was might go away after a single attempt. But no, the knocking was repeated. The worst thing of all would be to delay. His heart was thumping like a drum, but his face, from long habit, was probably expressionless. He got up and moved heavily towards the door.

I

Был апрельский день, ясный и холодный, и часы отбивали тринадцать. Уинстон Смит вжал подбородок в грудь, пытаясь укрыться от злого ветра, и проскользнул за стеклянные двери жилого комплекса «Победа», впустив за собой завиток зернистой пыли.

В вестибюле пахло вареной капустой и старыми половиками. На дальней стене висел цветной плакат, непомерно большой для помещения. Плакат изображал огромное лицо, шириной более метра: мужчина лет сорока пяти, с густыми черными усами, грубовато-привлекательный. Уинстон направился к лестнице. Про лифт нечего было и мечтать. Даже в лучшие времена он редко работал, а сейчас в дневное время электричество отключали. Действовал режим экономии в преддверии Недели Ненависти. До квартиры было семь лестничных пролетов, и Уинстон с варикозной язвой над правой лодыжкой в свои тридцать девять лет поднимался медленно, то и дело останавливаясь. На каждом этаже со стены напротив лифта на него пялился тот же плакат. Его специально так разместили, что, где ни стой, глаза усача все равно будут смотреть на тебя. Надпись внизу гласила: «БОЛЬШОЙ БРАТ СМОТРИТ ЗА ТОБОЙ».

В квартире сочный голос зачитывал цифры, как-то связанные с производством чугуна. Звук раздавался справа от входа – из вделанной в стену продолговатой металлической пластины, похожей на помутневшее зеркало. Уинстон повернул на ней ручку, и голос стал тише, хотя слова остались различимы. Звук телеэкрана (так называлось устройство) можно было убавить, но не убрать совсем. Уинстон подошел к окну: невысокая, щуплая фигурка, еще более тщедушная в синем комбинезоне, отличавшем членов Партии. Волосы у него были совсем светлыми, на лице играл природный румянец, а кожа загрубела от хозяйственного мыла, тупых бритвенных лезвий и зимних холодов, только недавно отступивших.

Внешний мир даже сквозь закрытое окно отдавал холодом. Внизу, на улице, маленькие смерчи кружили пыль и бумажный мусор. И хотя светило солнце, а небо отливало резкой синевой, все казалось каким-то бесцветным, кроме повсюду развешанных плакатов. Усач взирал с каждого приметного угла – и с фасада дома прямо напротив. «БОЛЬШОЙ БРАТ СМОТРИТ ЗА ТОБОЙ», – гласила надпись, а темные глаза смотрели в лицо Уинстону. Ниже, на уровне улицы, еще один плакат трепетал на ветру оторванным краем, открывая и закрывая единственное слово: «АНГСОЦ». В отдалении скользил между крышами вертолет: завис на миг, точно трупная муха, и взмыл прочь по кривой. Это полицейский патруль заглядывал людям в окна. Но патрули – ерунда. Не то что Мыслеполиция.

За спиной Уинстона голос с телеэкрана продолжал бубнить о чугуне и перевыполнении Девятой Трехлетки. Телеэкран одновременно передавал и принимал информацию. Он улавливал любой звук громче тихого шепота, который издавал Уинстон. Более того, пока тот находился в поле зрения металлической пластины, его могли не только слышать, но и видеть. Конечно, никогда нельзя было сказать с уверенностью, следят за тобой в данный момент или нет. Никто не знал, как часто или по какой системе Мыслеполиция подключается к его каналу. Разумнее было считать, что следят за всеми и всегда. Так или иначе, к твоему телеэкрану могли подключиться в любой момент. Приходилось так жить – и ты жил, свыкаясь на уровне инстинкта с ощущением, что каждый звук в твоей квартире слышат, а движение – видят, особенно при свете.

Уинстон стоял спиной к телеэкрану. Так было надежнее, хотя он хорошо знал, что даже спина выдает человека. В километре от дома над обшарпанными зданиями высилась белая громада Министерства правды, место его работы. Вот он, Лондон, – подумал Уинстон с какой-то смутной неприязнью, – главный город Первой летной полосы, третьей по населенности провинции Океании. Он постарался припомнить, обратившись мыслями к детству, всегда ли Лондон был таким. Всегда ли так же тянулись вдаль вереницы трущоб девятнадцатого века: стены подперты бревнами, окна залатаны картоном, крыши – рифленым железом, а дикие заборы палисадников кренятся во все стороны? И прогалины от бомбежек, где в воздухе кружится известка, а по грудам обломков расползается кипрей; и более обширные пустыри, где бомбы расчистили место для отвратительных скоплений дощатых хибарок, похожих на курятники? Но его старания были тщетны, он не мог вспомнить из детства ничего кроме ярких обрывистых сцен, возникавших без всякого контекста и по большей части невразумительных.

Министерство правды – Миниправ на новоязе – разительно отличалось от всего, что его окружало. Это исполинское пирамидальное сооружение, сиявшее белым бетоном, вздымалось терраса за террасой, на триста метров ввысь. Уинстону были видны из окна квартиры три лозунга Партии, выложенные на белом фасаде элегантным шрифтом:

Министерство правды насчитывало, по слухам, три тысячи комнат над поверхностью земли и столько же в «корневой системе». Над Лондоном возвышались еще три сооружения подобного вида и размера. Они так явно доминировали над окружающим ландшафтом, что с крыши жилкомплекса «Победа» было видно сразу все четыре. В них размещались министерства, составлявшие весь правительственный аппарат. Министерство правды занималось новостями, досугом, образованием и изящными искусствами. Министерство мира заведовало войной. Министерство любви поддерживало закон и порядок. А Министерство изобилия решало вопросы экономики. На новоязе они назывались Миниправ, Минимир, Минилюб и Минизоб.

Министерство любви внушало страх. Это было здание без окон. Уинстон обходил его за полкилометра и никогда не был внутри. Туда пускали только по официальному делу, а вход защищало хитросплетение заборов с колючей проволокой, стальных дверей и скрытых пулеметных гнезд. Даже улицы, граничившие с Министерством любви, патрулировала гориллоподобная охрана в черной форме, вооруженная складными резиновыми дубинками.

Уинстон решительно отвернулся от окна. Он придал лицу выражение тихого оптимизма, наиболее уместное перед телеэкраном, и прошел через комнату на крохотную кухню. Покинув министерство в обеденный перерыв, он пожертвовал походом в столовую, хотя знал, что дома нет еды, кроме ломтя бурого хлеба, который надо оставить на завтрак. Уинстон снял с полки бутылку бесцветной жидкости с простой белой этикеткой: «ДЖИН ПОБЕДА». Из горлышка повеяло тошнотворным маслянистым духом, как от китайской рисовой водки. Он налил почти полную чашку, внутренне собрался и выпил залпом, точно лекарство.

Тут же лицо его покраснело, а из глаз потекли слезы. Как будто он глотнул азотной кислоты, а по затылку ему вмазали резиновой дубинкой. В следующий миг, однако, жжение в животе улеглось, и мир показался Уинстону более радостным. Он вытянул сигарету из мятой пачки с надписью «СИГАРЕТЫ ПОБЕДА» и нечаянно повернул ее вертикально, отчего табак высыпался на пол. Со следующей удалось справиться лучше. Вернувшись в гостиную, Уинстон сел за столик слева от телеэкрана. Из выдвижного ящика он достал перьевую ручку, пузырек чернил и толстую тетрадь большого формата с красным корешком и обложкой под мрамор.

Телеэкран в его квартире располагался почему-то в нестандартном месте – не на торцевой стене, откуда было бы видно всю комнату, а на длинной, напротив окна. Сбоку от экрана находилась неглубокая ниша, задуманная, вероятно, для книжных полок – там и сидел Уинстон. Вжавшись в нишу, он становился недосягаем для телеэкрана, по крайней мере, визуально. Его, разумеется, было слышно, но не видно, пока он не менял положения. Отчасти необычная география комнаты и побудила его когда-то к тому, чем он собирался заняться.

Но не в меньшей мере тому способствовала и сама тетрадь, которую он вытащил из ящика. Вид у нее был необычайно красивый. Такой гладкой кремовой бумаги, чуть пожелтевшей от времени, не выпускали уже лет сорок. Уинстон чувствовал тем не менее, что возраст этой тетради намного больше. Он приметил ее в витрине грязноватой лавки старьевщика где-то в районе трущоб (где именно, он уже не помнил) и немедленно загорелся всепоглощающим желанием заполучить ее. Членам Партии не полагалось заходить в обычные магазины (это называлось «отовариваться на свободном рынке»), но правило частенько нарушалось, поскольку некоторые вещи, такие как шнурки и бритвенные лезвия, невозможно было раздобыть иначе. Быстро скользнув взглядом по улице, Уинстон прошмыгнул внутрь лавки и купил тетрадь за два с половиной доллара. Тогда он еще и сам не знал, для чего она может понадобиться. Уинстон принес ее домой в портфеле, обуреваемый чувством вины. Тетрадь, даже чистая, компрометировала владельца.

