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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
They had done it, they had done it at last!
The room they were standing1 in was long-shaped and softly lit. The telescreen was dimmed to a low murmur2; the richness of the dark-blue carpet gave one the impression of treading on velvet3. At the far end of the room O’Brien was sitting at a table under a green-shaded lamp, with a mass of papers on either side of him. He had not bothered to look up when the servant showed Julia and Winston in.
Winston’s heart was thumping4 so hard that he doubted whether he would be able to speak. They had done it, they had done it at last, was all he could think. It had been a rash act to come here at all, and sheer folly5 to arrive together; though it was true that they had come by different routes and only met on O’Brien’s doorstep. But merely to walk into such a place needed an effort of the nerve. It was only on very rare occasions that one saw inside the dwelling-places of the Inner Party, or even penetrated6 into the quarter of the town where they lived. The whole atmosphere of the huge block of flats, the richness and spaciousness7 of everything, the unfamiliar8 smells of good food and good tobacco, the silent and incredibly rapid lifts sliding up and down, the white-jacketed servants hurrying to and fro — everything was intimidating9. Although he had a good pretext10 for coming here, he was haunted at every step by the fear that a black-uniformed guard would suddenly appear from round the corner, demand his papers, and order him to get out. O’Brien’s servant, however, had admitted the two of them without demur11. He was a small, dark-haired man in a white jacket, with a diamond-shaped, completely expressionless face which might have been that of a Chinese. The passage down which he led them was softly carpeted, with cream-papered walls and white wainscoting, all exquisitely12 clean. That too was intimidating. Winston could not remember ever to have seen a passageway whose walls were not grimy from the contact of human bodies.
O’Brien had a slip of paper between his fingers and seemed to be studying it intently. His heavy face, bent13 down so that one could see the line of the nose, looked both formidable and intelligent. For perhaps twenty seconds he sat without stirring. Then he pulled the speakwrite towards him and rapped out a message in the hybrid14 jargon15 of the Ministries16:
‘Items one comma five comma seven approved fullwise stop suggestion contained item six doubleplus ridiculous verging17 crimethink cancel stop unproceed constructionwise antegetting plusfull estimates machinery18 overheads stop end message.’
He rose deliberately19 from his chair and came towards them across the soundless carpet. A little of the official atmosphere seemed to have fallen away from him with the Newspeak words, but his expression was grimmer than usual, as though he were not pleased at being disturbed. The terror that Winston already felt was suddenly shot through by a streak20 of ordinary embarrassment21. It seemed to him quite possible that he had simply made a stupid mistake. For what evidence had he in reality that O’Brien was any kind of political conspirator22? Nothing but a flash of the eyes and a single equivocal remark: beyond that, only his own secret imaginings, founded on a dream. He could not even fall back on the pretence23 that he had come to borrow the dictionary, because in that case Julia’s presence was impossible to explain. As O’Brien passed the telescreen a thought seemed to strike him. He stopped, turned aside and pressed a switch on the wall. There was a sharp snap. The voice had stopped.
Julia uttered a tiny sound, a sort of squeak24 of surprise. Even in the midst of his panic, Winston was too much taken aback to be able to hold his tongue.
‘You can turn it off!’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said O’Brien, ‘we can turn it off. We have that privilege.’
He was opposite them now. His solid form towered over the pair of them, and the expression on his face was still indecipherable. He was waiting, somewhat sternly, for Winston to speak, but about what? Even now it was quite conceivable that he was simply a busy man wondering irritably25 why he had been interrupted. Nobody spoke26. After the stopping of the telescreen the room seemed deadly silent. The seconds marched past, enormous. With difficulty Winston continued to keep his eyes fixed27 on O’Brien’s. Then suddenly the grim face broke down into what might have been the beginnings of a smile. With his characteristic gesture O’Brien resettled his spectacles on his nose.
‘Shall I say it, or will you?’ he said.
‘Yes, everything is turned off. We are alone.’
‘We have come here because ——’
He paused, realizing for the first time the vagueness of his own motives29. Since he did not in fact know what kind of help he expected from O’Brien, it was not easy to say why he had come here. He went on, conscious that what he was saying must sound both feeble and pretentious30:
‘We believe that there is some kind of conspiracy31, some kind of secret organization working against the Party, and that you are involved in it. We want to join it and work for it. We are enemies of the Party. We disbelieve in the principles of Ingsoc. We are thought-criminals. We are also adulterers. I tell you this because we want to put ourselves at your mercy. If you want us to incriminate ourselves in any other way, we are ready.’
He stopped and glanced over his shoulder, with the feeling that the door had opened. Sure enough, the little yellow-faced servant had come in without knocking. Winston saw that he was carrying a tray with a decanter and glasses.
