X

When he woke it was with the sensation of having slept for a long time, but a glance at the old-fashioned clock told him that it was only twenty-thirty. He lay dozing for a little while; then the usual deep-lunged singing struck up from the yard below:

"_It was only an 'opeless fancy,_ It passed like an Ipril dye, But a look an' a word an' the dreams they stirred _They 'ave stolen my 'eart awye!_"

The driveling song seemed to have kept its popularity. You still heard it all over the place. It had outlived the "Hate Song." Julia woke at the sound, stretched herself luxuriously, and got out of bed.

"I'm hungry," she said. "Let's make some more coffee. Damn! The stove's gone out and the water's cold." She picked the stove up and shook it. "There's no oil in it."

"We can get some from old Charrington, I expect."

"The funny thing is I made sure it was full. I'm going to put my clothes on," she added. "It seems to have got colder."

Winston also got up and dressed himself. The indefatigable voice sang on:

"_They sye that time 'eals all things,_ They sye you can always forget; But the smiles an' the tears across the years _They twist my 'eartstrings yet!_"

As he fastened the belt of his overalls he strolled across to the window. The sun must have gone down behind the houses; it was not shining into the yard any longer. The flagstones were wet as though they had just been washed, and he had the feeling that the sky had been washed too, so fresh and pale was the blue between the chimney pots. Tirelessly the woman marched to and fro, corking and uncorking herself, singing and falling silent, and pegging out more diapers, and more and yet more. He wondered whether she took in washing for a living, or was merely the slave of twenty or thirty grandchildren. Julia had come across to his side; together they gazed down with a sort of fascination at the sturdy figure below. As he looked at the woman in her characteristic attitude, her thick arms reaching up for the line, her powerful marelike buttocks protruded, it struck him for the first time that she was beautiful. It had never before occurred to him that the body of a woman of fifty, blown up to monstrous dimensions by childbearing, then hardened, roughened by work till it was coarse in the grain like an overripe turnip, could be beautiful. But it was so, and after all, he thought, why not? The solid, contourless body, like a block of granite, and the rasping red skin, bore the same relation to the body of a girl as the rose-hip to the rose. Why should the fruit be held inferior to the flower?

"She's beautiful," he murmured.

"She's a meter across the hips, easily," said Julia.

"That is her style of beauty," said Winston.

He held Julia's supple waist easily encircled by his arm. From the hip to the knee her flank was against his. Out of their bodies no child would ever come. That was the one thing they could never do. Only by word of mouth, from mind to mind, could they pass on the secret. The woman down there had no mind, she had only strong arms, a warm heart, and a fertile belly. He wondered how many children she had given birth to. It might easily be fifteen. She had had her momentary flowering, a year, perhaps, of wildrose beauty, and then she had suddenly swollen like a fertilized fruit and grown hard and red and coarse, and then her life had been laundering, scrubbing, darning, cooking, sweeping, polishing, mending, scrubbing, laundering, first for children, then for grandchildren, over thirty unbroken years. At the end of it she was still singing. The mystical reverence that he felt for her was somehow mixed up with the aspect of the pale, cloudless sky, stretching away behind the chimney pots into interminable distances. It was curious to think that the sky was the same for everybody, in Eurasia or Eastasia as well as here. And the people under the sky were also very much the same--everywhere, all over the world, hundreds or thousands of millions of people just like this, people ignorant of one another's existence, held apart by walls of hatred and lies, and yet almost exactly the same--people who had never learned to think but who were storing up in their hearts and bellies and muscles the power that would one day overturn the world. If there was hope, it lay in the proles! Without having read to the end of the book, he knew that that must be Goldstein's final message. The future belonged to the proles. And could he be sure that when their time came, the world they constructed would not be just as alien to him, Winston Smith, as the world of the Party? Yes, because at the least it would be a world of sanity. Where there is equality there can be sanity. Sooner or later it would happen: strength would change into consciousness. The proles were immortal; you could not doubt it when you looked at that valiant figure in the yard. In the end their awakening would come. And until that happened, though it might be a thousand years, they would stay alive against all the odds, like birds, passing on from body to body the vitality which the Party did not share and could not kill.

"Do you remember," he said, "the thrush that sang to us, that first day, at the edge of the wood?"

"He wasn't singing to us," said Julia. "He was singing to please himself. Not even that. He was just singing."

The birds sang, the proles sang, the Party did not sing. All round theworld, in London and New York, in Africa and Brazil and in themysterious, forbidden lands beyond the frontiers, in the streets ofParis and Berlin, in the villages of the endless Russian plain, in thebazaars of China and Japan--everywhere stood the same solidunconquerable figure, made monstrous by work and childbearing, toilingfrom birth to death and still singing. Out of those mighty loins a raceof conscious beings must one day come. You were the dead; theirs was thefuture. But you could share in that future if you kept alive the mind asthey kept alive the body, and passed on the secret doctrine that twoplus two make four.

"We are the dead," he said.

"We are the dead," echoed Julia dutifully.

"You are the dead," said an iron voice behind them.

They sprang apart. Winston's entrails seemed to have turned into ice. He could see the white all round the irises of Julia's eyes. Her face had turned a milky yellow. The smear of rouge that was still on each cheekbone stood out sharply, almost as though unconnected with the skin beneath.