А собирался он, собственно, вести дневник. Это не было запрещено законом (просто потому, что никаких законов больше не существовало), но если бы тетрадь обнаружили, то Уинстон мог поплатиться жизнью или получить как минимум двадцать пять лет лагерей. Он приладил к ручке перо и облизнул его для верности. Архаической перьевой ручкой мало кто пользовался даже для подписей, и он приобрел ее тайком и не без труда, просто по ощущению, что прекрасная кремовая бумага заслуживает настоящего пера, а не царапанья химическим карандашом. Вообще-то Уинстон не привык писать от руки. Не считая коротеньких записок, он обычно все надиктовывал в речепис, что в данном случае было, разумеется, невозможно. Он обмакнул перо в чернила и помедлил секунду. От волнения у него забурлило в животе. Оставить на бумаге след – это решительный шаг. Он вывел мелким неуклюжим почерком:

И выпрямился. Им овладело ощущение полной беспомощности. Для начала он даже не был уверен, что сейчас действительно 1984-й. Во всяком случае, что-то близкое к нему, поскольку Уинстон почти не сомневался, что ему тридцать девять, а родился он в 1944-м или 45-м; но теперь на любую дату можно было положиться лишь с погрешностью в пару лет.

Он вдруг задумался, для кого вообще собирался писать дневник? Для будущего, для тех, кто еще не родился. Его разум покружил секунду над сомнительной датой на странице, а затем наткнулся на слово из новояза «двоемыслие». Впервые он осознал, на что замахнулся. Как можно обращаться к будущему? Это по самой своей природе невозможно. Либо будущее станет походить на настоящее, и тогда никто не станет его слушать, либо оно будет другим, и невзгоды Уинстона покажутся ему чуждыми.

Какое-то время он сидел, тупо уставившись на бумагу. Телеэкран заиграл бравурную военную музыку. Что за ерунда: казалось, Уинстон не только лишился способности к самовыражению, но и вообще забыл, что намеревался сказать изначально. Несколько недель он готовился к этому моменту, и ему ни разу не пришло на ум, что потребуется нечто большее, нежели храбрость. Вести дневник – дело нехитрое. Нужно только перенести на бумагу неумолкаемый беспокойный монолог, звучащий в голове уже не первый год. Однако же сейчас иссяк и монолог. К тому же нестерпимо зазудела варикозная язва. Он не смел почесать ее, потому что от этого язва всегда воспалялась. Секунды проходили одна за другой. Он не осознавал ничего, кроме пустой страницы перед собой, чесотки над лодыжкой, гавканья военной музыки и легкого хмеля от джина.

Внезапно он принялся строчить, как в бреду, едва понимая, что именно пишет. Его мелкий, по-детски неровный почерк вихлял вверх-вниз по странице, потеряв сперва заглавные буквы, а затем и точки:

4 апреля 1984. Вчера смотрел кинокартины. Все про войну. Одна очень хорошая – как бомбили корабль полный беженцев где-то в Средиземном. Публику весьма забавляли кадры с огромным толстяком уплывающим от вертолета, сперва ты видел как он плещется в воде точно рыбина, затем смотрел на него через прицелы вертолета, потом его изрешетили пули и море вокруг стало розовым и он погрузился так резко словно набрал воды через раны, публика кричит и хохочет когда он тонет. потом ты заметил лодку полную детей и кружащий над ней вертолет. на носу лодки сидела женщина средних лет возможно еврейка с трехлетним мальчиком на руках. ребенок кричал от страха и прятал голову между ее грудей словно пытался зарыться внутрь а женщина обнимала его и успокаивала хотя сама посинела от страха, все время прикрывала его как могла словно думала защитить руками от пуль. затем вертолет сбросил на них 20 кг бомбу огромная вспышка и лодка разлетелась в щепки. потом был отличный кадр с детской рукой взлетающей выше выше выше прямо в воздух должно быть вертолет снимал ее фронтальной камерой и с партийных мест много аплодировали но женщина снизу из рядов пролов вдруг подняла хай и стала шуметь и кричать что не надо такое показывать не перед детьми им этого нельзя не перед детьми это пока полиция не забрала ее вывела ее не думаю что с ней что-то сделали никому нет дела что говорят пролы типично пролская реакция они никогда…

Уинстон перестал писать отчасти от спазма в руке. Он не знал, зачем выплеснул такой поток белиберды. Но интересный факт: пока он писал, у него в уме проявилось совершенно другое воспоминание, и так ясно оформилось, что хоть бери и записывай. Он теперь понял, что как раз это происшествие и побудило его так неожиданно пойти домой и начать дневник именно сегодня.

Оно произошло утром в министерстве, если слово «произошло» вообще применимо к чему-то столь туманному.

Было почти одиннадцать ноль-ноль, и в Отделе документации, где работал Уинстон, вытаскивали стулья из кабинок и расставляли посередине холла напротив большого экрана, готовясь к Двухминутке Ненависти. Уинстон как раз занимал свое место в одном из средних рядов, когда неожиданно появились два человека – их лица были ему знакомы, но и только. Девушка постоянно встречалась ему в коридорах. Уинстон не знал ее имени, но был в курсе, что она работает в Художественном отделе. Ему случалось видеть ее с гаечным ключом и замасленными руками, так что предположительно девушка числилась механиком по обслуживанию одной из романных машин. На вид лет двадцати семи, волосы густые, лицо в веснушках, держалась она заносчиво, а двигалась проворно и по-спортивному. Талию комбинезона перехватывал несколько раз узкий алый кушак, подчеркивая крутые бедра, – знак молодежной лиги Антисекс. Уинстон эту девушку сразу невзлюбил. И он понимал почему. От нее так и веяло духом хоккейных полей, купаний в ледяной воде, турпоходов и общей незамутненностью сознания. Он в принципе недолюбливал женщин, особенно молодых и хорошеньких. Именно женщины – и прежде всего юные – стали самыми ревностными приверженцами Партии, они жили лозунгами и всегда готовы были шпионить и вынюхивать отступников. Но эта девушка вызывала ощущение особенной опасности. Один раз, разминувшись в коридоре, она искоса взглянула на него, как ножом полоснула, и его вдруг пробрал липкий ужас. Ему даже подумалось, что она может служить агентом Мыслеполиции. Хотя, следовало признать, это было маловероятно. И все же всякий раз при встрече он испытывал безотчетное волнение с примесью страха и враждебности.

Вторым из вошедших был О’Брайен, член Внутренней Партии, занимавший настолько высокую и удаленную должность, что Уинстон имел о ней самое смутное представление. Как только люди, расставлявшие стулья, заметили черный комбинезон члена Внутренней Партии, все сразу притихли. О’Брайен был мощным, дородным мужчиной с толстой шеей и грубым насмешливым лицом. Несмотря на грозную внешность, ему было присуще своеобразное обаяние. Он имел привычку поправлять на носу очки, и этот неожиданно обезоруживающий жест придавал ему, странно сказать, нечто неуловимо интеллигентное. Такая характерная манера могла вызвать ассоциацию (если кто-то еще помнил подобные образы) с дворянином восемнадцатого века, предлагающим свою табакерку. Уинстон видел О’Брайена, пожалуй, с десяток раз за столько же лет. Он испытывал к нему симпатию, и не только из-за волнующего контраста между учтивыми манерами и телосложением боксера. В большей степени это объяснялось тайным убеждением – даже не убеждением, а лишь надеждой, – что политическая правоверность О’Брайена не была безупречной. Что-то в его лице наводило на подобные мысли. Хотя, возможно, что оно выражало не недостаток верности Партии, а просто интеллект. Так или иначе О’Брайен производил впечатление человека, с которым есть о чем поговорить, если бы каким-то образом удалось остаться с ним наедине и перехитрить телеэкран. Уинстон ни разу не пытался проверить свою догадку, да у него и не было такой возможности. Сейчас же О’Брайен взглянул на наручные часы, увидел, что уже почти одиннадцать, и по всей видимости решил остаться в Отделе документации до окончания Двухминутки Ненависти. Он сел в том же ряду, что и Уинстон, через пару сидений от него. Между ними расположилась маленькая рыжеватая женщина, которая трудилась в соседней с Уинстоном кабинке. Темноволосая девушка села прямо за ним.

Большой телеэкран на торцевой стене издал жуткий скрежещущий рев, словно чудовищная машина вдруг начала работать без смазки. От этого звука ломило зубы и волосы вставали на загривке. Ненависть началась.