‘Martin is one of us,’ said O’Brien impassively. ‘Bring the drinks over here, Martin. Put them on the round table. Have we enough chairs? Then we may as well sit down and talk in comfort. Bring a chair for yourself, Martin. This is business. You can stop being a servant for the next ten minutes.’
The little man sat down, quite at his ease, and yet still with a servant-like air, the air of a valet enjoying a privilege. Winston regarded him out of the corner of his eye. It struck him that the man’s whole life was playing a part, and that he felt it to be dangerous to drop his assumed personality even for a moment. O’Brien took the decanter by the neck and filled up the glasses with a dark-red liquid. It aroused in Winston dim memories of something seen long ago on a wall or a hoarding32 — a vast bottle composed of electric lights which seemed to move up and down and pour its contents into a glass. Seen from the top the stuff looked almost black, but in the decanter it gleamed like a ruby33. It had a sour-sweet smell. He saw Julia pick up her glass and sniff34 at it with frank curiosity.
‘It is called wine,’ said O’Brien with a faint smile. ‘You will have read about it in books, no doubt. Not much of it gets to the Outer Party, I am afraid.’ His face grew solemn again, and he raised his glass: ‘I think it is fitting that we should begin by drinking a health. To our Leader: To Emmanuel Goldstein.’
Winston took up his glass with a certain eagerness. Wine was a thing he had read and dreamed about. Like the glass paperweight or Mr Charrington’s half-remembered rhymes, it belonged to the vanished, romantic past, the olden time as he liked to call it in his secret thoughts. For some reason he had always thought of wine as having an intensely sweet taste, like that of blackberry jam and an immediate35 intoxicating36 effect. Actually, when he came to swallow it, the stuff was distinctly disappointing. The truth was that after years of gin-drinking he could barely taste it. He set down the empty glass.
‘Then there is such a person as Goldstein?’ he said.
‘Yes, there is such a person, and he is alive. Where, I do not know.’
‘And the conspiracy — the organization? Is it real? It is not simply an invention of the Thought Police?’
‘No, it is real. The Brotherhood37, we call it. You will never learn much more about the Brotherhood than that it exists and that you belong to it. I will come back to that presently.’ He looked at his wrist-watch. ‘It is unwise even for members of the Inner Party to turn off the telescreen for more than half an hour. You ought not to have come here together, and you will have to leave separately. You, comrade’— he bowed his head to Julia —‘will leave first. We have about twenty minutes at our disposal. You will understand that I must start by asking you certain questions. In general terms, what are you prepared to do?’
‘Anything that we are capable of,’ said Winston.
O’Brien had turned himself a little in his chair so that he was facing Winston. He almost ignored Julia, seeming to take it for granted that Winston could speak for her. For a moment the lids flitted down over his eyes. He began asking his questions in a low, expressionless voice, as though this were a routine, a sort of catechism, most of whose answers were known to him already.
‘You are prepared to give your lives?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are prepared to commit murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes.’
‘To betray your country to foreign powers?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are prepared to cheat, to forge, to blackmail39, to corrupt40 the minds of children, to distribute habit-forming drugs, to encourage prostitution, to disseminate41 venereal diseases — to do anything which is likely to cause demoralization and weaken the power of the Party?’
‘Yes.’
‘If, for example, it would somehow serve our interests to throw sulphuric acid in a child’s face — are you prepared to do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are prepared to lose your identity and live out the rest of your life as a waiter or a dock-worker?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are prepared to commit suicide, if and when we order you to do so?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are prepared, the two of you, to separate and never see one another again?’
‘No!’ broke in Julia.
It appeared to Winston that a long time passed before he answered. For a moment he seemed even to have been deprived of the power of speech. His tongue worked soundlessly, forming the opening syllables42 first of one word, then of the other, over and over again. Until he had said it, he did not know which word he was going to say. ‘No,’ he said finally.
‘You did well to tell me,’ said O’Brien. ‘It is necessary for us to know everything.’
He turned himself toward Julia and added in a voice with somewhat more expression in it:
‘Do you understand that even if he survives, it may be as a different person? We may be obliged to give him a new identity. His face, his movements, the shape of his hands, the colour of his hair — even his voice would be different. And you yourself might have become a different person. Our surgeons can alter people beyond recognition. Sometimes it is necessary. Sometimes we even amputate a limb.’
Winston could not help snatching another sidelong glance at Martin’s Mongolian face. There were no scars that he could see. Julia had turned a shade paler, so that her freckles43 were showing, but she faced O’Brien boldly. She murmured something that seemed to be assent44.
