Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 542 The Empire Will Be Invincible in Documents and Archives!

In the Prime Minister's office at 10 Downing Street, William Eulter Gladstone sat behind his desk, with Home Secretary William Harcourt sitting opposite him.

On the table between the two people lay a thin booklet, its cover bearing the year "1984," but the words below were so glaring that one wanted to tear them off:

[A gift from Lionel Sorel to Her Majesty the Queen and her subjects]

Gladstone stared at the booklet for a while before looking up at Harcourt: "I need an explanation."

Harcourt swallowed hard. "Actually—"

Gladstone interrupted him: "Stop with the fancy words, I need an honest answer!"

Harcourt opened his mouth, then closed it again. When he arrived at his office this morning, Permanent Under-Secretary Edgar Winthrop was on sick leave.

Now he has to shoulder everything himself.

Harcourt struggled to recall Winthrop's report from yesterday, explaining with difficulty: "This, this was entirely a decision made by Everard, the editor-in-chief of Good Words!"

He...he fooled us all! He told us that Sorel had agreed to reconcile and even wrote a novel praising the Empire.

Gladstone stared at him: "You didn't proofread the manuscript?"

"Winslop said Everard has reviewed it."

"Did Winslop review it himself?"

Harcourt was speechless. Winthrop, of course, hadn't interrogated him, nor had he ever considered doing so—who would have thought that Frenchman would pull this stunt?
As a member of the empire's highest bureaucracy, he was so busy with his affairs that how could he possibly find time to read a novel?
The office fell silent.

Gladstone picked up the book "1984," flipped through a few pages, then put it down. His face was expressionless, but Harcourt could sense the suppressed anger emanating from him.

Gladstone asked, "What do we do now?"

Harcourt took a deep breath. At times like this, he had to appear resourceful, even if it was nothing new—

"Just like before, we deny it first, then try to delay, then the public's attention will be diverted by new news, and finally we'll take action gracefully..."

Gladstone didn't say anything.

Harcourt could only continue, “The author is French. We can call 1984 a ‘typical continental work of over-speculation.’”

Exaggerated, pessimistic, and with a morbid distrust of order. Let the newspapers write it; say it's an old French trait—they always like to imagine empires as monsters.

Gladstone remained silent. He picked up the booklet, turned to a page, and his finger hovered over a line of text.

Harcourt glanced at it; it was the slogan: "OLD LADY IS WATCHING YOU".

Gladstone asked, "You think this is just calling us monsters?"

Harcourt was stunned.

Gladstone shoved the booklet toward him: “Have you finished reading it? The whole thing.”

“I…I read…a part of it, and then you called me here.”

"Then go read it and tell me how to deal with it."

Harcourt picked up the booklet. He didn't really want to read it, but the Prime Minister was watching him, so he had no choice but to open it.

Gladstone stood up and walked to the window. He looked out at the street, his voice as cold as ice—

"This book does not describe how empires rely on violence to rule, which we have seen many times before."

Russians have written about it, French people have written about it, and even our own people have written about it—it's all just for show.

What makes it terrifying is that the empire it depicts remains rational, civilized, and its institutions still functioning.

Everything the empire does seems to be "for your own good." Therefore, this book doesn't attack the empire's "flaws," but rather its "strengths"!

He paused for a moment before continuing, "Especially those two slogans—"

'Old Lady is watching you,' and 'War is peace, freedom is slavery, ignorance is power.'

Do you know what they mean?

Harcourt is not stupid; he has received the best education of his time, and he understands what the Prime Minister is saying.

The British Empire gradually built up its system of governance over the past century, a system that allows society to obey without the need for terror or declarations.

It wasn't about guns and cannons, but documents; it wasn't about orders, but established practices; it wasn't about suppression, but "decency."

Now, a French writer has turned this whole thing into a novel, packaging it as a complete nightmare.

This is a very undignified situation for Gladstone as Prime Minister.

If he publicly expresses his anger, it would be tantamount to admitting that the novel hit the nail on the head; if he downplays it, he would appear weak.

Especially in 1882—the empire was at its peak, having just sent troops to Egypt. Although it had lost the Boer War, the overall momentum was upward.

To make matters worse, the book is from France.

While Britain and France appear to be at peace on the surface, they are secretly locked in a power struggle.

Both sides are particularly sensitive about how to demonstrate a sense of superiority over the other in terms of culture and politics.

Britain cannot tolerate a French writer telling the world that the rule of the British Empire would only destroy every free will!
This condescending attitude of understanding was more unpalatable to the British than any insult.

Gladstone sat back in his chair: "Let the newspapers write what you say first. Say it's just French imagination, their jealousy of the empire. But at the same time—"

He paused, and Harcourt's heart leaped into his throat. "That editor-in-chief, Everard? And Stellan, the owner of *Good Words*, ban them from leaving the country!"