На экране, как обычно, возникло лицо Эммануила Голдштейна, Врага Народа. В зрительских рядах зашикали. Рыжеватая женщина взвизгнула от страха и отвращения. Голдштейн был изменником и отступником, который когда-то давным-давно (насколько именно давно, никто толком не помнил) числился в предводителях Партии, чуть ли не наравне с самим Большим Братом, а потом ударился в контрреволюцию, был приговорен к смерти и таинственным образом сбежал, исчез. Программа Двухминутки Ненависти каждый день менялась, но на первый план всегда выходил Голдштейн. Он значился предателем номер один, первым осквернителем партийной чистоты. Все дальнейшие преступления против Партии, любые измены, вредительства, предательства, уклонения – все это было прямым следствием его учения. Он все еще был жив, скрываясь неведомо где и продолжая плести заговоры: возможно, где-то за морем, под защитой своих иностранных хозяев, а может быть – ходили и такие слухи, – он затаился на территории самой Океании.

Уинстону сдавило грудь. Всякий раз при виде Голдштейна его обуревали сложные и мучительные чувства. Это было сухое еврейское лицо в венчике пушистых белых волос и с козлиной бородкой – лицо умное и вместе с тем какое-то плюгавое, тронутое старческим маразмом, с очками на кончике длинного тонкого носа. В нем виделось что-то овечье, и сам голос изменника походил на блеянье. Голдштейн, как обычно, подвергал партийные доктрины ядовитым нападкам – столь вздорным и нелепым, что и ребенок мог их раскусить, однако достаточно убедительным для опасений, что кто-то менее здравомыслящий может на них повестись. Он поносил Большого Брата, обличал диктатуру Партии, требовал немедленно заключить мир с Евразией, призывал к свободе слова, свободе печати, свободе собраний, свободе мысли, он истерически вопил, что Революцию предали – и все это стремительной скороговоркой со сложными составными словами, будто пародируя манеру партийных ораторов, включая даже слова новояза, да в таких количествах, что никакому партийцу было за ним не угнаться. В это время, отметая любые сомнения в реальной подоплеке слов Голдштейна, на заднем фоне бесконечно маршировали колонны евразийской армии: шеренга за шеренгой кряжистых мужчин с бесстрастными азиатскими лицами. Они приближались к поверхности экрана и исчезали, уступая место своим точным копиям. Блеющий голос Голдштейна накладывался на ритмичный топот солдатских сапог.

Не прошло и полминуты Ненависти, а половина зрителей уже не могла сдерживать яростных возгласов. Невыносимо было видеть это самодовольное овечье лицо и ужасающую мощь евразийской армии за ним, хотя и без того одна только мысль о самом Голдштейне вызывала непроизвольный страх и гнев. Он был куда более привычным объектом ненависти, чем Евразия или Остазия, поскольку, когда Океания воевала с одной из них, то обыкновенно заключала мир с другой. Как ни странно, хотя Голдштейна ненавидели и презирали все подряд, и каждый день по тысяче раз за сутки – на трибунах, на телеэкранах, в газетах и книгах – его теории опровергали, громили, высмеивали, разбирали по кусочкам, доказывая их полнейшую несостоятельность, несмотря на все это, его влияние, казалось, не ослабевало. Всегда находились новые простофили, только и ждавшие идеологического совращения. Не проходило и дня, чтобы Мыслеполиция не разоблачала шпионов и вредителей, действующих по его указке. Он командовал огромной теневой армией, подпольной сетью заговорщиков, поставивших себе целью свергнуть Режим. Обычно на них ссылались как на Братство. А еще передавали шепотом истории о жуткой книге, собрании всех ересей, которую написал и тайно распространял Голдштейн. Книга не имела названия. В редких разговорах о ней упоминали просто как о книге. Но о таких вещах можно было узнать только по неясным слухам. Никто из рядовых партийцев старался не упоминать ни Братство, ни книгу.

На второй минуте ненависть перешла в истерию. Люди вскакивали с мест и кричали во все горло, стараясь заглушить одуряющий блеющий голос с экрана. Рыжеватая соседка Уинстона раскраснелась и разевала рот, словно рыба на суше. Даже тяжелое лицо О’Брайена побагровело. Он сидел очень прямо, его мощная грудь вздымалась и содрогалась, словно принимая на себя прибойную волну. Темноволосая девушка за спиной Уинстона начала кричать: «Сволочь! Сволочь! Сволочь!» – внезапно схватила тяжелый словарь новояза и запустила в телеэкран. Словарь врезался Голдштейну в нос и отскочил; голос с экрана звучал все так же неумолимо. Уинстон вдруг осознал, что тоже вопит вместе со всеми и яростно лягает ножку стула. Двухминутка Ненависти была ужасна не тем, что ты обязан играть свою роль, напротив, ты просто не мог не поддаться общему настрою. Через полминуты уже не нужно было притворяться. Словно электрический разряд толпу охватывали страх и гнев, исступленное желание убивать, истязать, крушить лица молотом, и люди против воли делались буйнопомешанными. Однако эта ярость оставалась отвлеченной, неперсонализированной эмоцией, которую можно было переводить с одного объекта на другой, как пламя паяльной лампы. Так ненависть Уинстона в какой-то миг оказывалась обращенной вовсе не на Голдштейна, а наоборот, на Большого Брата, на Партию и Мыслеполицию; в такие моменты сердце его тянулось к одинокому очерненному отступнику на экране, признавая в нем единственного поборника правды и здравомыслия в мире лжи. Однако в следующий миг Уинстон был един с людьми вокруг себя, и все, что говорили о Голдштейне, казалось ему правдой. Тогда его тайная неприязнь к Большому Брату сменялась обожанием, и Большой Брат вздымался надо всеми, как скала, превращаясь в неуязвимого, бесстрашного защитника от азиатских орд, а Голдштейн, несмотря на всю свою изоляцию, беспомощность и даже сомнение в самом его существовании, казался каким-то зловещим чародеем, который мог одной лишь силой голоса сокрушить целую цивилизацию.

Иногда можно было даже обратить свою ненависть волевым усилием на конкретный объект. Внезапно, диким усилием, каким отрываешь голову от подушки во время кошмара, Уинстон сумел перевести ярость с Голдштейна на темноволосую девушку позади себя. У него перед глазами замелькали отчетливые прекрасные галлюцинации. Он забьет ее до смерти резиновой дубинкой. Привяжет голой к столбу и истыкает стрелами, как святого Себастьяна. Овладеет ею и в момент оргазма перережет глотку. С небывалой ясностью он осознал причины своей ненависти. Потому что она была молода и красива и отрицала секс, потому что он хотел переспать с ней и никогда не сможет этого сделать, ведь ее прелестную гибкую талию, так и просившуюся в объятья, обнимал только жуткий алый кушак, агрессивный символ непорочности.

Ненависть достигла апогея. Голос Голдштейна перешел в настоящее овечье блеянье, и на миг его лицо обернулось бараньей мордой, которая плавно перетекла в фигуру евразийского солдата – огромный и ужасный, он наступал на зрителей, грохоча автоматной очередью. Казалось, он сейчас соскочит с экрана, так что некоторые в первом ряду отпрянули подальше. Но тут же раздался всеобщий вздох облегчения, когда враждебная фигура уступила место лицу Большого Брата – черноволосому, черноусому, исполненному могущества и загадочного спокойствия – да такому огромному, что оно едва умещалось на экране. Никто не мог расслышать, что говорил Большой Брат. Скорее всего, лишь несколько ободряющих слов, из тех, что произносят в пылу сражения, – сами по себе невнятные, они вселяли уверенность уже тем, что были произнесены. Затем лицо Большого Брата вновь поблекло, и на его месте жирным шрифтом возникли три лозунга Партии:

Лицо Большого Брата еще держалось на экране несколько секунд, словно бы его воздействие на человеческий глаз было слишком сильно, чтобы изгладиться сразу. Рыжеватая женщина навалилась на спинку переднего стула, лепеча дрожащим голосом что-то вроде: «Спаситель мой!» – и простерла руки к экрану. После чего спрятала лицо в ладони, вероятно, забормотав молитву.

И тут все собравшиеся принялись ритмично и неторопливо скандировать низкими голосами: «Бэ – Бэ!.. Бэ – Бэ!..» – снова и снова, очень медленно, с долгими интервалами между первым «Бэ» и вторым. В этом тяжелом, монотонном гуле слышалось что-то до странности дикарское, так что невольно представлялся топот босых ног и рокот туземных барабанов. Шум длился с полминуты. Люди нередко прибегали к этому рефрену от избытка чувств. Отчасти они восхваляли мудрость и величие Большого Брата, но в большей степени намеренно вводили себя в транс, одурманивая разум ритмичным повтором. Уинстон почувствовал, как внутри у него холодеет. Двухминутки Ненависти заставляли его поддаваться общему помешательству, но это дикарское скандирование «Бэ – Бэ!.. Бэ – Бэ!» всегда наполняло его ужасом. Разумеется, он повторял вместе со всеми – по-другому никак. Так велел инстинкт: скрывать свои чувства, управлять мимикой, делать все как все. Но на этот раз была пара секунд, когда он мог бы выдать себя выражением глаз. И вот тогда случилось нечто примечательное – если оно и вправду случилось.

