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Part 2 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 dozing 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 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 acrorss the years

They twist my 'eart-strings 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 mare-like 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 over-ripe 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 metre 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 wild-rose 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 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 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 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 bazaars of China and Japan -- everywhere stood the same solid unconquerable figure, made monstrous by work and childbearing, toiling from birth to death and still singing. Out of those mighty 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 doctrine 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 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 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 touching, 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 chattering, but his knees were beyond his control. There was a sound of trampling 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 abruptly. 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 prizefighter's jowl in which the mouth was only a slit paused opposite him balancing his truncheon meditatively between thumb and forefinger. 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 unbearable. 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 rosebud from a cake, rolled across the mat. How small, thought Winston, how small it always was! There was a gasp and a thump 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, gasping 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, agonizing 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 hoisted 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 nought eight-thirty on the following morning. But he did not pursue the thought further. It was not interesting.

There was another, lighter step in the passage. Mr Charrington came into the room. The demeanour of the black-uniformed men suddenly became more subdued. 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 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.

 

他醒来的时候,有一种睡了很久的感觉,但是看一眼那台老式的座钟,却还只有二十点三十分。他躺着又打了一个盹;接着下面院子里又传来了听惯了的深沉的歌声:

这不过是个没有希望的痴想,它消失得象春日一样快,但是一顾一盼,片言只语,却引起了梦幻,偷走了我的心!

这喋喋不休的歌曲盛行不衰,到处都仍可听到,寿命比《仇恨歌》还长。裘莉亚给歌声吵醒,舒服地伸个懒腰,起了床。

“我饿了,”她说,“我们再做一些咖啡。他妈的!炉子灭了,水也冰凉。”她提起炉子,摇了一摇,“没有煤油了。”

“我们可以向老却林顿要一些吧。”

“奇怪得很,我原来是装满的。我得穿起衣服来,”她又说,“好象比刚才冷了一些。”

温斯顿也起了床,穿好衣服。那不知疲倦的声音又唱了起来:

他们说时间能始愈一切创伤,他们说你总可以把它忘得精光,但是这些年的笑容和眼泪却仍使我心里感到无限悲伤!

他一边束好工作服的腰带,一边走到窗户边上。太阳已经沉到房后去了,院子里不再照射到阳光。地上的石板很湿,好象刚刚冲洗过似的,他觉得天空也好象刚刚冲洗过似的,从屋顶烟囱之间望去,一片碧蓝。那个女人不知疲倦地来回走着,一会儿放声歌唱,一会儿又默不出声,没完没了地晾着尿布。他不知道她是不是靠洗衣为生,还是仅仅给二、三十个孙儿女作牛马?裘莉亚走到他身边来,他们站在一起有些入迷地看着下面那个壮实的人影。他看着那个女人的典型姿态,粗壮的胳臂举了起来往绳子上晾衣服,鼓着肥大的母马似的屁股,他第一次注意到她很美丽。他以前从来没有想到,一个五十岁妇女的身体由于养儿育女而膨胀到异乎寻常的肥大,后来又由于辛劳过度而粗糙起来,象个熟透了的萝卜,居然还可能是美丽的。但是实际情况却是如此,而且,他想,为什么不可以呢?那壮实的、没有轮廓的身躯象一块大理石一般,那粗糙发红的皮肤与一个姑娘的身体之间的关系正如玫瑰的果实同玫瑰的关系一样。为什么果实要比花朵低一等呢?

“她很美,”他低声说。

“她的屁股足足有一公尺宽,”裘莉亚说。

“那就是她美的地方,”温斯顿说。

他把裘莉亚的柔软的细腰很轻易地搂在胳膊里。她的身体从臀部到膝部都贴着他的身体。但是他们两人的身体却不能生儿育女。这是他们永远不能做的一件事。他们只有靠用嘴巴才能把他们头脑中的秘密传来传去。但是下面那个女人没有头脑,她只有强壮的胳膊、热情的心肠和多产的肚皮。