Harcourt nodded quickly: "I had already made arrangements before they came. They will stay in London and won't be able to go anywhere else."

"Also, check on Sorel's movements in Paris. What's he going to do next? Has the book been published in other countries? If so, we need to be prepared."

"Yes, Prime Minister!"

Harcourt got up to leave, but Gladstone called him back.

Harcourt.

"prime minister?"

Gladstone looked at the book "1984" on the table, paused for a few seconds, and then said, "This book will cause more trouble than you think. Be prepared."

Hakote nodded, pushed open the door, and went out.

Gladstone straightened his collar, stepped out of the office, and said to his assistant, "Prepare the carriage; His Majesty summons me!"

----------

Winston Smith sat in the record department's cubicle, with a copy of The Times dated January 22, 1881, spread out in front of him.

It was a report about the Transvaal War. The original text was very straightforward: "Our army suffered a setback at Mount Mejuba, with about 300 casualties, and has been orderly withdrawn to a safe area."

However, according to the "Revised Guidance Manual, Seventh Edition" issued this morning, this description "does not meet the needs of the current overall narrative."

The manual states: "All reports concerning Operation Transvaal will be uniformly adjusted to 'necessary strategic deployments,' emphasizing our military's discipline and leading role in subsequent negotiations."

Winston picked up his pen, first crossed out "suffered a setback", then wrote "after achieving the phased objectives" in the blank space next to it; then he crossed out "about three hundred casualties" and changed it to "made a small number of heroic sacrifices"; finally, he felt that "orderly withdrawal to a safe area" was too passive, so after thinking for a while, he wrote "proactively move to a more advantageous strategic position to create space for peace negotiations".

After making the revisions, he handed the revised draft to his colleague for review. The colleague glanced at it, nodded, and signed it.

The manuscript was immediately sent to the typesetting workshop. The workers would then re-typeset the new content of the newspaper and print it on special paper.

Next comes the aging process—first, the edges of the paper are smoked yellow; then sanded to mimic the effect of faded ink; and then lightly rubbed again to make it look like it has actually been read.

These newly acquired "antiques" will soon be sent to the British Library, the Bodleian Library in Oxford, the Cambridge University Library, and every library in the world that holds these old newspapers, replacing the original archives.

From this day forward, anyone who consults the January 22, 1881 edition of The Times will only see the revised version.

They will read: "After achieving its phased objectives at Mount Mejuba, and after suffering a small number of heroic sacrifices, our army has proactively moved to a more advantageous strategic position to create space for peace negotiations."

They will believe that this is how things happened on that day in history.

After revising this document, Winston took the next one from the file basket. This one contained an editorial from 1880 about the Irish land reform, which was "too sympathetic to the tenant farmers and ignored the care and contributions of the Empire," and needed to be adjusted.

He picked up his pen and began working again.

Randolph Churchill, the 7th Duke of Marlborough, put down his copy of 1984 and fell into deep thought.

He recalled the political philosophies he had read in his youth—Locke, Burke, Mill—who all believed in institutions, reason, and that civilization would lead to freedom.

But 1984 depicts a world where institutions and rationality are used to their extremes—the result of which is the complete death of free will.

This is not a victory of barbarism, it is a victory of civilization. Too civilized, so civilized it's suffocating.

It's breakfast time at the club, but it's quieter than usual.

At this time of day, the gentlemen would usually greet each other, chat about politics, and complain about the weather.

But today, most people are just looking down at their newspapers or talking quietly.

He looked up at his old friend Henry Mayhew, who was sitting opposite him, and asked, "What do you think?"

Mayhew was a former colonial official who spent thirty years in India before retiring last year.

He put down his copy of "1984," adjusted his glasses, and said, "It's quite accurate."

Randolph Churchill raised an eyebrow: "Accurate?"

Mayhew took a sip of tea: "The part about revising history. When I was in India, I had to send reports to London every year."

Some things can't be written like that. We need to rephrase them. It's not about lying, it's about 'adjusting the focus'.

I remember once, there was a tribal rebellion. When we were suppressing the rebellion, more than a dozen of our soldiers died, while the tribe lost more than two hundred people.

But the report stated that 'order was successfully restored at minimal cost.' This report was later incorporated into parliamentary documents and became history.

Randolph Churchill remained silent; he knew Mayhew was telling the truth. He himself had done similar things—

Rephrase some embarrassing telegrams to make them look more respectable.

This isn't a crime, or even deception. It's just a professional habit, to make things run more smoothly.

But 1984 portrays this habit as a systematic and conscious "modification of reality," and even establishes a special department: the "Ministry of Truth."

This angered Randolph Churchill; it was the kind of anger that comes from being seen through.

This anger permeated the entire ruling class of the empire!

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(End of this chapter)