В какой-то момент Уинстон поймал взгляд О’Брайена. Тот уже встал. Он снял очки и собирался снова водрузить их на нос своим характерным жестом. Но за долю секунды до этого их глаза встретились, и Уинстон понял – да, понял! – что О’Брайен думал так же, как и он сам. Ошибки быть не могло. Словно их сознания раскрылись и мысли передавались из глаз в глаза.

«Я с вами, – словно бы сказал ему О’Брайен. – Я понимаю ваши чувства. Я знаю все о вашем презрении, ненависти, отвращении. Но не волнуйтесь, я на вашей стороне!»

И тут же этот проблеск разума погас, а лицо О’Брайена стало таким же непроницаемым, как и у остальных.

Вот и все, Уинстон сразу начал сомневаться, произошло ли что-то вообще. Такие инциденты никогда ни к чему не вели. Они только поддерживали в нем убеждение или надежду, что были и другие враги Партии, не только он один. Возможно, что слухи о хитросплетенных подпольных заговорах имели реальную основу – не исключено, что Братство и вправду существовало! Нельзя было сказать с уверенностью, несмотря на бесконечные аресты, признания и казни, что Братство – не просто миф. Иногда Уинстон верил в него, иногда – нет. Свидетельств не было, только беглые взгляды, которые могли значить что угодно или вовсе ничего, обрывки чужих разговоров, неразборчивые надписи на стенах туалетов – а еще как-то раз он видел, как встретились два незнакомца, и один из них необычно шевельнул рукой, словно подав некий знак. Одни лишь догадки: вполне возможно, все это ему просто привиделось. Он вернулся в свою кабинку, не смея взглянуть на О’Брайена. Уинстон едва ли допускал возможность завязать с ним знакомство. Если бы он даже знал, как это устроить, опасность была слишком велика. Два человека обменялись двусмысленным взглядом, длившимся секунду, может, две – и дело с концом. Но даже это стало заметным событием для человека, вынужденного жить в одиночестве.

Уинстон встрепенулся и сел ровнее. Джин в желудке бунтовал и вызывал отрыжку.

Он снова всмотрелся в страницу. Оказалось, что пока он беспомощно витал в воспоминаниях, рука продолжала выводить строчки как бы сама по себе. Только почерк уже был не прежний корявый и неуклюжий. Перо размашисто скользило по гладкой бумаге, выводя крупными печатными буквами:

Раз за разом одно и то же – и вот уже исписано полстраницы.

Уинстона захлестнула паника. Абсурдное ощущение, ведь дневник сам по себе был не менее опасен, чем эти конкретные слова. На миг им овладело желание вырвать исписанные страницы и забросить всю свою затею.

Однако он этого не сделал, поскольку понимал тщетность такого поступка. Не было разницы, написал он или нет «ДОЛОЙ БОЛЬШОГО БРАТА». Не было разницы и в том, станет ли он дальше вести дневник или нет. Мыслеполиция все равно его поймает. Он и так уже совершил – даже если бы никогда не касался пером бумаги – абсолютное преступление, содержавшее в себе все остальные. Мыслефелония – так это называлось. Мыслефелонию невозможно скрывать вечно. Можно изворачиваться до поры до времени, даже годами, но рано или поздно за тобой придут.

Приходили всегда по ночам – в другое время людей не арестовывали. Тебя резко будили, трясли за плечо, светили фонарем в глаза, кровать обступали суровые лица. Почти никогда никого не судили, об арестах не сообщали. Люди просто исчезали – всегда среди ночи. Твое имя удаляли из реестров, любые записи о твоих действиях уничтожали, само твое существование отрицалось и вскоре забывалось. Тебя аннулировали, стирали с лица земли – одним словом, испаряли, как об этом говорили.

Им вдруг овладело что-то вроде истерики. Уинстон принялся спешно писать неряшливым почерком:

меня застрелят мне плевать меня застрелят сзади в шею мне плевать долой большого брата они всегда стреляют сзади в шею мне плевать долой большого брата…

Он откинулся на спинку стула, чуть стыдясь себя, и отложил ручку. В следующий миг он нервно вздрогнул. Стучали в дверь.

Уже! Уинстон сидел тихо, как мышка, в тщетной надежде, что кто бы там ни был, он сейчас уйдет. Но нет, стук повторился. Медлить в такой ситуации было хуже всего. Сердце Уинстона бухало, как барабан, но лицо в силу долгой привычки оставалось почти невозмутимым. Он встал и тяжело направился к двери.

II

As he put his hand to the door knob Winston saw that he had left the diary open on the table. DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER was written all over it, in letters almost big enough to be legible across the room. It was an inconceivably stupid thing to have done. But, he realized, even in his panic he had not wanted to smudge the creamy paper by shutting the book while the ink was wet.

He drew in his breath and opened the door. Instantly a warm wave of relief flowed through him. A colourless, crushed looking woman, with wispy hair and a lined face, was standing outside.

“Oh, comrade,” she began in a dreary, whining sort of voice, “I thought I heard you come in. Do you think you could come across and have a look at our kitchen sink? It’s got blocked up and —”

It was Mrs. Parsons, the wife of a neighbour on the same floor. (“Mrs.” was a word somewhat discountenanced by the Party – you were supposed to call everyone “comrade” – but with some women one used it instinctively.) She was a woman of about thirty, but looking much older. One had the impression that there was dust in the creases of her face. Winston followed her down the passage. These amateur repair jobs were an almost daily irritation. Victory Mansions were old flats, built in 1930 or thereabouts, and were falling to pieces. The plaster flaked constantly from ceilings and walls, the pipes burst in every hard frost, the roof leaked whenever there was snow, the heating system was usually running at half steam when it was not closed down altogether from motives of economy. Repairs, except what you could do for yourself, had to be sanctioned by remote committees which were liable to hold up even the mending of a window pane for two years.

“Of course it’s only because Tom isn’t home,” said Mrs. Parsons vaguely.

The Parsons’ flat was bigger than Winston’s, and dingy in a different way. Everything had a battered, trampled on look, as though the place had just been visited by some large violent animal. Games impediments – hockey sticks, boxing gloves, a burst football, a pair of sweaty shorts turned inside out – lay all over the floor, and on the table there was a litter of dirty dishes and dogeared exercise books. On the walls were scarlet banners of the Youth League and the Spies, and a full-sized poster of Big Brother. There was the usual boiled cabbage smell, common to the whole building, but it was shot through by a sharper reek of sweat, which – one knew this at the first sniff, though it was hard to say how – was the sweat of some person not present at the moment. In another room someone with a comb and a piece of toilet paper was trying to keep tune with the military music which was still issuing from the telescreen.

“It’s the children,” said Mrs. Parsons, casting a half apprehensive glance at the door. “They haven’t been out today. And of course —”

She had a habit of breaking off her sentences in the middle. The kitchen sink was full nearly to the brim with filthy greenish water which smelt worse than ever of cabbage. Winston knelt down and examined the angle joint of the pipe. He hated using his hands, and he hated bending down, which was always liable to start him coughing. Mrs. Parsons looked on helplessly.

“Of course if Tom was home, he’d put it right in a moment,” she said. “He loves anything like that. He’s ever so good with his hands, Tom is.”

Parsons was Winston’s fellow employee at the Ministry of Truth. He was a fattish but active man of paralysing stupidity, a mass of imbecile enthusiasms – one of those completely unquestioning, devoted drudges on whom, more even than on the Thought Police, the stability of the Party depended. At thirty five he had just been unwillingly evicted from the Youth League, and before graduating into the Youth League he had managed to stay on in the Spies for a year beyond the statutory age. At the Ministry he was employed in some subordinate post for which intelligence was not required, but on the other hand he was a leading figure on the Sports Committee and all the other committees engaged in organizing community hikes, spontaneous demonstrations, savings campaigns, and voluntary activities generally. He would inform you with quiet pride, between whiffs of his pipe, that he had put in an appearance at the Community Centre every evening for the past four years. An overpowering smell of sweat, a sort of unconscious testimony to the strenuousness of his life, followed him about wherever he went, and even remained behind him after he had gone.

“Have you got a spanner?” said Winston, fiddling with the nut on the angle joint.

“A spanner,” said Mrs. Parsons, immediately becoming invertebrate. “I don’t know, I’m sure. Perhaps the children —”

There was a trampling of boots and another blast on the comb as the children charged into the living room. Mrs. Parsons brought the spanner. Winston let out the water and disgustedly removed the clot of human hair that had blocked up the pipe. He cleaned his fingers as best he could in the cold water from the tap and went back into the other room.