‘Good. Then that is settled.’
There was a silver box of cigarettes on the table. With a rather absent-minded air O’Brien pushed them towards the others, took one himself, then stood up and began to pace slowly to and fro, as though he could think better standing. They were very good cigarettes, very thick and well-packed, with an unfamiliar silkiness in the paper. O’Brien looked at his wrist-watch again.
‘You had better go back to your Pantry, Martin,’ he said. ‘I shall switch on in a quarter of an hour. Take a good look at these comrades’ faces before you go. You will be seeing them again. I may not.’
Exactly as they had done at the front door, the little man’s dark eyes flickered45 over their faces. There was not a trace of friendliness46 in his manner. He was memorizing their appearance, but he felt no interest in them, or appeared to feel none. It occurred to Winston that a synthetic47 face was perhaps incapable48 of changing its expression. Without speaking or giving any kind of salutation, Martin went out, closing the door silently behind him. O’Brien was strolling up and down, one hand in the pocket of his black overalls49, the other holding his cigarette.
‘You understand,’ he said, ‘that you will be fighting in the dark. You will always be in the dark. You will receive orders and you will obey them, without knowing why. Later I shall send you a book from which you will learn the true nature of the society we live in, and the strategy by which we shall destroy it. When you have read the book, you will be full members of the Brotherhood. But between the general aims that we are fighting for and the immediate tasks of the moment, you will never know anything. I tell you that the Brotherhood exists, but I cannot tell you whether it numbers a hundred members, or ten million. From your personal knowledge you will never be able to say that it numbers even as many as a dozen. You will have three or four contacts, who will be renewed from time to time as they disappear. As this was your first contact, it will be preserved. When you receive orders, they will come from me. If we find it necessary to communicate with you, it will be through Martin. When you are finally caught, you will confess. That is unavoidable. But you will have very little to confess, other than your own actions. You will not be able to betray more than a handful of unimportant people. Probably you will not even betray me. By that time I may be dead, or I shall have become a different person, with a different face.’
He continued to move to and fro over the soft carpet. In spite of the bulkiness of his body there was a remarkable50 grace in his movements. It came out even in the gesture with which he thrust a hand into his pocket, or manipulated a cigarette. More even than of strength, he gave an impression of confidence and of an understanding tinged51 by irony52. However much in earnest he might be, he had nothing of the single-mindedness that belongs to a fanatic53. When he spoke of murder, suicide, venereal disease, amputated limbs, and altered faces, it was with a faint air of persiflage54. ‘This is unavoidable,’ his voice seemed to say; ‘this is what we have got to do, unflinchingly. But this is not what we shall be doing when life is worth living again.’ A wave of admiration55, almost of worship, flowed out from Winston towards O’Brien. For the moment he had forgotten the shadowy figure of Goldstein. When you looked at O’Brien’s powerful shoulders and his blunt-featured face, so ugly and yet so civilized56, it was impossible to believe that he could be defeated. There was no stratagem57 that he was not equal to, no danger that he could not foresee. Even Julia seemed to be impressed. She had let her cigarette go out and was listening intently. O’Brien went on:
‘You will have heard rumours58 of the existence of the Brotherhood. No doubt you have formed your own picture of it. You have imagined, probably, a huge underworld of conspirators59, meeting secretly in cellars, scribbling60 messages on walls, recognizing one another by codewords or by special movements of the hand. Nothing of the kind exists. The members of the Brotherhood have no way of recognizing one another, and it is impossible for any one member to be aware of the identity of more than a few others. Goldstein himself, if he fell into the hands of the Thought Police, could not give them a complete list of members, or any information that would lead them to a complete list. No such list exists. The Brotherhood cannot be wiped out because it is not an organization in the ordinary sense. Nothing holds it together except an idea which is indestructible. You will never have anything to sustain you, except the idea. You will get no comradeship and no encouragement. When finally you are caught, you will get no help. We never help our members. At most, when it is absolutely necessary that someone should be silenced, we are occasionally able to smuggle61 a razor blade into a prisoner’s cell. You will have to get used to living without results and without hope. You will work for a while, you will be caught, you will confess, and then you will die. Those are the only results that you will ever see. There is no possibility that any perceptible change will happen within our own lifetime. We are the dead. Our only true life is in the future. We shall take part in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. But how far away that future may be, there is no knowing. It might be a thousand years. At present nothing is possible except to extend the area of sanity62 little by little. We cannot act collectively. We can only spread our knowledge outwards63 from individual to individual, generation after generation. In the face of the Thought Police there is no other way.’
He halted and looked for the third time at his wrist-watch.
