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Chapter 10
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 dozing1 for a 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 drivelling 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 luxuriously2, 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 indefatigable3 voice sang on:
‘They sye that time ’eals all things,
They sye you can always forget;
But the smiles an’ the tears acrorss the years
They twist my ’eart-strings yet!’
As he fastened the belt of his overalls4 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, corking5 and uncorking herself, singing and falling silent, and pegging6 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 fascination7 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 mare-like buttocks protruded8, 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 monstrous9 dimensions by childbearing, then hardened, roughened by work till it was coarse in the grain like an over-ripe turnip10, could be beautiful. But it was so, and after all, he thought, why not? The solid, contourless body, like a block of granite11, and the rasping red skin, bore the same relation to the body of a girl as the rose-hip12 to the rose. Why should the fruit be held inferior to the flower?
‘She’s beautiful,’ he murmured.
‘That is her style of beauty,’ said Winston.
He held Julia’s supple14 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 belly15. He wondered how many children she had given birth to. It might easily be fifteen. She had had her momentary16 flowering, a year, perhaps, of wild-rose beauty and then she had suddenly swollen17 like a fertilized18 fruit and grown hard and red and coarse, and then her life had been laundering19, scrubbing, darning, cooking, sweeping20, 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 reverence21 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 distance. 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 of thousands of millions of people just like this, people ignorant of one another’s existence, held apart by walls of hatred22 and lies, and yet almost exactly the same — people who had never learned to think but who were storing up in their hearts and bellies23 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 sanity24. Where there is equality there can be sanity. Sooner or later it would happen, strength would change into consciousness. The proles were immortal25, you could not doubt it when you looked at that valiant26 figure in the yard. In the end their awakening27 would come. And until that happened, though it might be a thousand years, they would stay alive against all the odds28, like birds, passing on from body to body the vitality29 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 the world, in London and New York, in Africa and Brazil, and in the mysterious, forbidden lands beyond the frontiers, in the streets of Paris and Berlin, in the villages of the endless Russian plain, in the bazaars30 of China and Japan — everywhere stood the same solid unconquerable figure, made monstrous by work and childbearing, toiling31 from birth to death and still singing. Out of those mighty32 loins a race of conscious beings must one day come. You were the dead, theirs was the future. But you could share in that future if you kept alive the mind as they kept alive the body, and passed on the secret doctrine33 that two plus 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 irises34 of Julia’s eyes. Her face had turned a milky35 yellow. The smear36 of rouge37 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 you are. Make no movement until you are ordered.’
It was starting, it was starting at last! They could do nothing except stand gazing into one another’s eyes. To run for life, to get out of the house before it was too late — no such thought occurred to them. Unthinkable to disobey the iron voice from the wall. There was a snap as though a catch had been turned back, and a crash of breaking glass. The picture 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 the room. Stand back to back. Clasp your hands behind your heads. Do not touch one another.’
They were not touching38, but it seemed to him that he could feel Julia’s body shaking. Or perhaps it was merely the shaking of his own. He could just stop his teeth from chattering39, but his knees were beyond his control. There was a sound of trampling40 boots below, inside the house and outside. The yard seemed to be full of men. Something was being dragged across the stones. The woman’s singing had stopped abruptly41. There was a long, rolling clang, as though the washtub had been flung across the yard, and then a confusion of angry shouts which ended in a yell 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 say good-bye,’ she said.
‘You may as well say good-bye,’ said the voice. And then another quite different voice, a thin, cultivated voice which Winston had the impression of having heard before, struck in; ‘And by the way, while we are on the subject, “Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head”!’
Something crashed on to the bed behind Winston’s back. The head of a ladder had been thrust through the window and had burst in the frame. Someone was climbing through the window. There was a stampede of boots up the stairs. The room was full of solid men in black uniforms, with iron-shod boots on their feet and truncheons in their hands.
Winston was not trembling any longer. Even his eyes he barely moved. One thing alone mattered; to keep still, to keep still and not give them an excuse to hit you! A man with a smooth prize-fighter’s jowl in which the mouth was only a slit42 paused opposite him balancing his truncheon meditatively43 between thumb and forefinger44. Winston met his eyes. The feeling of nakedness, with one’s hands behind one’s head and one’s face and body all exposed, was almost unbearable45. The man protruded the tip of a white tongue, licked the place where his lips should have been, and then passed on. There was another crash. Someone had picked up the glass paperweight from the table and smashed it to pieces on the hearth-stone.
The fragment of coral, a tiny crinkle of pink like a sugar rosebud46 from a cake, rolled across the mat. How small, thought Winston, how small it always was! There was a gasp47 and a thump48 behind him, and he received a violent kick on the ankle which nearly flung him off his balance. One of the men had smashed his fist into Julia’s solar plexus, doubling her up like a pocket ruler. She was thrashing about on the floor, fighting for breath. Winston dared not turn his head even by a millimetre, but sometimes her livid, gasping49 face came within the angle of his vision. Even in his terror it was as though he could feel the pain in his own body, the deadly pain which nevertheless was less urgent than the struggle to get back her breath. He knew what it was like; the terrible, agonizing50 pain which was there all the while but could not be suffered yet, because before all else it was necessary to be able to breathe. Then two of the men hoisted51 her up by knees and shoulders, and carried her 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 a smear 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 of their own accord but seemed totally uninteresting began to flit through his mind. He wondered whether they had got Mr Charrington. He wondered what they had done to the woman in the yard. He noticed that he badly wanted to urinate, and felt a faint surprise, because he had done so only two or three hours ago. He noticed that the clock on the mantelpiece said nine, meaning twenty-one. But the light seemed too strong. Would not the light be fading at twenty-one hours on an August evening? He wondered whether after all he and Julia had mistaken the time — had slept the clock round and thought it was twenty-thirty when really it was nought52 eight-thirty on the following morning. But he did not pursue the thought further. It was not interesting.
There was another, lighter53 step in the passage. Mr Charrington came into the room. The demeanour of the black-uniformed men suddenly became more subdued54. Something had also changed in Mr Charrington’s appearance. 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 velvet55 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 transformation56. The black eyebrows57 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.
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1
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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2
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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overalls
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| n.（复）工装裤；长罩衣 | |
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5
corking
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| adj.很好的adv.非常地v.用瓶塞塞住( cork的现在分词 ) | |
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6
pegging
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| n.外汇钉住，固定证券价格v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的现在分词 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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7
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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12
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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13
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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14
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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15
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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16
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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17
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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18
Fertilized
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| v.施肥( fertilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
laundering
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| n.洗涤（衣等），洗烫（衣等）；洗（钱）v.洗（衣服等），洗烫（衣服等）( launder的现在分词 )；洗（黑钱）（把非法收入改头换面，变为貌似合法的收入） | |
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20
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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21
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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22
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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23
bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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24
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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25
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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26
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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27
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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28
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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30
bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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31
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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32
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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33
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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34
irises
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| n.虹( iris的名词复数 )；虹膜；虹彩；鸢尾（花） | |
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35
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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36
smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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37
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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38
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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39
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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40
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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41
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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42
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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43
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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44
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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45
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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46
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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47
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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48
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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49
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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50
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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51
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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53
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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54
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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55
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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56
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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57
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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