“Up with your hands!” yelled a savage voice.

A handsome, tough looking boy of nine had popped up from behind the table and was menacing him with a toy automatic pistol, while his small sister, about two years younger, made the same gesture with a fragment of wood. Both of them were dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirts, and red neckerchiefs which were the uniform of the Spies. Winston raised his hands above his head, but with an uneasy feeling, so vicious was the boy’s demeanour, that it was not altogether a game.

“You’re a traitor!” yelled the boy. “You’re a thought criminal! You’re a Eurasian spy! I’ll shoot you, I’ll vaporize you, I’ll send you to the salt mines!”

Suddenly they were both leaping round him, shouting “Traitor!” and “Thought criminal!” the little girl imitating her brother in every movement. It was somehow slightly frightening, like the gambolling of tiger cubs which will soon grow up into man eaters. There was a sort of calculating ferocity in the boy’s eye, a quite evident desire to hit or kick Winston and a consciousness of being very nearly big enough to do so. It was a good job it was not a real pistol he was holding, Winston thought.

Mrs. Parsons’ eyes flitted nervously from Winston to the children, and back again. In the better light of the living room he noticed with interest that there actually was dust in the creases of her face.

“They do get so noisy,” she said. “They’re disappointed because they couldn’t go to see the hanging, that’s what it is. I’m too busy to take them, and Tom won’t be back from work in time.”

“Why can’t we go and see the hanging?” roared the boy in his huge voice.

“Want to see the hanging! Want to see the hanging!” chanted the little girl, still capering round.

Some Eurasian prisoners, guilty of war crimes, were to be hanged in the Park that evening, Winston remembered. This happened about once a month, and was a popular spectacle. Children always clamoured to be taken to see it. He took his leave of Mrs. Parsons and made for the door. But he had not gone six steps down the passage when something hit the back of his neck an agonizingly painful blow. It was as though a red hot wire had been jabbed into him. He spun round just in time to see Mrs. Parsons dragging her son back into the doorway while the boy pocketed a catapult.

“Goldstein!” bellowed the boy as the door closed on him.

But what most struck Winston was the look of helpless fright on the woman’s greyish face.

Back in the flat he stepped quickly past the telescreen and sat down at the table again, still rubbing his neck. The music from the telescreen had stopped. Instead, a clipped military voice was reading out, with a sort of brutal relish, a description of the armaments of the new Floating Fortress which had just been anchored between lceland and the Faroe Islands.

With those children, he thought, that wretched woman must lead a life of terror. Another year, two years, and they would be watching her night and day for symptoms of unorthodoxy. Nearly all children nowadays were horrible. What was worst of all was that by means of such organizations as the Spies they were systematically turned into ungovernable little savages, and yet this produced in them no tendency whatever to rebel against the discipline of the Party. On the contrary, they adored the Party and everything connected with it. The songs, the processions, the banners, the hiking, the drilling with dummy rifles, the yelling of slogans, the worship of Big Brother – it was all a sort of glorious game to them. All their ferocity was turned outwards, against the enemies of the State, against foreigners, traitors, saboteurs, thought criminals. It was almost normal for people over thirty to be frightened of their own children. And with good reason, for hardly a week passed in which the Times did not carry a paragraph describing how some eavesdropping little sneak – “child hero” was the phrase generally used – had overheard some compromising remark and denounced its parents to the Thought Police.

The sting of the catapult bullet had worn off. He picked up his pen half heartedly, wondering whether he could find something more to write in the diary. Suddenly he began thinking of O’Brien again.

Years ago – how long was it? Seven years it must be – he had dreamed that he was walking through a pitch dark room. And someone sitting to one side of him had said as he passed: ‘We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness.’ It was said very quietly, almost casually – a statement, not a command. He had walked on without pausing. What was curious was that at the time, in the dream, the words had not made much impression on him. It was only later and by degrees that they had seemed to take on significance. He could not now remember whether it was before or after having the dream that he had seen O’Brien for the first time, nor could he remember when he had first identified the voice as O’Brien’s. But at any rate the identification existed. It was O’Brien who had spoken to him out of the dark.

Winston had never been able to feel sure – even after this morning’s flash of the eyes it was still impossible to be sure whether O’Brien was a friend or an enemy. Nor did it even seem to matter greatly. There was a link of understanding between them, more important than affection or partisanship.

“We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,” he had said.

Winston did not know what it meant, only that in some way or another it would come true.

The voice from the telescreen paused. A trumpet call, clear and beautiful, floated into the stagnant air. The voice continued raspingly:

“Attention! Your attention, please! A newsflash has this moment arrived from the Malabar front. Our forces in South India have won a glorious victory. I am authorized to say that the action we are now reporting may well bring the war within measurable distance of its end. Here is the newsflash —”

Bad news coming, thought Winston. And sure enough, following on a gory description of the annihilation of a Eurasian army, with stupendous figures of killed and prisoners, came the announcement that, as from next week, the chocolate ration would be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty.

Winston belched again. The gin was wearing off, leaving a deflated feeling. The telescreen – perhaps to celebrate the victory, perhaps to drown the memory of the lost chocolate – crashed into “Oceania, ’tis for thee”. You were supposed to stand to attention. However, in his present position he was invisible.

“Oceania, ’tis for thee” gave way to lighter music. Winston walked over to the window, keeping his back to the telescreen. The day was still cold and clear. Somewhere far away a rocket bomb exploded with a dull, reverberating roar. About twenty or thirty of them a week were falling on London at present.

Down in the street the wind flapped the torn poster to and fro, and the word INGSOC fitfully appeared and vanished. Ingsoc. The sacred principles of Ingsoc.

Newspeak, doublethink, the mutability of the past. He felt as though he were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in a monstrous world where he himself was the monster. He was alone. The past was dead, the future was unimaginable. What certainty had he that a single human creature now living was on his side? And what way of knowing that the dominion of the Party would not endure for ever? Like an answer, the three slogans on the white face of the Ministry of Truth came back to him:

He took a twenty five cent piece out of his pocket. There, too, in tiny clear lettering, the same slogans were inscribed, and on the other face of the coin the head of Big Brother. Even from the coin the eyes pursued you. On coins, on stamps, on the covers of books, on banners, on posters, and on the wrappings of a cigarette packet – everywhere. Always the eyes watching you and the voice enveloping you. Asleep or awake, working or eating, indoors or out of doors, in the bath or in bed – no escape. Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimetres inside your skull.

The sun had shifted round, and the myriad windows of the Ministry of Truth, with the light no longer shining on them, looked grim as the loopholes of a fortress. His heart quailed before the enormous pyramidal shape. It was too strong, it could not be stormed. A thousand rocket bombs would not batter it down. He wondered again for whom he was writing the diary. For the future, for the past – for an age that might be imaginary. And in front of him there lay not death but annihilation. The diary would be reduced to ashes and himself to vapour. Only the Thought Police would read what he had written, before they wiped it out of existence and out of memory. How could you make appeal to the future when not a trace of you, not even an anonymous word scribbled on a piece of paper, could physically survive?

The telescreen struck fourteen. He must leave in ten minutes. He had to be back at work by fourteen thirty.

Curiously, the chiming of the hour seemed to have put new heart into him. He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear. But so long as he uttered it, in some obscure way the continuity was not broken. It was not by making yourself heard but by staying sane that you carried on the human heritage. He went back to the table, dipped his pen, and wrote:

To the future or to the past, to a time when thought is free, when men are different from one another and do not live alone – to a time when truth exists and what is done cannot be undone:

From the age of uniformity, from the age of solitude, from the age of Big Brother, from the age of doublethink – greetings!

He was already dead, he reflected. It seemed to him that it was only now, when he had begun to be able to formulate his thoughts, that he had taken the decisive step. The consequences of every act are included in the act itself. He wrote:

Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime IS death.

Now he had recognized himself as a dead man it became important to stay alive as long as possible. Two fingers of his right hand were inkstained. It was exactly the kind of detail that might betray you. Some nosing zealot in the Ministry (a woman, probably: someone like the little sandy-haired woman or the dark haired girl from the Fiction Department) might start wondering why he had been writing during the lunch interval, why he had used an old fashioned pen, what he had been writing – and then drop a hint in the appropriate quarter. He went to the bathroom and carefully scrubbed the ink away with the gritty dark brown soap which rasped your skin like sandpaper and was therefore well adapted for this purpose.

He put the diary away in the drawer. It was quite useless to think of hiding it, but he could at least make sure whether or not its existence had been discovered. A hair laid across the page ends was too obvious. With the tip of his finger he picked up an identifiable grain of whitish dust and deposited it on the corner of the cover, where it was bound to be shaken off if the book was moved.

