Winston had woken up with his eyes full of tears. Julia rolled sleepily against
him, murmuring something that might have been 'What's the matter?'
'I dreamt -' he began, and stopped short. It was too complex to be put into
words. There was the dream itself, and there was a memory connected with it that
had swum into his mind in the few seconds after waking.
He lay back with his eyes shut, still sodden in the atmosphere of the dream. It
was a vast, luminous dream in which his whole life seemed to stretch out before
him like a landscape on a summer evening after rain. It had all occurred inside
the glass paperweight, but the surface of the glass was the dome of the sky, and
inside the dome everything was flooded with clear soft light in which one could
see into interminable distances. The dream had also been comprehended by –
indeed, in some sense it had consisted in – a gesture of the arm made by his
mother, and made again thirty years later by the Jewish woman he had seen on the
news film, trying to shelter the small boy from the bullets, before the
helicopter blew them both to pieces.
'Do you know,' he said, 'that until this moment I believed I had murdered my
'Why did you murder her?' said Julia, almost asleep.
'I didn't murder her. Not physically.'
In the dream he had remembered his last glimpse of his mother, and within a few
moments of waking the cluster of small events surrounding it had all come back.
It was a memory that he must have deliberately pushed out of his consciousness
over many years. He was not certain of the date, but he could not have been less
than ten years old, possibly twelve, when it had happened.
His father had disappeared some time earlier, how much earlier he could not
remember. He remembered better the rackety, uneasy circumstances of the time:
the periodical panics about air-raids and the sheltering in Tube stations, the
piles of rubble everywhere, the unintelligible proclamations posted at street
corners, the gangs of youths in shirts all the same colour, the enormous queues
outside the bakeries, the intermittent machine-gun fire in the distance – above
all, the fact that there was never enough to eat. He remembered long afternoons
spent with other boys in scrounging round dustbins and rubbish heaps, picking
out the ribs of cabbage leaves, potato peelings, sometimes even scraps of stale
bread crust from which they carefully scraped away the cinders; and also in
waiting for the passing of trucks which traveled over a certain route and were
known to carry cattle feed, and which, when they jolted over the bad patches in
the road, sometimes spilt a few fragments of oil-cake.
When his father disappeared, his mother did not show any surprise or any violent
grief, but a sudden change came over her. She seemed to have become completely
spiritless. It was evident even to Winston that she was waiting for something
that she knew must happen. She did everything that was needed – cooked, washed,
mended, made the bed, swept the floor, dusted the mantelpiece – always very
slowly and with a curious lack of superfluous motion, like an artist's
lay-figure moving of its own accord. Her large shapely body seemed to relapse
naturally into stillness. For hours at a time she would sit almost immobile on
the bed, nursing his young sister, a tiny, ailing, very silent child of two or
three, with a face made simian by thinness. Very occasionally she would take
Winston in her arms and press him against her for a long time without saying
anything. He was aware, in spite of his youthfulness and selfishness, that this
was somehow connected with the never-mentioned thing that was about to happen.
He remembered the room where they lived, a dark, close-smelling room that seemed
half filled by a bed with a white counterpane. There was a gas ring in the
fender, and a shelf where food was kept, and on the landing outside there was a
brown earthenware sink, common to several rooms. He remembered his mother's
statuesque body bending over the gas ring to stir at something in a saucepan.
Above all he remembered his continuous hunger, and the fierce sordid battles at
meal-times. He would ask his mother naggingly, over and over again, why there
was not more food, he would shout and storm at her (he even remembered the tones
of his voice, which was beginning to break prematurely and sometimes boomed in a
peculiar way), or he would attempt a sniveling note of pathos in his efforts to
get more than his share. His mother was quite ready to give him more than his
share. She took it for granted that he, 'the boy', should have the biggest
portion; but however much she gave him he invariably demanded more. At every
meal she would beseech him not to be selfish and to remember that his little
sister was sick and also needed food, but it was no use. He would cry out with
rage when she stopped ladling, he would try to wrench the saucepan and spoon out
of her hands, he would grab bits from his sister's plate. He knew that he was
starving the other two, but he could not help it; he even felt that he had a
right to do it. The clamorous hunger in his belly seemed to justify him. Between
meals, if his mother did not stand guard, he was constantly pilfering at the
wretched store of food on the shelf.