‘It is almost time for you to leave, comrade,’ he said to Julia. ‘Wait. The decanter is still half full.’
He filled the glasses and raised his own glass by the stem.
‘What shall it be this time?’ he said, still with the same faint suggestion of irony. ‘To the confusion of the Thought Police? To the death of Big Brother? To humanity? To the future?’
‘To the past,’ said Winston.
‘The past is more important,’ agreed O’Brien gravely.
They emptied their glasses, and a moment later Julia stood up to go. O’Brien took a small box from the top of a cabinet and handed her a flat white tablet which he told her to place on her tongue. It was important, he said, not to go out smelling of wine: the lift attendants were very observant. As soon as the door had shut behind her he appeared to forget her existence. He took another pace or two up and down, then stopped.
‘There are details to be settled,’ he said. ‘I assume that you have a hiding-place of some kind?’
Winston explained about the room over Mr Charrington’s shop.
‘That will do for the moment. Later we will arrange something else for you. It is important to change one’s hiding-place frequently. Meanwhile I shall send you a copy of THE BOOK’— even O’Brien, Winston noticed, seemed to pronounce the words as though they were in italics —‘Goldstein’s book, you understand, as soon as possible. It may be some days before I can get hold of one. There are not many in existence, as you can imagine. The Thought Police hunt them down and destroy them almost as fast as we can produce them. It makes very little difference. The book is indestructible. If the last copy were gone, we could reproduce it almost word for word. Do you carry a brief-case to work with you?’ he added.
‘As a rule, yes.’
‘What is it like?’
‘Black, two straps, very shabby — good. One day in the fairly near future — I cannot give a date — one of the messages among your morning’s work will contain a misprinted word, and you will have to ask for a repeat. On the following day you will go to work without your brief-case. At some time during the day, in the street, a man will touch you on the arm and say “I think you have dropped your brief-case.” The one he gives you will contain a copy of Goldstein’s book. You will return it within fourteen days.’
They were silent for a moment.
‘There are a couple of minutes before you need go,’ said O’Brien. ‘We shall meet again — if we do meet again ——’
Winston looked up at him. ‘In the place where there is no darkness?’ he said hesitantly.
O’Brien nodded without appearance of surprise. ‘In the place where there is no darkness,’ he said, as though he had recognized the allusion65. ‘And in the meantime, is there anything that you wish to say before you leave? Any message? Any question?.’
Winston thought. There did not seem to be any further question that he wanted to ask: still less did he feel any impulse to utter high-sounding generalities. Instead of anything directly connected with O’Brien or the Brotherhood, there came into his mind a sort of composite picture of the dark bedroom where his mother had spent her last days, and the little room over Mr Charrington’s shop, and the glass paperweight, and the steel engraving66 in its rosewood frame. Almost at random67 he said:
‘Did you ever happen to hear an old rhyme that begins “Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s”?’
‘Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s,
You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin’s,
When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey,
When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch.’
‘You knew the last line!’ said Winston.
‘Yes, I knew the last line. And now, I am afraid, it is time for you to go. But wait. You had better let me give you one of these tablets.’
As Winston stood up O’Brien held out a hand. His powerful grip crushed the bones of Winston’s palm. At the door Winston looked back, but O’Brien seemed already to be in process of putting him out of mind. He was waiting with his hand on the switch that controlled the telescreen. Beyond him Winston could see the writing-table with its green-shaded lamp and the speakwrite and the wire baskets deep-laden with papers. The incident was closed. Within thirty seconds, it occurred to him, O’Brien would be back at his interrupted and important work on behalf of the Party.
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1
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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3
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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4
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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5
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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6
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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7
spaciousness
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| n.宽敞 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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9
intimidating
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| vt.恐吓，威胁( intimidate的现在分词) | |
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10
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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ministries
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| （政府的）部( ministry的名词复数 )； 神职； 牧师职位； 神职任期 | |
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17
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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21
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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22
conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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23
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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24
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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25
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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27
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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29
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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30
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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32
hoarding
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| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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35
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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37
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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38
sabotage
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| n.怠工，破坏活动，破坏；v.从事破坏活动，妨害，破坏 | |
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39
blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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40
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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41
disseminate
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| v.散布；传播 | |
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42
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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43
freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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44
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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45
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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47
synthetic
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| adj.合成的，人工的；综合的；n.人工制品 | |
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48
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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49
overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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50
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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51
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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53
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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54
persiflage
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| n.戏弄；挖苦 | |
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55
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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56
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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57
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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58
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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59
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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60
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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61
smuggle
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| vt.私运；vi.走私 | |
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62
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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63
outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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64
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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65
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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66
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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67
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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68
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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