Under the window
somebody
was singing.
Orwell - 1984
Even if it had been less dangerous,
it would still have been difficult to find time to meet. Win-
ston's working week was sixty hours, Julia's was even longer,
and their free days varied according to the pressure of work
1984
and did not often coincide. Julia, in any case, seldom had an
evening completely free. She spent an astonishing amount
of time in attending lectures and demonstrations, distrib-
uting literature for the junior Anti-Sex League, preparing
banners for Hate Week, making collections for the savings
campaign, and such-like activities. It paid, she said, it was
camouflage. If you kept the small rules, you could break the
big ones. She even induced Winston to mortgage yet an-
other of his evenings by enrolling himself for the part-time
munition work which was done voluntarily by zealous Par-
ty members. So, one evening every week, Winston spent
four hours of paralysing boredom, screwing together small
bits of metal which were probably parts of bomb fuses, in a
draughty, ill-lit workshop where the knocking of hammers
mingled drearily with the music of the telescreens.
When they met in the church tower the gaps in their
fragmentary conversation were filled up. It was a blazing af-
ternoon. The air in the little square chamber above the bells
was hot and stagnant, and smelt overpoweringly of pigeon
dung. They sat talking for hours on the dusty, twig-littered
floor, one or other of them getting up from time to time to
cast a glance through the arrowslits and make sure that no
one was coming.
Julia was twenty- six years old. She lived in a hostel with
thirty other girls ('Always in the stink of women! How I
hate women! ' she said parenthetically), and she worked, as
he had guessed, on the novel-writing machines in the Fic-
tion Department. She enjoyed her work, which consisted
chiefly in running and servicing a powerful but tricky elec-
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trie motor. She was 'not clever', but was fond of using her
hands and felt at home with machinery. She could describe
the whole process of composing a novel, from the general
directive issued by the Planning Committee down to the
final touching-up by the Rewrite Squad. But she was not in-
terested in the finished product. She 'didn't much care for
reading,' she said. Books were just a commodity that had to
be produced, like jam or bootlaces.
She had no memories of anything before the early six-
ties and the only person she had ever known who talked
frequently of the days before the Revolution was a grand-
father who had disappeared when she was eight. At school
she had been captain of the hockey team and had won the
gymnastics trophy two years running. She had been a troop-
leader in the Spies and a branch secretary in the Youth
League before joining the Junior Anti-Sex League. She had
always borne an excellent character. She had even (an infal-
lible mark of good reputation) been picked out to work in
Pornosec, the sub-section of the Fiction Department which
turned out cheap pornography for distribution among the
proles. It was nicknamed Muck House by the people who
worked in it, she remarked. There she had remained for a
year, helping to produce booklets in sealed packets with ti-
tles like 'Spanking Stories' or 'One Night in a Girls' School',
to be bought furtively by proletarian youths who were un-
der the impression that they were buying something illegal.
'What are these books like? ' said Winston curiously.
'Oh, ghastly rubbish. They're boring, really. They only
have six plots, but they swap them round a bit. Of course
164 1984
I was only on the kaleidoscopes. I was never in the Rewrite
Squad. I'm not literary, dear — not even enough for that. '
He learned with astonishment that all the workers in
Pornosec, except the heads of the departments, were girls.
The theory was that men, whose sex instincts were less con-
trollable than those of women, were in greater danger of
being corrupted by the filth they handled.
"They don't even like having married women there,' she
added. Girls are always supposed to be so pure. Here's one
who isn't, anyway.
She had had her first love-affair when she was sixteen,
with a Party member of sixty who later committed suicide
to avoid arrest. 'And a good job too,' said Julia, 'otherwise
they'd have had my name out of him when he confessed. '
Since then there had been various others. Life as she saw it
was quite simple. You wanted a good time; 'they', meaning
the Party, wanted to stop you having it; you broke the rules
as best you could. She seemed to think it just as natural that
'they' should want to rob you of your pleasures as that you
should want to avoid being caught. She hated the Party, and
said so in the crudest words, but she made no general criti-
cism of it. Except where it touched upon her own life she
had no interest in Party doctrine. He noticed that she never
used Newspeak words except the ones that had passed into
everyday use. She had never heard of the Brotherhood, and
refused to believe in its existence. Any kind of organized
revolt against the Party, which was bound to be a failure,
struck her as stupid. The clever thing was to break the rules
and stay alive all the same. He wondered vaguely how many
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others like her there might be in the younger generation
people who had grown up in the world of the Revolution,
knowing nothing else, accepting the Party as something
unalterable, like the sky, not rebelling against its authority
but simply evading it, as a rabbit dodges a dog.