他心里想她不知生过了多少子女。很可能有十五个。她曾经有过一次象野玫瑰一样鲜花怒放的时候,大概一年左右,接着就突然象受了精的果实一样膨胀起来,越来越硬,越红,越粗,此后她的一生就是洗衣服、擦地板、补袜子、烧饭,这样打扫缝补,先是为子女,后是为孙儿,没完没了,持续不断,整整干了三十年,到了最后,还在歌唱。他对她感到一种神秘的崇敬,这种感情同屋顶烟囱后面一望无际的碧蓝的晴空景色有些掺杂在一起。奇怪的是对每个人来说,天空都是一样的天空,不论是欧亚国,还是东亚国,还是在这里。天空下面的人基本上也是一样的人——全世界到处都是一样,几亿,几十亿的人,都不知彼此的存在,被仇恨和谎言的高墙隔开,但几乎是完全一样的人——这些人从来不知道怎样思想,但是他们的心里,肚子里,肌肉里却积累着有朝一日会推翻整个世界的力量。如果有希望,希望在无产者中间!他不用读到那本书的结尾,就知道这一定是果尔德施坦因的最后一句话。未来属于无产者。他是不是能够确实知道,当无产者胜利的日子来到的时候,对他温斯顿史密斯来说,他们建立起来的世界会不会象党的世界那样格格不入呢?是的,他能够,因为至少这个世界会是一个神志清醒的世界。凡是有平等的地方,就有神志清醒。迟早这样的事会发生:力量会变成意识。无产者是不朽的,你只要看一眼院子里那个刚强的身影,就不会有什么疑问。他们的觉醒终有一天会来到。可能要等一千年,但是在这以前,他们尽管条件不利,仍旧能保持生命,就象飞鸟一样,把党所没有的和不能扼杀的生命力通过肉体,代代相传。

“你记得吗,”他问道,“那第一天在树林边上向我们歌唱的鸫乌?”

“它没有向我们歌唱,”裘莉亚说,“它是在为自己歌唱。

其实那也不是,它就是在歌唱罢了。”

鸟儿歌唱,无产者歌唱,但党却不歌唱。在全世界各地,在伦敦和纽约,在非洲和巴西,在边界以外神秘的禁地,在巴黎和柏林的街道,在广袤无垠的俄罗斯平原的村庄,在中国和日本的市场——到处都站立着那个结实的不可打垮的身影,因干辛劳工作和生儿育女而发了胖,从生下来到死亡都一直劳碌不停,但是仍在歌唱。就是从她们这些强壮的肚皮里,有一天总会生产出一种有自觉的人类。你是死者;未来是他们的。但是如果你能象他们保持身体的生命一样保持头脑的生命,把二加二等于四的秘密学说代代相传,你也可以分享他们的未来。

“我们是死者,”他说。

“我们是死者,”裘莉亚乖乖地附和说。

“你们是死者,”他们背后一个冷酷的声音说。

他们猛地跳了开来。温斯顿的五脏六腑似乎都变成了冰块。他可以看到裘莉亚眼里的瞳孔四周发白。她的脸色蜡黄。面颊上的胭脂特别醒目,好象与下面的皮肤没有关系。

“你们是死者,”冷酷的声音又说。

“是在画片后面,”裘莉亚轻轻说。

“是在画片后面,”那声音说。“你们站在原地,没听到命令不许动。”

这开始了,这终于开始了!他们除了站在那里互相看着以外什么办法也没有。赶快逃命,趁现在还来得及逃出屋子去——他们没有想到这些。要想不听从墙上发出来的声音,是不可想象的。接着一声咔嚓,好象打开了锁,又象是掉下了一块玻璃。画片掉到了地上,原来挂画片的地方露出了一个电幕。

“现在他们可以看到我们了,”裘莉亚说。

“现在我们可以看到你们了,”那声音说。“站到屋子中间来。背靠背站着。把双手握在脑袋后面。互相不许接触。”

他们没有接触,但他觉得他可以感到裘莉亚的身子在哆嗦,也许这不过是因为他自己身子在哆嗦。他咬紧牙关才使自己的牙齿不上下打颤,但他控制不了双膝。下面屋子里里外外传来一阵皮靴声。院子里似乎尽是人。有什么东西拖过石板地。那女人的歌声突然中断了。有一阵什么东西滚过的声音,好象洗衣盆给推过了院子,接着是愤怒的喊声,最后是痛苦的尖叫。

“屋子被包围了,”温斯顿说。

“屋子被包围了,”那声音说。

他听见裘莉亚咬紧牙关。“我想我们可以告别了,”她说。

“你们可以告别了,”那声音说。接着又传来了另外一个完全不同的声音,是一个有教养的人的文雅声音,温斯顿觉得以前曾经听到过:“另外,趁我们还没有离开话题,这里是一根蜡烛照你上床,这里是一把斧子砍你的脑袋!”

