48 1984
could walk three kilometres, measured by pacing the cell,
and his bowed shoulders were growing straighter. He at-
tempted more elaborate exercises, and was astonished and
humiliated to find what things he could not do. He could
not move out of a walk, he could not hold his stool out at
arm’s length, he could not stand on one leg without falling
over. He squatted down on his heels, and found that with
agonizing pains in thigh and calf he could just lift himself
to a standing position. He lay flat on his belly and tried to
lift his weight by his hands. It was hopeless, he could not
raise himself a centimetre. But after a few more days—a few
more mealtimes—even that feat was accomplished. A time
came when he could do it six times running. He began to
grow actually proud of his body, and to cherish an inter-
mittent belief that his face also was growing back to normal.
Only when he chanced to put his hand on his bald scalp did
he remember the seamed, ruined face that had looked back
at him out of the mirror.
His mind grew more active. He sat down on the plank
bed, his back against the wall and the slate on his knees,
and set to work deliberately at the task of re-educating him-
self.
He had capitulated, that was agreed. In reality, as he saw
now, he had been ready to capitulate long before he had
taken the decision. From the moment when he was inside
the Ministry of Love—and yes, even during those minutes
when he and Julia had stood helpless while the iron voice
from the telescreen told them what to do—he had grasped
the frivolity, the shallowness of his attempt to set himself