One day a chocolate-ration was issued. There had been no such issue for weeks or
months past. He remembered quite clearly that precious little morsel of
chocolate. It was a two-ounce slab (they still talked about ounces in those
days) between the three of them. It was obvious that it ought to be divided into
three equal parts. Suddenly, as though he were listening to somebody else,
Winston heard himself demanding in a loud booming voice that he should be given
the whole piece. His mother told him not to be greedy. There was a long, nagging
argument that went round and round, with shouts, whines, tears, remonstrances,
bargainings. His tiny sister, clinging to her mother with both hands, exactly
like a baby monkey, sat looking over her shoulder at him with large, mournful
eyes. In the end his mother broke off three-quarters of the chocolate and gave
it to Winston, giving the other quarter to his sister. The little girl took hold
of it and looked at it dully, perhaps not knowing what it was. Winston stood
watching her for a moment. Then with a sudden swift spring he had snatched the
piece of chocolate out of his sister's hand and was fleeing for the door.
'Winston, Winston!' his mother called after him. 'Come back! Give your sister
back her chocolate!'
He stopped, but did not come back. His mother's anxious eyes were fixed on his
face. Even now he was thinking about the thing, he did not know what it was that
was on the point of happening. His sister, conscious of having been robbed of
something, had set up a feeble wail. His mother drew her arm round the child and
pressed its face against her breast. Something in the gesture told him that his
sister was dying. He turned and fled down the stairs' with the chocolate growing
sticky in his hand.
He never saw his mother again. After he had devoured the chocolate he felt
somewhat ashamed of himself and hung about in the streets for several hours,
until hunger drove him home. When he came back his mother had disappeared. This
was already becoming normal at that time. Nothing was gone from the room except
his mother and his sister. They had not taken any clothes, not even his mother's
overcoat. To this day he did not know with any certainty that his mother was
dead. It was perfectly possible that she had merely been sent to a forced-labour
camp. As for his sister, she might have been removed, like Winston himself, to
one of the colonies for homeless children (Reclamation Centres, they were
called) which had grown up as a result of the civil war, or she might have been
sent to the labour camp along with his mother, or simply left somewhere or other
The dream was still vivid in his mind, especially the enveloping protecting
gesture of the arm in which its whole meaning seemed to be contained. His mind
went back to another dream of two months ago. Exactly as his mother had sat on
the dingy white-quilted bed, with the child clinging to her, so she had sat in
the sunken ship, far underneath him, and drowning deeper every minute, but still
looking up at him through the darkening water.
He told Julia the story of his mother's disappearance. Without opening her eyes
she rolled over and settled herself into a more comfortable position.
'I expect you were a beastly little swine in those days,' she said indistinctly.
'All children are swine.'
'Yes. But the real point of the story -'
From her breathing it was evident that she was going off to sleep again. He
would have liked to continue talking about his mother. He did not suppose, from
what he could remember of her, that she had been an unusual woman, still less an
intelligent one; and yet she had possessed a kind of nobility, a kind of purity,
simply because the standards that she obeyed were private ones. Her feelings
were her own, and could not be altered from outside. It would not have occurred
to her that an action which is ineffectual thereby becomes meaningless. If you
loved someone, you loved him, and when you had nothing else to give, you still
gave him love. When the last of the chocolate was gone, his mother had clasped
the child in her arms. It was no use, it changed nothing, it did not produce
more chocolate, it did not avert the child's death or her own; but it seemed
natural to her to do it. The refugee woman in the boat had also covered the
little boy with her arm, which was no more use against the bullets than a sheet
of paper. The terrible thing that the Party had done was to persuade you that
mere impulses, mere feelings, were of no account, while at the same time robbing
you of all power over the material world. When once you were in the grip of the
Party, what you felt or did not feel, what you did or refrained from doing, made
literally no difference. Whatever happened you vanished, and neither you nor
your actions were ever heard of again. You were lifted clean out of the stream
of history. And yet to the people of only two generations ago this would not
have seemed all-important, because they were not attempting to alter history.