II

Взявшись за дверную ручку, Уинстон обратил внимание на раскрытые страницы дневника на столе. «ДОЛОЙ БОЛЬШОГО БРАТА» повторялось на них столько раз и такими крупными буквами, что можно было разглядеть надписи через всю комнату. Немыслимая глупость! Несмотря на панику, он понял, что не хочет пачкать кремовую бумагу, захлопывая тетрадь, прежде чем просохнут чернила.

Уинстон вздохнул и открыл дверь. Облегчение теплой волной прокатилось по всему телу. За дверью стояла потрепанного вида женщина, невзрачная, с жидкими всклокоченными волосами и морщинистым лицом.

– Ох, товарищ, – затянула она тоскливым голосом, – я услыхала, вы вроде дома. Вы бы не зашли к нам посмотреть раковину на кухне? Она засорилась и…

Это была миссис Парсонс, жена соседа по этажу. (Партия почему-то не одобряла слово «миссис» – полагалось ко всем обращаться «товарищ», – но некоторых женщин называть иначе язык не поворачивался.) Женщина лет тридцати, но на вид гораздо старше. Казалось, в ее морщинах на лице залегла пыль. Уинстон пошел за ней по коридору. Слесарная самодеятельность стала едва ли не ежедневной морокой. Старый жилкомплекс «Победа» возвели годах в тридцатых – и весь он уже разваливался. С потолка и стен постоянно сыпалась штукатурка, трубы лопались при каждом крепком морозе, крыша текла всякий раз, как выпадал снег, а отопление обычно работало на половинном давлении, если его не отключали совсем из соображений экономии. Если ты не мог починить чего-то сам, то приходилось ждать распоряжений неуловимых комитетов, которые даже с ремонтом оконной рамы могли тянуть по два года.

– Я ведь только потому, что Том не дома, – пробормотала миссис Парсонс.

Квартира Парсонсов была больше, чем у Уинстона, и убожество ее выражалось иначе. Все вещи имели потрепанный, побитый вид, как будто здесь только что побывал крупный злобный зверь. По всему полу валялись спортивные принадлежности – хоккейные клюшки, боксерские перчатки, лопнувший футбольный мяч, вывернутые наизнанку потные шорты, – а на столе громоздилась грязная посуда и замызганные школьные тетради. На стенах алели знамена Молодежной лиги и лиги Разведчиков, и висел полноразмерный плакат Большого Брата. Пахло здесь, как и во всем доме, вареной капустой, но привычный запах оттеняла острая вонь едкого пота, которую оставил после себя кто-то отсутствующий в данный момент. Такие подробности по неизвестной причине становились понятны с первого вдоха. В соседней комнате кто-то трещал клочком туалетной бумаги по зубьям расчески, неумело подыгрывая военной музыке, продолжавшей звучать с телеэкрана.

– Это дети, – сказала миссис Парсонс, бросив тревожный взгляд на дверь. – Они сегодня не гуляли. И, конечно…

У нее была привычка обрывать предложения на середине. Раковина на кухне почти до краев заполнилась грязной зеленоватой водой, смердевшей хуже капусты. Уинстон опустился на колени и осмотрел угловую муфту на сливной трубе. Он терпеть не мог работать руками, терпеть не мог нагибаться – и всегда от этого кашлял. Миссис Парсонс стояла рядом с беспомощным видом.

– Был бы дома Том, он бы вмиг прочистил, – сказала она. – Он любит такими делами заниматься. Мастер на все руки.

Парсонс, как и Уинстон, работал в Министерстве правды. Это был полный, но неугомонный малый, тупой до невозможности сгусток кретинского энтузиазма – один из тех беспрекословных преданных трудяг, на которых Партия опиралась надежнее, чем на Мыслеполицию. Только в тридцать пять он с неохотой оставил ряды Молодежной лиги, а до этого умудрился пробыть в Разведчиках на год дольше положенного. В министерстве он занимал какую-то незначительную должность, для которой не требовалось особого ума, зато стал ведущей фигурой в Спортивном комитете и в целом ряде других структур для организации турпоходов, стихийных демонстраций, кампаний по экономии и прочих добровольных начинаний. Попыхивая трубкой, он не без гордости сообщал товарищам, что вот уже четыре года, как он не пропустил ни одного вечера в Центре досуга. Его всегда сопровождал одуряющий запах пота, являясь невольным знаком усердной жизнедеятельности и еще долго витая в помещении даже после ухода Парсонса.

– У вас есть гаечный ключ? – спросил Уинстон, тронув гайку на муфте.

– Гаечный, – сказала миссис Парсонс, обмякая на глазах. – Я даже не знаю. Может, дети…

Раздался топот, очередная трель расчески – и в комнату вкатились дети. Миссис Парсонс принесла гаечный ключ. Уинстон спустил воду и с отвращением извлек из трубы клок волос. Он, как мог, отмыл пальцы под холодной водой и вернулся в другую комнату.

– Руки вверх! – рявкнул свирепый голос.

Из-за стола вынырнул симпатичный крепыш лет девяти, наставляя на него игрушечный автоматический пистолет, а его сестренка, младше года на два, направила на Уинстона деревяшку. Оба были одеты в форму Разведчиков: синие шорты, серые рубашки, красные галстуки. Уинстон с беспокойством поднял руки над головой – мальчик держался так злобно, что это не было похоже на игру.

– Ты предатель! – завопил он. – Мыслефелон! Ты евразийский шпион! Я тебя застрелю, испарю, я тебя отправлю в соляные шахты!

И они оба принялись скакать вокруг Уинстона, вереща «Предатель!» и «Мыслефелон!» – девочка повторяла каждое движение за братом. Это немного пугало, как возня тигрят, которые скоро вырастут в людоедов. В глазах мальчика виднелась какая-то свирепая расчетливость, почти неодолимое желание ударить Уинстона и понимание того, что очень скоро это будет ему по силам. Уинстон подумал, как ему повезло, что у мальчика не настоящий пистолет.

Взгляд миссис Парсонс нервозно перебегал между гостем и детьми. В гостиной было светлее, и он с интересом отметил, что в морщинах на ее лице действительно засела пыль.

– Они что-то расшумелись, – сказала она. – Не понравилось, что их не возьмут на повешение, вот почему. Мне с ними некогда, а Том к тому времени еще не вернется с работы.

– Почему нам нельзя посмотреть, как вешают? – возмущенно завопил мальчик.

– Хочу смотреть, как вешают! Хочу смотреть, как вешают! – заголосила девочка, продолжая скакать.

Уинстон вспомнил, что сегодня вечером в парке будут публично вешать евразийских военных преступников. Такое зрелищное мероприятие устраивали примерно раз в месяц. Дети вечно просились со взрослыми. Он вышел от миссис Парсонс и направился к себе, но не прошел по коридору и шести шагов, как что-то больно ужалило его сзади в шею. Словно воткнули обрывок раскаленной проволоки. Уинстон резко обернулся и увидел, как миссис Парсонс затаскивает в дверь сына, прячущего в карман рогатку.

– Голдштейн! – заорал мальчик, исчезая за дверью.

Больше всего Уинстона изумило выражение беспомощного страха на сером лице матери.

Вернувшись к себе, он быстро прошел мимо телеэкрана и снова сел за стол, потирая шею. Музыка уже не играла. Теперь отрывистый военный голос, кровожадно смакуя подробности, зачитывал описание вооружений новой Плавучей крепости, только что вставшей на якорь между Исландией и Фарерскими островами.

Уинстон подумал, что с такими детьми эта несчастная женщина живет в постоянном страхе. Еще год-другой, и они начнут следить за ней днем и ночью, норовя уличить хоть в чем-нибудь. Теперь почти все дети ужасны. Хуже всего, что с помощью таких организаций, как Разведчики, их методично превращают в необузданных маленьких дикарей, но у них не возникает желания бунтовать против партийной дисциплины. Напротив, они обожают Партию и все, что с ней связано. Песни, парады, знамена, походы, муштра с учебными винтовками, громкие лозунги, восхваление Большого Брата – все это им представляется захватывающей игрой. Их натравливают на чужаков, на врагов Режима, на иностранцев, предателей, вредителей, мыслефелонов. Для людей старше тридцати стало в порядке вещей бояться собственных детей. И не без причины, ведь почти каждую неделю «Таймс» публикует заметки, как очередной мелкий ябедник – «маленький герой», как их обычно называют – грел дома уши и донес на родителей в Мыслеполицию, услышав подозрительные высказывания.

Боль в шее уже утихла. Уинстон взял ручку со смешанными чувствами, не зная, стоит ли занести в дневник что-то еще. Ему на ум вдруг снова пришел О’Брайен.