温斯顿背后的床上有什么东西重重地掉在上面。有一张扶梯从窗户中插了进来,打破了窗户。有人爬窗进来。楼梯上也有一阵皮靴声。屋子里站满了穿着黑制服的强壮汉子,脚上穿着有铁掌的皮靴,手中拿着橡皮棍。

温斯顿不再打哆嗦了,甚至眼睛也不再转动。只有一件事情很重要:保持安静不动,不让他们有殴打你的借口!站在他前面的一个人,下巴象拳击选手一样凶狠,嘴巴细成一道缝,他把橡皮棍夹在大拇指和食指之间,端量着温斯顿。

温斯顿也看着他。把手放在脑袋后面,你的脸和身体就完全暴露在外,这种仿佛赤身裸体的感觉,使他几乎不可忍受。

那个汉子伸出白色的舌尖,舔一下应该是嘴唇的地方,接着就走开了。这时又有一下打破东西的哗啦声。有人从桌上拣起玻璃镇纸,把它扔到了壁炉石上,打得粉碎。

珊瑚碎片,象蛋糕上的一块糖做的玫瑰蓓蕾一样的小红粒,滚过了地席。温斯顿想,那么小,总是那么小。他背后有人深深地吸了一口气,接着猛的一声,他的脚踝给狠狠地踢了一下,使他几乎站不住脚。另外有个人一拳打到裘莉亚的太阳穴神经丛,使她象折尺一样弯了起来。她在地上滚来滚去,喘不过气来。温斯顿的脑袋一动也不敢动,但是有时她的紧张、憋气的脸进入到了他的视野之内。甚至在极端恐惧中,他也可以感到打在她的身上,痛在自己的身上,不过怎么痛也不如她喘不过气来那么难受。他知道这是什么滋味:

剧痛难熬,但是你又无暇顾到,因为最最重要的还是要想法喘过气来。这时有两个大汉一个拉着她的肩膀,于个拉着她的小腿,把她抬了起来,象个麻袋似的带出了屋子。温斯顿看到了一眼她的倒过来的脸,面色发黄,皱紧眉头,闭着眼睛,双颊上仍有一点残余的胭脂,这就是他最后看到她的一眼了。

他一动不动地站着。还没有人揍他。他的脑海里出现了各种各样的想法,这些想法都是自动出现的,但是完全没有意思。他想,不知他们逮到了却林顿先生没有。他想,不知道他们怎样收拾院子里的那个女人的。他发现自己尿憋得慌,但觉得有些奇怪,因为在两三个小时以前刚刚尿过。他注意到壁炉架上的座钟已是九点了,那就是说二十一点。但是光线仍很亮。难道八月里的夜晚,到了二十一点,天还没有黑?他想,不知道他和裘莉亚是不是把时间弄错了——睡了足足一圈时钟,还以为是二十点三十分,实际上已是第二天早上八点三十分。但是他没有继续想下去。这并没有意思。

过道里又传来一阵比较轻的脚步声,却林顿先生走进了屋子。穿黑制服的汉子们的态度马上安静下来。却林顿先生的外表也与以前有所不同了。他的眼光落到了玻璃镇纸的碎片上。

“把这些碎片拣起来,”他厉声说。

一个汉子遵命弯腰。伦敦士腔消失了;温斯顿蓦然明白刚才几分钟以前在电幕上听到的声音是谁的声音了。却林顿先生仍穿着他的平绒旧上衣,但是他的头发原来几乎全白,如今却又发黑了。还有他也不再戴眼镜了。他对温斯顿只严厉地看了一眼,好象是验明他的正身,以后就不再注意他。

他的样子仍可以认得出来,但他已不是原来那个人了。他的腰板挺直,个子也似乎高大了一些。他的脸变化虽小,但完全改了样。黑色的眉毛不象以前那么浓密,皱纹不见了,整个脸部线条似乎都已改变,甚至鼻子也短了一些。这是一个大约三十五岁的人的一张警觉、冷静的脸。温斯顿忽然想起,这是他一辈子中第一次在心里有数的情况下看到一个思想警察。



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