They did not discuss the possibility of getting married.
It was too remote to be worth thinking about. No imagin-
able committee would ever sanction such a marriage even
if Katharine, Winston's wife, could somehow have been got
rid of. It was hopeless even as a daydream.
'What was she like, your wife? ' said Julia.
'She was — do you know the Newspeak word GOOD-
THINKFUL? Meaning naturally orthodox, incapable of
thinking a bad thought? '
'No, I didn't know the word, but I know the kind of per-
son, right enough. '
He began telling her the story of his married life, but cu-
riously enough she appeared to know the essential parts of
it already. She described to him, almost as though she had
seen or felt it, the stiffening of Katharine's body as soon
as he touched her, the way in which she still seemed to be
pushing him from her with all her strength, even when her
arms were clasped tightly round him. With Julia he felt no
difficulty in talking about such things: Katharine, in any
case, had long ceased to be a painful memory and became
merely a distasteful one.
'I could have stood it if it hadn't been for one thing,' he
said. He told her about the frigid little ceremony that Kath-
arine had forced him to go through on the same night every
1984
week. 'She hated it, but nothing would make her stop doing
it. She used to call it — but you'll never guess. '
'Our duty to the Party' said Julia promptly.
'How did you know that? '
'I've been at school too, dear. Sex talks once a month for
the over-sixteens. And in the Youth Movement. They rub it
into you for years. I dare say it works in a lot of cases. But of
course you can never tell; people are such hypocrites. '
She began to enlarge upon the subject. With Julia, every-
thing came back to her own sexuality. As soon as this was
touched upon in any way she was capable of great acuteness.
Unlike Winston, she had grasped the inner meaning of the
Party's sexual puritanism. It was not merely that the sex
instinct created a world of its own which was outside the
Party's control and which therefore had to be destroyed if
possible. What was more important was that sexual priva-
tion induced hysteria, which was desirable because it could
be transformed into war-fever and leader-worship. The way
she put it was:
'When you make love you're using up energy; and after-
wards you feel happy and don't give a damn for anything.
They can't bear you to feel like that. They want you to be
bursting with energy all the time. All this marching up and
down and cheering and waving flags is simply sex gone sour.
If you're happy inside yourself, why should you get excited
about Big Brother and the Three-Year Plans and the Two
Minutes Hate and all the rest of their bloody rot? '
That was very true, he thought. There was a direct inti-
mate connexion between chastity and political orthodoxy.
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For how could the fear, the hatred, and the lunatic credulity
which the Party needed in its members be kept at the right
pitch, except by bottling down some powerful instinct and
using it as a driving force? The sex impulse was dangerous to
the Party, and the Party had turned it to account. They had
played a similar trick with the instinct of parenthood. The
family could not actually be abolished, and, indeed, people
were encouraged to be fond of their children, in almost the
old-fashioned way. The children, on the other hand, were
systematically turned against their parents and taught to
spy on them and report their deviations. The family had
become in effect an extension of the Thought Police. It was
a device by means of which everyone could be surrounded
night and day by informers who knew him intimately.
Abruptly his mind went back to Katharine. Katharine
would unquestionably have denounced him to the Thought
Police if she had not happened to be too stupid to detect the
unorthodoxy of his opinions. But what really recalled her
to him at this moment was the stifling heat of the afternoon,
which had brought the sweat out on his forehead. He began
telling Julia of something that had happened, or rather had
failed to happen, on another sweltering summer afternoon,
eleven years ago.
It was three or four months after they were married. They
had lost their way on a community hike somewhere in Kent.
They had only lagged behind the others for a couple of min-
utes, but they took a wrong turning, and presently found
themselves pulled up short by the edge of an old chalk
quarry. It was a sheer drop of ten or twenty metres, with
1984
boulders at the bottom. There was nobody of whom they
could ask the way As soon as she realized that they were
lost Katharine became very uneasy To be away from the
noisy mob of hikers even for a moment gave her a feeling of
wrong-doing. She wanted to hurry back by the way they had
come and start searching in the other direction. But at this
moment Winston noticed some tufts of loosestrife growing
in the cracks of the cliff beneath them. One tuft was of two
colours, magenta and brick-red, apparently growing on the
same root. He had never seen anything of the kind before,
and he called to Katharine to come and look at it.