Несколько лет назад (сколько же именно – лет семь, пожалуй?) Уинстону приснилось, что он идет по комнате в кромешной тьме. И кто-то, сидевший чуть в стороне, говорит ему: «Мы встретимся там, где нет темноты». Это было сказано совсем тихо, почти между делом – замечание, а не приказ. Уинстон пошел дальше, не остановившись. Как ни странно, во сне он не придал значения этим словам. Только со временем, постепенно они стали обретать смысл. Он не мог теперь припомнить, увидел ли этот сон до или после знакомства с О’Брайеном, как не мог припомнить и когда он впервые решил, что слышал во сне именно его голос. Так или иначе голос он этот опознал. В темноте к нему обращался O’Брайен.

Уинстон никак не мог уяснить – даже после утреннего обмена взглядами – друг или враг ему О’Брайен. Хотя это как будто было не так уж и важно. Между ними промелькнуло понимание, значившее больше, чем взаимное расположение или заговорщицкий дух.

«Мы встретимся там, где нет темноты», – так он сказал.

Уинстон не понимал, что это значит, – знал только, что слова из сна так или иначе сбудутся.

Голос с телеэкрана прервался. В душном воздухе комнаты раздался звук фанфар, чистый и прекрасный. Голос проговорил со скрежетом:

«Внимание! Прошу внимания! Только что поступила сводка-молния с Малабарского фронта. Наши войска в Южной Индии одержали блестящую победу. Я уполномочен заявить, что настоящее событие вполне может приблизить завершение войны в обозримом будущем. Передаю сводку новостей…»

Уинстон подумал, что надо ждать плохих известий. И действительно: за кровавым описанием разгрома евразийской армии с колоссальными цифрами убитых и взятых в плен последовало объявление, что со следующей недели норма шоколадного рациона сокращается с тридцати граммов до двадцати.

Уинстон снова рыгнул. Джин почти выветрился, оставляя после себя чувство подавленности. Телеэкран разразился песней «Во славу твою, Океания» – то ли в честь победы, то ли чтобы отвлечь людей от сокращения шоколадного пайка. Полагалось встать по стойке «смирно», но Уинстон находился вне зоны видимости телеэкрана.

«Во славу твою, Океания» сменилась легкой музыкой. Уинстон подошел к окну, держась спиной к телеэкрану. День был все такой же холодный и ясный. Где-то вдалеке с глухим раскатистым грохотом взорвалась ракета. На Лондон их сбрасывали от двадцати до тридцати в неделю.

На улице ветер продолжал трепать оторванный угол плаката, то открывая, то скрывая слово «АНГСОЦ». Ангсоц. Священные устои Ангсоца.

Новояз, двоемыслие, пластичность прошлого. Уинстон почувствовал себя так, будто бредет по морскому дну через лес водорослей, затерявшись в монструозном мире, где и сам он – монстр. Он был один. Прошлое – мертво, будущее – невообразимо. Как он мог быть уверен, что на его стороне хоть одно человеческое существо из ныне живущих? И разве можно знать, что владычество Партии не будет вечным? Вместо ответа он прочитал три лозунга на белом фасаде Министерства правды:

Уинстон достал из кармана монетку в двадцать пять центов. На ней значились те же три лозунга, набранные аккуратным мелким шрифтом, а на оборотной стороне – лицо Большого Брата. Даже с монеты за тобой наблюдали эти глаза. Они были везде: на монетах, марках, книжных обложках, на знаменах и плакатах, на сигаретных пачках. Ты всегда чувствовал на себе взгляд и слышал вкрадчивый голос. Во сне и наяву, на работе и за едой, дома и на улице, в ванной и в постели – никуда от этого не деться. Не оставалось ничего своего, кроме нескольких кубических сантиметров внутри черепной коробки.

Солнце ушло, и мириады окон Министерства правды перестали отражать его свет, потемнев, как бойницы крепости. Сердце Уинстона сжалось при виде исполинской пирамиды. Она слишком прочна, ее не взять штурмом. И тысяча ракет не сможет сровнять ее с землей. Он снова задумался, ради кого пишет дневник. Ради будущего, ради прошлого – ради века, может, лишь воображаемого. Перед ним же маячила не смерть, но бесследное уничтожение. Дневник превратится в пепел, а сам он просто испарится. Его слова прочтет только Мыслеполиция, прежде чем стереть их с лица земли и из истории. Как можно обращаться к будущему, когда от тебя не останется никакого следа в этом мире, даже анонимных слов, нацарапанных на клочке бумаги?

Телеэкран пробил четырнадцать часов. До выхода десять минут. Он должен вернуться на работу к четырнадцати тридцати.

Бой часов, как ни странно, вернул ему присутствие духа. Уинстон был одиноким призраком, изрекавшим правду, которую никто никогда не услышит. Но пока он ее изрекает, связь времен таинственным образом продолжается. Ты несешь в себе человеческое начало не тогда, когда тебя слушают, а когда ты сохраняешь ясное сознание. Он вернулся к столу, обмакнул перо в чернила и написал:

Будущему или прошлому, времени, когда мысль свободна, когда люди отличаются друг от друга и не живут в одиночку – времени, когда существует правда, и что сделано, то сделано:

Из века одинаковых, из века одиночек, из века Большого Брата, из века двоемыслия – приветствую тебя!

Он подумал, что уже мертв. Ему показалось, что только сейчас, когда он обрел способность формулировать мысли, он пересек черту. Последствия любого действия заключены в самом этом действии. Он написал:

Мыслефелония не влечет за собой смерть: мыслефелония ЕСТЬ смерть.

Теперь, когда он признал в себе мертвеца, стало важным оставаться в живых как можно дольше. Два пальца правой руки запачкались чернилами. Как раз такая деталь и может выдать. Какой-нибудь востроносый ревнитель в министерстве (скорее всего, женщина: хотя бы та маленькая, рыжеватая или темноволосая из Художественного отдела) мог задуматься, почему Уинстон писал в обеденный перерыв, почему писал старомодной ручкой, что он писал – и обмолвиться об этом в нужном месте. Уинстон пошел в ванную и тщательно отмыл чернила зернистым бурым мылом, которое терло кожу, как наждачная бумага, и потому хорошо подходило для такой задачи.

Дневник он убрал в ящик. Пытаться как-то спрятать его было бессмысленно, но он мог хотя бы принять меры, чтобы заметить, если тетрадь обнаружат. Волос на краю страницы был бы слишком очевиден. Он подобрал кончиком пальца едва заметную белесую пылинку и поместил на угол обложки, где она будет покоиться, пока дневник кто-нибудь не возьмет в руки.

III

Winston was dreaming of his mother.

He must, he thought, have been ten or eleven years old when his mother had disappeared. She was a tall, statuesque, rather silent woman with slow movements and magnificent fair hair. His father he remembered more vaguely as dark and thin, dressed always in neat dark clothes (Winston remembered especially the very thin soles of his father’s shoes) and wearing spectacles. The two of them must evidently have been swallowed up in one of the first great purges of the fifties.

At this moment his mother was sitting in some place deep down beneath him, with his young sister in her arms. He did not remember his sister at all, except as a tiny, feeble baby, always silent, with large, watchful eyes. Both of them were looking up at him. They were down in some subterranean place – the bottom of a well, for instance, or a very deep grave – but it was a place which, already far below him, was itself moving downwards. They were in the saloon of a sinking ship, looking up at him through the darkening water. There was still air in the saloon, they could still see him and he them, but all the while they were sinking down, down into the green waters which in another moment must hide them from sight for ever. He was out in the light and air while they were being sucked down to death, and they were down there because he was up here. He knew it and they knew it, and he could see the knowledge in their faces. There was no reproach either in their faces or in their hearts, only the knowledge that they must die in order that he might remain alive, and that this was part of the unavoidable order of things.

He could not remember what had happened, but he knew in his dream that in some way the lives of his mother and his sister had been sacrificed to his own. It was one of those dreams which, while retaining the characteristic dream scenery, are a continuation of one’s intellectual life, and in which one becomes aware of facts and ideas which still seem new and valuable after one is awake. The thing that now suddenly struck Winston was that his mother’s death, nearly thirty years ago, had been tragic and sorrowful in a way that was no longer possible. Tragedy, he perceived, belonged to the ancient time, to a time when there was still privacy, love, and friendship, and when the members of a family stood by one another without needing to know the reason. His mother’s memory tore at his heart because she had died loving him, when he was too young and selfish to love her in return, and because somehow, he did not remember how, she had sacrificed herself to a conception of loyalty that was private and unalterable. Such things, he saw, could not happen today. Today there were fear, hatred, and pain, but no dignity of emotion, no deep or complex sorrows. All this he seemed to see in the large eyes of his mother and his sister, looking up at him through the green water, hundreds of fathoms down and still sinking.