"You are the dead," repeated the iron voice.

"It was behind the picture," breathed Julia.

"It was behind the picture," said the voice. "Remain exactly where youare. Make no movement until you are ordered."

It was starting, it was starting at last! They could do nothing exceptstand gazing into one another's eyes. To run for life, to get out of thehouse before it was too late--no such thought occurred to them.Unthinkable to disobey the iron voice from the wall. There was a snap asthough a catch had been turned back, and a crash of breaking glass. Thepicture had fallen to the floor, uncovering the telescreen behind it.

"Now they can see us," said Julia.

"Now we can see you," said the voice. "Stand out in the middle of theroom. Stand back to back. Clasp your hands behind your heads. Do nottouch one another."

They were not touching, but it seemed to him that he could feel Julia'sbody shaking. Or perhaps it was merely the shaking of his own. He couldjust stop his teeth from chattering, but his knees were beyond hiscontrol. There was a sound of trampling boots below, inside the houseand outside. The yard seemed to be full of men. Something was beingdragged across the stones. The woman's singing had stopped abruptly.There was a long, rolling clang, as though the washtub had been flungacross the yard, and then a confusion of angry shouts which ended in ayell of pain.

"The house is surrounded," said Winston.

"The house is surrounded," said the voice.

He heard Julia snap her teeth together. "I suppose we may as well saygood-by," she said.

"You may as well say good-by," said the voice. And then another quitedifferent voice, a thin, cultivated voice which Winston had theimpression of having heard before, struck in: "And by the way, while weare on the subject, _Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comesa chopper to chop off your head!_"

Something crashed on to the bed behind Winston's back. The head of aladder had been thrust through the window and had burst in the frame.Someone was climbing through the window. There was a stampede of bootsup the stairs. The room was full of solid men in black uniforms, withiron-shod boots on their feet and truncheons in their hands.

Winston was not trembling any longer. Even his eyes he barely moved. Onething alone mattered: to keep still, to keep still and not give them anexcuse to hit you! A man with a smooth prizefighter's jowl in which themouth was only a slit paused opposite him, balancing his truncheonmeditatively between thumb and forefinger. Winston met his eyes. Thefeeling of nakedness, with one's hands behind one's head and one's faceand body all exposed, was almost unbearable. The man protruded the tipof a white tongue, licked the place where his lips should have been, andthen passed on. There was another crash. Someone had picked up the glasspaperweight from the table and smashed it to pieces on the hearthstone.

The fragment of coral, a tiny crinkle of pink like a sugar rosebud froma cake, rolled across the mat. How small, thought Winston, how small italways was! There was a gasp and a thump behind him, and he received aviolent kick on the ankle which nearly flung him off his balance. One ofthe men had smashed his fist into Julia's solar plexus, doubling her uplike a pocket ruler. She was thrashing about on the floor, fighting forbreath. Winston dared not turn his head even by a millimeter, butsometimes her livid, gasping face came within the angle of his vision.Even in his terror it was as though he could feel the pain in his ownbody, the deadly pain which nevertheless was less urgent than thestruggle to get back her breath. He knew what it was like: the terrible,agonizing pain which was there all the while but could not be sufferedyet, because before all else it was necessary to be able to breathe.Then two of the men hoisted her up by knees and shoulders and carriedher out of the room like a sack. Winston had a glimpse of her face,upside down, yellow and contorted, with the eyes shut, and still with asmear of rouge on either cheek; and that was the last he saw of her.

He stood dead still. No one had hit him yet. Thoughts which came oftheir own accord but seemed totally uninteresting began to flit throughhis mind. He wondered whether they had got Mr. Charrington. He wonderedwhat they had done to the woman in the yard. He noticed that he badlywanted to urinate, and felt a faint surprise, because he had done soonly two or three hours ago. He noticed that the clock on themantelpiece said nine, meaning twenty-one. But the light seemed toostrong. Would not the light be fading at twenty-one hours on an Augustevening? He wondered whether after all he and Julia had mistaken thetime--had slept the clock round and thought it was twenty-thirty whenreally it was nought eight-thirty on the following morning. But he didnot pursue the thought further. It was not interesting.

There was another, lighter step in the passage. Mr. Charrington cameinto the room. The demeanor of the black-uniformed men suddenly becamemore subdued. Something had also changed in Mr. Charrington'sappearance. His eye fell on the fragments of the glass paperweight.

"Pick up those pieces," he said sharply.

A man stooped to obey. The cockney accent had disappeared; Winston suddenly realized whose voice it was that he had heard a few moments ago on the telescreen. Mr. Charrington was still wearing his old velvet jacket, but his hair, which had been almost white, had turned black. Also he was not wearing his spectacles. He gave Winston a single sharp glance, as though verifying his identity, and then paid no more attention to him. He was still recognizable, but he was not the same person any longer. His body had straightened, and seemed to have grown bigger. His face had undergone only tiny changes that had nevertheless worked a complete transformation. The black eyebrows were less bushy, the wrinkles were gone, the whole lines of the face seemed to have altered; even the nose seemed shorter. It was the alert, cold face of a man of about five-and-thirty. It occurred to Winston that for the first time in his life he was looking, with knowledge, at a member of the Thought Police.