'Look, Katharine! Look at those flowers. That clump
down near the bottom. Do you see they're two different co-
lours? '
She had already turned to go, but she did rather fretfully
come back for a moment. She even leaned out over the cliff
face to see where he was pointing. He was standing a little
behind her, and he put his hand on her waist to steady her.
At this moment it suddenly occurred to him how completely
alone they were. There was not a human creature anywhere,
not a leaf stirring, not even a bird awake. In a place like
this the danger that there would be a hidden microphone
was very small, and even if there was a microphone it would
only pick up sounds. It was the hottest sleepiest hour of the
afternoon. The sun blazed down upon them, the sweat tick-
led his face. And the thought struck him. . .
'Why didn't you give her a good shove? ' said Julia. 'I
would have. '
'Yes, dear, you would have. I would, if I'd been the same
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person then as I am now. Or perhaps I would — I'm not cer-
tain. '
'Are you sorry you didn't? '
'Yes. On the whole I'm sorry I didn't. '
They were sitting side by side on the dusty floor. He
pulled her closer against him. Her head rested on his shoul-
der, the pleasant smell of her hair conquering the pigeon
dung. She was very young, he thought, she still expected
something from life, she did not understand that to push an
inconvenient person over a cliff solves nothing.
'Actually it would have made no difference,' he said.
"Then why are you sorry you didn't do it? '
'Only because I prefer a positive to a negative. In this
game that we're playing, we can't win. Some kinds of failure
are better than other kinds, that's all. '
He felt her shoulders give a wriggle of dissent. She al-
ways contradicted him when he said anything of this kind.
She would not accept it as a law of nature that the individ-
ual is always defeated. In a way she realized that she herself
was doomed, that sooner or later the Thought Police would
catch her and kill her, but with another part of her mind
she believed that it was somehow possible to construct a se-
cret world in which you could live as you chose. All you
needed was luck and cunning and boldness. She did not un-
derstand that there was no such thing as happiness, that the
only victory lay in the far future, long after you were dead,
that from the moment of declaring war on the Party it was
better to think of yourself as a corpse.
'We are the dead,' he said.
1984
'We're not dead yet,' said Julia prosaically.
'Not physically Six months, a year — five years, conceiv-
ably. I am afraid of death. You are young, so presumably
you're more afraid of it than I am. Obviously we shall put it
off as long as we can. But it makes very little difference. So
long as human beings stay human, death and life are the
same thing. '
'Oh, rubbish! Which would you sooner sleep with, me or
a skeleton? Don't you enjoy being alive? Don't you like feel-
ing: This is me, this is my hand, this is my leg, I'm real, I'm
solid, I'm alive! Don't you like THIS? '
She twisted herself round and pressed her bosom against
him. He could feel her breasts, ripe yet firm, through her
overalls. Her body seemed to be pouring some of its youth
and vigour into his.
'Yes, I like that,' he said.
"Then stop talking about dying. And now listen, dear,
we've got to fix up about the next time we meet. We may as
well go back to the place in the wood. We've given it a good
long rest. But you must get there by a different way this time.
I've got it all planned out. You take the train — but look, I'll
draw it out for you. '
And in her practical way she scraped together a small
square of dust, and with a twig from a pigeon's nest began
drawing a map on the floor.
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Chapter 4
Winston looked round the shabby little room above Mr
Charrington's shop. Beside the window the enormous
bed was made up, with ragged blankets and a coverless bol-
ster. The old-fashioned clock with the twelve-hour face was
ticking away on the mantelpiece. In the corner, on the gate-
leg table, the glass paperweight which he had bought on his
last visit gleamed softly out of the half-darkness.
In the fender was a battered tin oilstove, a saucepan, and
two cups, provided by Mr Charrington. Winston lit the
burner and set a pan of water to boil. He had brought an
envelope full of Victory Coffee and some saccharine tablets.
