The Chestnut Tree was almost empty. A ray of sunlight slanting through a window fell on dusty table-tops. It was the lonely hour of fifteen. A tinny music trickled from the telescreens.
Winston sat in his usual corner， gazing into an empty glass. Now and again he glanced up at a vast face which eyed him from the opposite wall. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU， the caption said. Unbidden， a waiter came and filled his glass up with Victory Gin， shaking into it a few drops from another bottle with a quill through the cork. It was saccharine flavoured with cloves， the speciality of the café.
Winston was listening to the telescreen. At present only music was coming out of it， but there was a possibility that at any moment there might be a special bulletin from the Ministry of Peace. The news from the African front was disquieting in the extreme. On and off he had been worrying about it all day. A Eurasian army （Oceania was at war with Eurasia： Oceania had always been at war with Eurasia） was moving southward at terrifying speed. The mid-day bulletin had not mentioned any definite area， but it was probable that already the mouth of the Congo was a battlefield. Brazzaville and Leopoldville were in danger. One did not have to look at the map to see what it meant. It was not merely a question of losing Central Africa： for the first time in the whole war， the territory of Oceania itself was menaced.
A violent emotion， not fear exactly but a sort of undifferentiated excitement， flared up in him， then faded again. He stopped thinking about the war. In these days he could never fix his mind on any one subject for more than a few moments at a time. He picked up his glass and drained it at a gulp. As always， the gin made him shudder and even retch slightly. The stuff was horrible. The cloves and saccharine， themselves disgusting enough in their sickly way， could not disguise the flat oily smell； and what was worst of all was that the smell of gin， which dwelt with him night and day， was inextricably mixed up in his mind with the smell of those—
He never named them， even in his thoughts， and so far as it was possible he never visualized them. They were something that he was half-aware of， hovering close to his face， a smell that clung to his nostrils. As the gin rose in him he belched through purple lips. He had grown fatter since they released him， and had regained his old colour — indeed， more than regained it. His features had thickened， the skin on nose and cheekbones was coarsely red， even the bald scalp was too deep a pink. A waiter， again unbidden， brought the chessboard and the current issue of ， with the page turned down at the chess problem. Then， seeing that Winston’s glass was empty， he brought the gin bottle and filled it. There was no need to give orders. They knew his habits. The chessboard was always waiting for him， his corner table was always reserved； even when the place was full he had it to himself， since nobody cared to be seen sitting too close to him. He never even bothered to count his drinks. At irregular intervals they presented him with a dirty slip of paper which they said was the bill， but he had the impression that they always undercharged him. It would have made no difference if it had been the other way about. He had always plenty of money nowadays. He even had a job， a sinecure， more highly-paid than his old job had been.
The music from the telescreen stopped and a voice took over. Winston raised his head to listen. No bulletins from the front， however. It was merely a brief announcement from the Ministry of Plenty. In the preceding quarter， it appeared， the Tenth Three-Year Plan’s quota for bootlaces had been overfulfilled by 98 per cent.
He examined the chess problem and set out the pieces. It was a tricky ending， involving a couple of knights.“White to play and mate in two moves.”Winston looked up at the portrait of Big Brother. White always mates， he thought with a sort of cloudy mysticism. Always， without exception， it is so arranged. In no chess problem since the beginning of the world has black ever won. Did it not symbolize the eternal， unvarying triumph of Good over Evil？ The huge face gazed back at him， full of calm power. White always mates.
The voice from the telescreen paused and added in a different and much graver tone：“You are warned to stand by for an important announcement at fifteen-thirty. Fifteen-thirty！ This is news of the highest importance. Take care not to miss it. Fifteen-thirty！”The tinking music struck up again.
Winston’s heart stirred. That was the bulletin from the front； instinct told him that it was bad news that was coming. All day， with little spurts of excitement， the thought of a smashing defeat in Africa had been in and out of his mind. He seemed actually to see the Eurasian army swarming across the never-broken frontier and pouring down into the tip of Africa like a column of ants. Why had it not been possible to outflank them in some way？ The outline of the West African coast stood out vividly in his mind. He picked up the white knight and moved it across the board. There was the proper spot. Even while he saw the black horde racing southward he saw another force， mysteriously assembled， suddenly planted in their rear， cutting their comunications by land and sea. He felt that by willing it he was bringing that other force into existence. But it was necessary to act quickly. If they could get control of the whole of Africa， if they had airfields and submarine bases at the Cape， it would cut Oceania in two. It might mean anything： defeat， breakdown， the redivision of the world， the destruction of the Party！ He drew a deep breath. An extraordinary medley of feeling-but it was not a medley， exactly； rather it was successive layers of feeling， in which one could not say which layer was undermost struggled inside him.
The spasm passed. He put the white knight back in its place， but for the moment he could not settle down to serious study of the chess problem. His thoughts wandered again. Almost unconsciously he traced with his finger in the dust on the table：
2+2=5
