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 gradual y pushed backwards in time until 19

already they extended into the fabulous world of the forties and the thirties, when the capitalists in their strange cylindrical hats stil 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

’Smith!’ screamed the shrewish voice from the telescreen. ’6079 Smith W.!

Yes, you! Bend lower, please! You can do better than that. You’re not trying. Lower, please! That’s better, comrade. Now stand at ease, the whole squad, and watch me.’

A sudden hot sweat had broken out al over Winston’s body. His face remained completely inscrutable. Never show dismay! Never show resentment!

A single flicker of the eyes could give you away. He stood watching while the instructress raised her arms above her head and — one could not say graceful y, but with remarkable neatness and efficiency — bent over and tucked the first joint of her fingers under her toes.

’There, comrades! That’s how I want to see you doing it. Watch me again. I’m thirty-nine and I’ve had four children. Now look.’ She bent over again.

’You see my knees aren’t bent. You can al do it if you want to,’ she added as she straightened herself up. ’Anyone under forty-five is perfectly capable of touching his toes. We don’t al have the privilege of fighting in the front line, but at least we can al keep fit. Remember our boys on the Malabar front! And the sailors in the Floating Fortresses!

Just think what they have to put up with. Now try again.