They were governed by private loyalties which they did not question. What
mattered were individual relationships, and a completely helpless gesture, an
embrace, a tear, a word spoken to a dying man, could have value in itself. The
proles, it suddenly occurred to him, had remained in this condition. They were
not loyal to a party or a country or an idea, they were loyal to one another.
For the first time in his life he did not despise the proles or think of them
merely as an inert force which would one day spring to life and regenerate the
world. The proles had stayed human. They had not become hardened inside. They
had held on to the primitive emotions which he himself had to re-learn by
conscious effort. And in thinking this he remembered, without apparent
relevance, how a few weeks ago he had seen a severed hand lying on the pavement
and had kicked it into the gutter as though it had been a cabbage-stalk.
'The proles are human beings,' he said aloud. 'We are not human.'
'Why not?' said Julia, who had woken up again.
He thought for a little while. 'Has it ever occurred to you,' he said, 'that the
best thing for us to do would be simply to walk out of here before it's too
late, and never see each other again?'
'Yes, dear, it has occurred to me, several times. But I'm not going to do it,
all the same.'
'We've been lucky,' he said 'but it can't last much longer. You're young. You
look normal and innocent. If you keep clear of people like me, you might stay
alive for another fifty years.'
'No. I've thought it all out. What you do, I'm going to do. And don't be too
downhearted. I'm rather good at staying alive.'
'We may be together for another six months – a year – there's no knowing. At
the end we're certain to be apart. Do you realize how utterly alone we shall be?
When once they get hold of us there will be nothing, literally nothing, that
either of us can do for the other. If I confess, they'll shoot you, and if I
refuse to confess, they'll shoot you just the same. Nothing that I can do or
say, or stop myself from saying, will put off your death for as much as five
minutes. Neither of us will even know whether the other is alive or dead. We
shall be utterly without power of any kind. The one thing that matters is that
we shouldn't betray one another, although even that can't make the slightest
'If you mean confessing,' she said, 'we shall do that, right enough. Everybody
always confesses. You can't help it. They torture you.'
'I don't mean confessing. Confession is not betrayal. What you say or do doesn't
matter: only feelings matter. If they could make me stop loving you – that
would be the real betrayal.'
She thought it over. 'They can't do that,' she said finally. 'It's the one thing
they can't do. They can make you say anything – anything – but they can't make
you believe it. They can't get inside you.'
'No,' he said a little more hopefully, 'no; that's quite true. They can't get
inside you. If you can feel that staying human is worth while, even when it
can't have any result whatever, you've beaten them.'
He thought of the telescreen with its never-sleeping ear. They could spy upon
you night and day, but if you kept your head you could still outwit them. With
all their cleverness they had never mastered the secret of finding out what
another human being was thinking. Perhaps that was less true when you were
actually in their hands. One did not know what happened inside the Ministry of
Love, but it was possible to guess: tortures, drugs, delicate instruments that
registered your nervous reactions, gradual wearing-down by sleeplessness and
solitude and persistent questioning. Facts, at any rate, could not be kept
hidden. They could be tracked down by enquiry, they could be squeezed out of you
by torture. But if the object was not to stay alive but to stay human, what
difference did it ultimately make? They could not alter your feelings: for that
matter you could not alter them yourself, even if you wanted to. They could lay
bare in the utmost detail everything that you had done or said or thought; but
the inner heart, whose workings were mysterious even to yourself, remained