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.They dono owto treat a lady, do they? She paused, patted her breast, and belched. Pardon, she said, I ain t meself,quite. She leant forward and vomited copiously on the floor. Thass better, she said, leaning back with closed eyes. Never keep it down, thass what I say.Get it up while it s fresh on your stomach, like.She revived, turned to have another look at Winston and seemed immediately to take a fancy to him.Sheput a vast arm round his shoulder and drew him towards her, breathing beer and vomit into his face. Wass your name, dearie? she said. Smith, said Winston. Smith? said the woman. Thass funny.My name s Smith too.Why, she added sentimentally, Imight be your mother!She might, thought Winston, be his mother.She was about the right age and physique, and it wasprobable that people changed somewhat after twenty years in a forced-labour camp.No one else had spoken to him.To a surprising extent the ordinary criminals ignored the Party prisoners. The polits, they called them, with a sort of uninterested contempt.The Party prisoners seemed terrified ofspeaking to anybody, and above all of speaking to one another.Only once, when two Party members, bothwomen, were pressed close together on the bench, he overheard amid the din of voices a few hurriedly-whispered words; and in particular a reference to something called room one-ohone , which he did notunderstand.It might be two or three hours ago that they had brought him here.The dull pain in his belly never wentaway, but sometimes it grew better and sometimes worse, and his thoughts expanded or contractedaccordingly.When it grew worse he thought only of the pain itself, and of his desire for food.When it grewbetter, panic took hold of him.There were moments when he foresaw the things that would happen to himwith such actuality that his heart galloped and his breath stopped.He felt the smash of truncheons on hiselbows and iron-shod boots on his shins; he saw himself grovelling on the floor, screaming for mercythrough broken teeth.He hardly thought of Julia.He could not fix his mind on her.He loved her andwould not betray her; but that was only a fact, known as he knew the rules of arithmetic.He felt no love forher, and he hardly even wondered what was happening to her.He thought oftener of O Brien, with aflickering hope.O Brien might know that he had been arrested.The Brotherhood, he had said, never triedto save its members.But there was the razor blade; they would send the razor blade if they could.Therewould be perhaps five seconds before the guard could rush into the cell.The blade would bite into him witha sort of burning coldness, and even the fingers that held it would be cut to the bone.Everything came backto his sick body, which shrank trembling from the smallest pain.He was not certain that he would use therazor blade even if he got the chance.It was more natural to exist from moment to moment, acceptinganother ten minutes life even with the certainty that there was torture at the end of it.Sometimes he tried to calculate the number of porcelain bricks in the walls of the cell.It should havebeen easy, but he always lost count at some point or another.More often he wondered where he was, andwhat time of day it was.At one moment he felt certain that it was broad daylight outside, and at the nextequally certain that it was pitch darkness.In this place, he knew instinctively, the lights would never beturned out.It was the place with no darkness: he saw now why O Brien had seemed to recognize theallusion.In the Ministry of Love there were no windows.His cell might be at the heart of the building oragainst its outer wall; it might be ten floors below ground, or thirty above it.He moved himself mentallyfrom place to place, and tried to determine by the feeling of his body whether he was perched high in the airor buried deep underground.There was a sound of marching boots outside.The steel door opened with a clang.A young officer, atrim black-uniformed figure who seemed to glitter all over with polished leather, and whose pale, straight-featured face was like a wax mask, stepped smartly through the doorway.He motioned to the guards outsideto bring in the prisoner they were leading.The poet Ampleforth shambled into the cell.The door clangedshut again.Ampleforth made one or two uncertain movements from side to side, as though having some idea thatthere was another door to go out of, and then began to wander up and down the cell.He had not yet noticedWinston s presence.His troubled eyes were gazing at the wall about a metre above the level of Winston shead.He was shoeless; large, dirty toes were sticking out of the holes in his socks.He was also several days away from a shave.A scrubby beard covered his face to the cheekbones, giving him an air ofruffianism that went oddly with his large weak frame and nervous movements.Winston roused himself a little from his lethargy.He must speak to Ampleforth, and risk the yell fromthe telescreen.It was even conceivable that Ampleforth was the bearer of the razor blade [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.They dono owto treat a lady, do they? She paused, patted her breast, and belched. Pardon, she said, I ain t meself,quite. She leant forward and vomited copiously on the floor. Thass better, she said, leaning back with closed eyes. Never keep it down, thass what I say.Get it up while it s fresh on your stomach, like.She revived, turned to have another look at Winston and seemed immediately to take a fancy to him.Sheput a vast arm round his shoulder and drew him towards her, breathing beer and vomit into his face. Wass your name, dearie? she said. Smith, said Winston. Smith? said the woman. Thass funny.My name s Smith too.Why, she added sentimentally, Imight be your mother!She might, thought Winston, be his mother.She was about the right age and physique, and it wasprobable that people changed somewhat after twenty years in a forced-labour camp.No one else had spoken to him.To a surprising extent the ordinary criminals ignored the Party prisoners. The polits, they called them, with a sort of uninterested contempt.The Party prisoners seemed terrified ofspeaking to anybody, and above all of speaking to one another.Only once, when two Party members, bothwomen, were pressed close together on the bench, he overheard amid the din of voices a few hurriedly-whispered words; and in particular a reference to something called room one-ohone , which he did notunderstand.It might be two or three hours ago that they had brought him here.The dull pain in his belly never wentaway, but sometimes it grew better and sometimes worse, and his thoughts expanded or contractedaccordingly.When it grew worse he thought only of the pain itself, and of his desire for food.When it grewbetter, panic took hold of him.There were moments when he foresaw the things that would happen to himwith such actuality that his heart galloped and his breath stopped.He felt the smash of truncheons on hiselbows and iron-shod boots on his shins; he saw himself grovelling on the floor, screaming for mercythrough broken teeth.He hardly thought of Julia.He could not fix his mind on her.He loved her andwould not betray her; but that was only a fact, known as he knew the rules of arithmetic.He felt no love forher, and he hardly even wondered what was happening to her.He thought oftener of O Brien, with aflickering hope.O Brien might know that he had been arrested.The Brotherhood, he had said, never triedto save its members.But there was the razor blade; they would send the razor blade if they could.Therewould be perhaps five seconds before the guard could rush into the cell.The blade would bite into him witha sort of burning coldness, and even the fingers that held it would be cut to the bone.Everything came backto his sick body, which shrank trembling from the smallest pain.He was not certain that he would use therazor blade even if he got the chance.It was more natural to exist from moment to moment, acceptinganother ten minutes life even with the certainty that there was torture at the end of it.Sometimes he tried to calculate the number of porcelain bricks in the walls of the cell.It should havebeen easy, but he always lost count at some point or another.More often he wondered where he was, andwhat time of day it was.At one moment he felt certain that it was broad daylight outside, and at the nextequally certain that it was pitch darkness.In this place, he knew instinctively, the lights would never beturned out.It was the place with no darkness: he saw now why O Brien had seemed to recognize theallusion.In the Ministry of Love there were no windows.His cell might be at the heart of the building oragainst its outer wall; it might be ten floors below ground, or thirty above it.He moved himself mentallyfrom place to place, and tried to determine by the feeling of his body whether he was perched high in the airor buried deep underground.There was a sound of marching boots outside.The steel door opened with a clang.A young officer, atrim black-uniformed figure who seemed to glitter all over with polished leather, and whose pale, straight-featured face was like a wax mask, stepped smartly through the doorway.He motioned to the guards outsideto bring in the prisoner they were leading.The poet Ampleforth shambled into the cell.The door clangedshut again.Ampleforth made one or two uncertain movements from side to side, as though having some idea thatthere was another door to go out of, and then began to wander up and down the cell.He had not yet noticedWinston s presence.His troubled eyes were gazing at the wall about a metre above the level of Winston shead.He was shoeless; large, dirty toes were sticking out of the holes in his socks.He was also several days away from a shave.A scrubby beard covered his face to the cheekbones, giving him an air ofruffianism that went oddly with his large weak frame and nervous movements.Winston roused himself a little from his lethargy.He must speak to Ampleforth, and risk the yell fromthe telescreen.It was even conceivable that Ampleforth was the bearer of the razor blade [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]