Suddenly he was standing on short springy turf, on a summer evening when the slanting rays of the sun gilded the ground. The landscape that he was looking at recurred so often in his dreams that he was never fully certain whether or not he had seen it in the real world. In his waking thoughts he called it the Golden Country. It was an old, rabbit bitten pasture, with a foot track wandering across it and a molehill here and there. In the ragged hedge on the opposite side of the field the boughs of the elm trees were swaying very faintly in the breeze, their leaves just stirring in dense masses like women’s hair. Somewhere near at hand, though out of sight, there was a clear, slow moving stream where dace were swimming in the pools under the willow trees.

The girl with dark hair was coming towards them across the field. With what seemed a single movement she tore off her clothes and flung them disdainfully aside. Her body was white and smooth, but it aroused no desire in him, indeed he barely looked at it. What overwhelmed him in that instant was admiration for the gesture with which she had thrown her clothes aside. With its grace and carelessness it seemed to annihilate a whole culture, a whole system of thought, as though Big Brother and the Party and the Thought Police could all be swept into nothingness by a single splendid movement of the arm. That too was a gesture belonging to the ancient time. Winston woke up with the word “Shakespeare” on his lips.

The telescreen was giving forth an ear splitting whistle which continued on the same note for thirty seconds. It was nought seven fifteen, getting up time for office workers. Winston wrenched his body out of bed – naked, for a member of the Outer Party received only 3,000 clothing coupons annually, and a suit of pyjamas was 600 – and seized a dingy singlet and a pair of shorts that were lying across a chair. The Physical Jerks would begin in three minutes. The next moment he was doubled up by a violent coughing fit which nearly always attacked him soon after waking up. It emptied his lungs so completely that he could only begin breathing again by lying on his back and taking a series of deep gasps. His veins had swelled with the effort of the cough, and the varicose ulcer had started itching.

“Thirty to forty group!” yapped a piercing female voice. “Thirty to forty group! Take your places, please. Thirties to forties!”

Winston sprang to attention in front of the telescreen, upon which the image of a youngish woman, scrawny but muscular, dressed in tunic and gym shoes, had already appeared.

“Arms bending and stretching!” she rapped out. “Take your time by me. One, two, three, four! One, two, three, four! Come on, comrades, put a bit of life into it! One, two, three four! One, two, three, four!..”

The pain of the coughing fit had not quite driven out of Winston’s mind the impression made by his dream, and the rhythmic movements of the exercise restored it somewhat. As he mechanically shot his arms back and forth, wearing on his face the look of grim enjoyment which was considered proper during the Physical Jerks, he was struggling to think his way backward into the dim period of his early childhood. It was extraordinarily difficult. Beyond the late fifties everything faded. When there were no external records that you could refer to, even the outline of your own life lost its sharpness. You remembered huge events which had quite probably not happened, you remembered the detail of incidents without being able to recapture their atmosphere, and there were long blank periods to which you could assign nothing. Everything had been different then. Even the names of countries, and their shapes on the map, had been different. Airstrip One, for instance, had not been so called in those days: it had been called England or Britain, though London, he felt fairly certain, had always been called London.

Winston could not definitely remember a time when his country had not been at war, but it was evident that there had been a fairly long interval of peace during his childhood, because one of his early memories was of an air raid which appeared to take everyone by surprise. Perhaps it was the time when the atomic bomb had fallen on Colchester. He did not remember the raid itself, but he did remember his father’s hand clutching his own as they hurried down, down, down into some place deep in the earth, round and round a spiral staircase which rang under his feet and which finally so wearied his legs that he began whimpering and they had to stop and rest. His mother, in her slow, dreamy way, was following a long way behind them. She was carrying his baby sister – or perhaps it was only a bundle of blankets that she was carrying: he was not certain whether his sister had been born then. Finally they had emerged into a noisy, crowded place which he had realized to be a Tube station.

There were people sitting all over the stone flagged floor, and other people, packed tightly together, were sitting on metal bunks, one above the other. Winston and his mother and father found themselves a place on the floor, and near them an old man and an old woman were sitting side by side on a bunk. The old man had on a decent dark suit and a black cloth cap pushed back from very white hair: his face was scarlet and his eyes were blue and full of tears. He reeked of gin. It seemed to breathe out of his skin in place of sweat, and one could have fancied that the tears welling from his eyes were pure gin. But though slightly drunk he was also suffering under some grief that was genuine and unbearable. In his childish way Winston grasped that some terrible thing, something that was beyond forgiveness and could never be remedied, had just happened. It also seemed to him that he knew what it was. Someone whom the old man loved – a little granddaughter, perhaps – had been killed. Every few minutes the old man kept repeating:

“We didn’t ought to ’ave trusted ’em. I said so, Ma, didn’t I? That’s what comes of trusting ’em. I said so all along. We didn’t ought to ’ave trusted the buggers.”

But which buggers they didn’t ought to have trusted Winston could not now remember.

Since about that time, war had been literally continuous, though strictly speaking it had not always been the same war. For several months during his childhood there had been confused street fighting in London itself, some of which he remembered vividly. But to trace out the history of the whole period, to say who was fighting whom at any given moment, would have been utterly impossible, since no written record, and no spoken word, ever made mention of any other alignment than the existing one. At this moment, for example, in 1984 (if it was 1984), Oceania was at war with Eurasia and in alliance with Eastasia. In no public or private utterance was it ever admitted that the three powers had at any time been grouped along different lines. Actually, as Winston well knew, it was only four years since Oceania had been at war with Eastasia and in alliance with Eurasia. But that was merely a piece of furtive knowledge which he happened to possess because his memory was not satisfactorily under control. Officially the change of partners had never happened. Oceania was at war with Eurasia: therefore Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia. The enemy of the moment always represented absolute evil, and it followed that any past or future agreement with him was impossible.

The frightening thing, he reflected for the ten thousandth time as he forced his shoulders painfully backward (with hands on hips, they were gyrating their bodies from the waist, an exercise that was supposed to be good for the back muscles) – the frightening thing was that it might all be true. If the Party could thrust its hand into the past and say of this or that event, it never happened – that, surely, was more terrifying than mere torture and death?

The Party said that Oceania had never been in alliance with Eurasia. He, Winston Smith, knew that Oceania had been in alliance with Eurasia as short a time as four years ago. But where did that knowledge exist? Only in his own consciousness, which in any case must soon be annihilated. And if all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed – if all records told the same tale – then the lie passed into history and became truth.

“Who controls the past,” ran the Party slogan, “controls the future: who controls the present controls the past.”

And yet the past, though of its nature alterable, never had been altered. Whatever was true now was true from everlasting to everlasting. It was quite simple. All that was needed was an unending series of victories over your own memory. “Reality control”, they called it: in Newspeak, “doublethink”.

“Stand easy! ” barked the instructress, a little more genially.

Winston sank his arms to his sides and slowly refilled his lungs with air. His mind slid away into the labyrinthine world of doublethink. To know and not to know, to be conscious of complete truthfulness while telling carefully constructed lies, to hold simultaneously two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory and believing in both of them, to use logic against logic, to repudiate morality while laying claim to it, to believe that democracy was impossible and that the Party was the guardian of democracy, to forget whatever it was necessary to forget, then to draw it back into memory again at the moment when it was needed, and then promptly to forget it again: and above all, to apply the same process to the process itself. That was the ultimate subtlety: consciously to induce unconsciousness, and then, once again, to become unconscious of the act of hypnosis you had just performed. Even to understand the word “doublethink” involved the use of doublethink.

The instructress had called them to attention again.

“And now let’s see which of us can touch our toes!” she said enthusiastically. “Right over from the hips, please, comrades. One, two! One, two!..”

Winston loathed this exercise, which sent shooting pains all the way from his heels to his buttocks and often ended by bringing on another coughing fit. The half pleasant quality went out of his meditations. The past, he reflected, had not merely been altered, it had been actually destroyed. For how could you establish even the most obvious fact when there existed no record outside your own memory? He tried to remember in what year he had first heard mention of Big Brother. He thought it must have been at some time in the sixties, but it was impossible to be certain. In the Party histories, of course, Big Brother figured as the leader and guardian of the Revolution since its very earliest days. His exploits had been gradually pushed backwards in time until already they extended into the fabulous world of the forties and the thirties, when the capitalists in their strange cylindrical hats still rode through the streets of London in great gleaming motor cars or horse carriages with glass sides. There was no knowing how much of this legend was true and how much invented. Winston could not even remember at what date the Party itself had come into existence. He did not believe he had ever heard the word Ingsoc before 1960, but it was possible that in its Oldspeak form – “English Socialism”, that is to say – it had been current earlier. Everything melted into mist. Sometimes, indeed, you could put your finger on a definite lie. It was not true, for example, as was claimed in the Party history books, that the Party had invented aeroplanes. He remembered aeroplanes since his earliest childhood. But you could prove nothing. There was never any evidence. Just once in his whole life he had held in his hands unmistakable documentary proof of the falsification of an historical fact. And on that occasion —