Chapter 19 chapter Ten

When he woke up, Winston felt that he had slept for a long time, but he glanced at the old-fashioned clock and found that it was only half past twenty.He lay in a daze for a while, and then the same deep singing sounded from the courtyard below: This goofy song is still popular, still heard everywhere, and outlived "The Hate Song."Julia woke up to the singing, stretched comfortably and got out of bed. "I'm hungry," she said, "I'll make some more coffee. Damn it! There's no oil in the stove, and the water's cold." She picked up the stove and shook it. "It's out of gas."

"I reckon I can get a little from old Charrington." "Strange, I'm sure it was full. I'm going to put on my clothes," she added. "It seems to be getting colder." Winston also got up and dressed.The tireless voice went on singing: After tightening the belt of his overalls, he walked to the window.The sun must have set over the house instead of shining directly on the yard.The flagstones were wet, as if they had just been washed, and the sky between the chimneys was so vividly blue that he felt that the sky had also been washed.The woman was striding back and forth tirelessly, stuffing and taking clothespins out of her mouth, singing by turns silent, drying an inexhaustible supply of diapers.He wondered if she did laundry for a living, or just cared for twenty or thirty grandchildren.Julia came up next to him, and together they stared, somewhat fascinated, at the fit woman below.He looked at the woman's characteristic demeanor, her thick arms stretched out to the clothesline, her mare-like butt pushed back, and it occurred to him for the first time that she was beautiful.A woman of fifty—gigantized by childbirth, hardened by work until it was rough to the bone, like an overgrown turnip—had never occurred to him before. Such a body would be beautiful, but it is.Why on earth can't it be said to be beautiful, he thought?The solid, curveless, granite body with its rough red skin was to a girl's body as a rosehip is to a rose.Why are fruits considered inferior to flowers?

"She's so beautiful." "Her ass is at least a meter wide," Julia said. "That's her unique beauty." He easily wrapped Julia's soft waist around with one hand.From hip to knee, one side of her body was against him.The two of them would never have children, never could.They can only communicate the secrets in their minds to each other by talking.The woman below has no intelligence, all she has are thick arms, a warm heart, and a fertile belly.Winston wondered how many children she had fathered, probably at least fifteen.She had a short flowering season, and maybe one year was as beautiful as a briar.Then suddenly, like a fertilized fruit, she grew strong and red and rough, and then her life was always laundry, mopping, mending, cooking, sweeping, polishing, repairing, etc., first for the children. , and then for her grandchildren, for thirty years like a day, without interruption, in the end, she is still singing.Somehow the mystical reverence Winston felt for her was mingled with the look of the sky behind the chimney.The sky was pale and cloudless, stretching to an infinite distance.Strange to think, the sky is the same sky for everyone, whether in Eurasia or Eastasia or here.The people under the sky are almost exactly the same - everywhere, including the world, there are hundreds of millions of people like here, who know nothing of each other's existence, separated by walls of hatred and lies, but still almost completely. Same.They never learned to think, but it is in their hearts and stomachs and muscles that they store the power that will one day overthrow the world.If there is hope, it is in the masses!He didn't have to finish reading "that book" to know that Goldstein had meant the same thing in the end.The future belongs to the masses.But was he sure that, when they became masters again, the world they had created would not be as alien to him as the world of the Party, to him, Winston?Yes, he was sure, at least it would be a sane world.Where there is equality, there is reason.Sooner or later, that is what will happen, and the power will awaken.Crowds are immortal, look at that brave woman in the yard and you will not doubt it.Eventually they will wake up, and when that day comes—though it may take a thousand years—they will survive against all odds, and, like birds, pass life from body to body, That is what the party lacks and cannot eliminate.

"Do you remember," he asked, "that thrush that sang to us at the edge of the wood on the first day?" "It's not singing to us," Julia said. "It's entertaining itself. It can't even be said that. It's just singing." Birds sing, crowds sing, parties don't sing.All over the world, in London and New York, in Africa, Brazil and the mysterious forbidden places beyond the border, in the streets of Paris and Berlin, in the villages of the infinite Russian plains, in the markets of China and Japan—every day Everywhere stands the same strong and invincible body, magnified by work and birth, weary from birth to death, and still singing.It is from between their strong legs that a self-conscious race will one day be born.You are the dead, and what they have is the future.But if you can keep your body alive, keep your brain alive, and pass on the secret teaching that two and two make four, as they did, you too can share in the future.

"We are dead," he said. "We're dead people," agreed Julia obediently. "You are dead." A grim voice came from behind them. Suddenly they parted.Winston seemed to feel a chill all over his body. He saw Julia's eyes go round and round, and her face turned creamy yellow.The two blobs of rouge that remained on her cheeks stood out, almost as if they were trying to free the skin underneath. "You are dead," said the grim voice again. "Behind the picture," Julia said softly. "Behind the painting," said the voice, "stand still and don't move a step without order."

