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.The boredom of the two children in the dark, cramped bedroombecame unbearable.Winston whined and grizzled, made futile demands for food, fretted about the roompulling everything out of place and kicking the wainscoting until the neighbours banged on the wall, whilethe younger child wailed intermittently.In the end his mother said, Now be good, and I ll buy you a toy.Alovely toy you ll love it ; and then she had gone out in the rain, to a little general shop which was stillsporadically open nearby, and came back with a cardboard box containing an outfit of Snakes and Ladders.He could still remember the smell of the damp cardboard.It was a miserable outfit.The board was crackedand the tiny wooden dice were so ill-cut that they would hardly lie on their sides.Winston looked at thething sulkily and without interest.But then his mother lit a piece of candle and they sat down on the floor toplay.Soon he was wildly excited and shouting with laughter as the tiddly-winks climbed hopefully up theladders and then came slithering down the snakes again, almost to the starting-point.They played eightgames, winning four each.His tiny sister, too young to understand what the game was about, had satpropped up against a bolster, laughing because the others were laughing.For a whole afternoon they had allbeen happy together, as in his earlier childhood.He pushed the picture out of his mind.It was a false memory.He was troubled by false memoriesoccasionally.They did not matter so long as one knew them for what they were.Some things hadhappened, others had not happened.He turned back to the chessboard and picked up the white knight again.Almost in the same instant it dropped on to the board with a clatter.He had started as though a pin had runinto him.A shrill trumpet-call had pierced the air.It was the bulletin! Victory! It always meant victory when atrumpet-call preceded the news.A sort of electric drill ran through the cafe/.Even the waiters had startedand pricked up their ears.The trumpet-call had let loose an enormous volume of noise.Already an excited voice was gabblingfrom the telescreen, but even as it started it was almost drowned by a roar of cheering from outside.Thenews had run round the streets like magic.He could hear just enough of what was issuing from thetelescreen to realize that it had all happened, as he had foreseen; a vast seaborne armada had secretlyassembled a sudden blow in the enemy s rear, the white arrow tearing across the tail of the black.Fragmentsof triumphant phrases pushed themselves through the din: Vast strategic manoeuvre -- perfect co-ordination utter rout half a million prisoners complete demoralization -- control of the whole of Africa-- bring the war within measurable distance of its end victory -- greatest victory in human history victory,victory, victory!Under the table Winston s feet made convulsive movements.He had not stirred from his seat, but in hismind he was running, swiftly running, he was with the crowds outside, cheering himself deaf.He looked upagain at the portrait of Big Brother.The colossus that bestrode the world! The rock against which thehordes of Asia dashed themselves in vain! He thought how ten minutes ago-yes, only ten minutes therehad still been equivocation in his heart as he wondered whether the news from the front would be of victory or defeat.Ah, it was more than a Eurasian army that had perished! Much had changed in him since thatfirst day in the Ministry of Love, but the final, indispensable, healing change had never happened, until thismoment.The voice from the telescreen was still pouring forth its tale of prisoners and booty and slaughter, but theshouting outside had died down a little.The waiters were turning back to their work.One of themapproached with the gin bottle.Winston, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no attention as his glass was filledup.He was not running or cheering any longer.He was back in the Ministry of Love, with everythingforgiven, his soul white as snow.He was in the public dock, confessing everything, implicating everybody.He was walking down the white-tiled corridor, with the feeling of walking in sunlight, and an armed guardat his back.The longhoped-for bullet was entering his brain.He gazed up at the enormous face.Forty years it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hiddenbeneath the dark moustache.O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from theloving breast! Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose.But it was all right, everythingwas all right, the struggle was finished.He had won the victory over himself.He loved Big Brother. APPENDIX.The Principles of Newspeak *Newspeak was the official language of Oceania and had been devised to meet the ideological needs ofIngsoc, or English Socialism.In the year 1984 there was not as yet anyone who used Newspeak as his solemeans of communication, either in speech or writing.The leading articles in The Times were written in it,but this was a tour de force which could only be carried out by a specialist
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