Here it is, at last!There was nothing they could do but look each other in the eye.To run for their lives, to get out of the house before it was too late—these thoughts never occurred to them, unimaginable to dare to defy the cold voice from the wall.There was only a snap, like a lock being snapped, and the sound of glass breaking.The picture fell to the floor, revealing the telescreen behind it. "They can see us now," Julia said. "We can see you now," said the voice. "Stand in the middle of the room, back to back. Arms behind your heads. No touching." They didn't touch, but he seemed to feel Julia's body shaking, maybe it was just him shaking.He could only keep his teeth from chattering, but his knees wouldn't work.There was the sound of leather boots downstairs, both inside and outside the room.The courtyard seemed to be full of people, and something was being dragged across the flagstones.The woman's singing stopped suddenly.There was another sound of objects rolling on the ground. It seemed that the laundry tub was thrown on the ground and rolled from one end of the yard to the other.Then came a very confused cry of anger, and finally a cry of pain.

"The house is surrounded," said Winston. "The house is surrounded," said the voice. He heard Julia clenching her teeth. "I think we'd better say goodbye," she said. "You'd better say goodbye," said the voice.Then another voice of a very different kind broke in, it was a thin, gentle voice, and Winston had a feeling of deja vu. "Also, by the way, without digressing: 'Here's a candle to light you to sleep, and here's an ax to chop your head off!'" Behind Winston, something hit the bed.A ladder was coming in through the window, crushing the frame, and someone was climbing in through the window.There was also the sound of leather boots going up the stairs, and the room was full of burly men in black uniforms, leather boots with iron palms on their feet, and batons in their hands.

Winston had ceased to tremble, and hardly moved his eyes.Only one thing matters: keep still, keep still, lest they give you a reason to hit you!A man with a boxer's flat chin and a slit in his mouth stood facing him.The man held the baton between his thumb and forefinger, swinging it up and down as if thinking about something.Winston made eye contact with him.The feeling of being exposed, with your hands behind your head and your face and body completely uncovered, is unbearable.The man stuck out the tip of his white tongue and licked where his lips should be, then walked over.There was another snap, and someone took the glass paperweight from the table and smashed it on to the stones at the bottom of the fireplace, breaking it into pieces.

A little piece of coral—a small, wrinkled pink thing like a candied rosebud on a cake—rolled across the mattress.How small it was, thought Winston, how small it always was!He heard a gasp behind him, followed by a thump, and a hard kick to his ankle that nearly knocked his body off balance.A man punched Julia in the stomach, and she writhed violently on the floor, hunched over like a folding rule, struggling to catch her breath.Winston dared not turn his head even a millimeter, but sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he could see her pale face, gasping for breath.Even though he was full of fear himself, it seemed he could feel the pain, but for Julia more pressing than the pain was to be able to breathe.She was then carried away like a sack by two men pulling at knees and shoulders.Winston glanced at her face, turned down, yellow and distorted, eyes closed, rouge marks still on the cheeks.That was the last time he saw her.

He stood there motionless, no one hit him yet.A few thoughts quickly and automatically flashed through his mind, but they didn't seem to interest him at all.He wondered if they had Mr. Charrington arrested too, and what they had done to the woman in the yard.He noticed that he was holding back and was slightly surprised because he had only done so two or three hours ago.He noticed that the clock on the mantelpiece said nine, which was blackjack.But the light seems too strong.Doesn't the light of an August evening grow dimmer by blackjack?He wondered if, after all, he and Julia had gotten the time wrong—they had slept twelve hours longer and it was actually eight-thirty the next morning.But he didn't think about it any further, it didn't make sense.

There was another softer step in the passage, and Mr. Charrington entered the room, and the men in black suddenly became more deferential.Mr. Charrington had also changed in appearance.His eyes fell on the shards of the glass paperweight. "Pick up the pieces," he snapped. Someone bent over to obey.The idiosyncrasy of Mr. Charrington's words was gone.Winston suddenly realized that this was the voice he had just heard from the telescreen.Mr Charrington still wore the old velvet jacket, but his hair, which had always been almost white, had turned black and his spectacles were gone.He gave Winston a hard look, as if to check him out, and then looked no further.Can still recognize him, but a different person.His body straightened, and he seemed to be bigger than before.His face changed only very little, but enough to make him unrecognizable.His eyebrows are less bushy, his wrinkles are gone, his entire face seems to have changed, and even his nose seems to be shorter.It was the alert and serious face of a man in his fifties.It occurred to Winston that for the first time in his life he had looked clearly at a Thought Policeman.