The clock's hands said seventeen-twenty: it was nineteen-
twenty really. She was coming at nineteen-thirty
Folly, folly, his heart kept saying: conscious, gratuitous,
suicidal folly. Of all the crimes that a Party member could
commit, this one was the least possible to conceal. Actu-
ally the idea had first floated into his head in the form of a
vision, of the glass paperweight mirrored by the surface of
the gateleg table. As he had foreseen, Mr Charrington had
made no difficulty about letting the room. He was obviously
glad of the few dollars that it would bring him. Nor did he
seem shocked or become offensively knowing when it was
made clear that Winston wanted the room for the purpose
of a love-affair. Instead he looked into the middle distance
1984
and spoke in generalities, with so delicate an air as to give
the impression that he had become partly invisible. Privacy,
he said, was a very valuable thing. Everyone wanted a place
where they could be alone occasionally. And when they had
such a place, it was only common courtesy in anyone else
who knew of it to keep his knowledge to himself. He even,
seeming almost to fade out of existence as he did so, add-
ed that there were two entries to the house, one of them
through the back yard, which gave on an alley.
Under the window somebody was singing. Winston
peeped out, secure in the protection of the muslin curtain.
The June sun was still high in the sky, and in the sun-filled
court below, a monstrous woman, solid as a Norman pil-
lar, with brawny red forearms and a sacking apron strapped
about her middle, was stumping to and fro between a wash-
tub and a clothes line, pegging out a series of square white
things which Winston recognized as babies' diapers. When-
ever her mouth was not corked with clothes pegs she was
singing in a powerful contralto:
It was only an 'opeless fancy.
It passed like an Ipril dye,
But a look an a word an the dreams they stirred!
They 'ave
stolen my 'eart awye!
The tune had been haunting London for weeks past. It
was one of countless similar songs published for the ben-
efit of the proles by a sub-section of the Music Department.
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The words of these songs were composed without any hu-
man intervention whatever on an instrument known as a
versificator. But the woman sang so tunefully as to turn the
dreadful rubbish into an almost pleasant sound. He could
hear the woman singing and the scrape of her shoes on the
flagstones, and the cries of the children in the street, and
somewhere in the far distance a faint roar of traffic, and yet
the room seemed curiously silent, thanks to the absence of
a telescreen.
Folly, folly, folly! he thought again. It was inconceiv-
able that they could frequent this place for more than a few
weeks without being caught. But the temptation of having a
hiding-place that was truly their own, indoors and near at
hand, had been too much for both of them. For some time
after their visit to the church belfry it had been impossible
to arrange meetings. Working hours had been drastically
increased in anticipation of Hate Week. It was more than
a month distant, but the enormous, complex preparations
that it entailed were throwing extra work on to everybody.
Finally both of them managed to secure a free afternoon on
the same day. They had agreed to go back to the clearing
in the wood. On the evening beforehand they met briefly
in the street. As usual, Winston hardly looked at Julia as
they drifted towards one another in the crowd, but from
the short glance he gave her it seemed to him that she was
paler than usual.
'It's all off,' she murmured as soon as she judged it safe to
speak. 'Tomorrow, I mean. '
'What? '
1984
'Tomorrow afternoon. I can't come. '
'Why not? '
'Oh, the usual reason. It's started early this time. '
For a moment he was violently angry. During the month
that he had known her the nature of his desire for her had
changed. At the beginning there had been little true sensu-
ality in it. Their first love-making had been simply an act
of the will. But after the second time it was different. The
smell of her hair, the taste of her mouth, the feeling of her
skin seemed to have got inside him, or into the air all round
him. She had become a physical necessity, something that
he not only wanted but felt that he had a right to. When she
said that she could not come, he had the feeling that she was
cheating him. But just at this moment the crowd pressed
them together and their hands accidentally met. She gave
the tips of his fingers a quick squeeze that seemed to in-
vite not desire but affection. It struck him that when one
lived with a woman this particular disappointment must be
a normal, recurring event; and a deep tenderness, such as
he had not felt for her before, suddenly took hold of him. He
wished that they were a married couple of ten years' stand-
ing. He wished that he were walking through the streets
with her just as they were doing now but openly and with-
out fear, talking of trivialities and buying odds and ends
for the household. He wished above all that they had some
place where they could be alone together without feeling
the obligation to make love every time they met. It was not
actually at that moment, but at some time on the following
day, that the idea of renting Mr Charrington's room had oc-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 175
curred to him. When he suggested it to Julia she had agreed
with unexpected readiness. Both of them knew that it was
lunacy. It was as though they were intentionally stepping
nearer to their graves. As he sat waiting on the edge of the
bed he thought again of the cellars of the Ministry of Love.
It was curious how that predestined horror moved in and
out of one's consciousness. There it lay, fixed in future times,
preceding death as surely as 99 precedes 100. One could not
avoid it, but one could perhaps postpone it: and yet instead,
every now and again, by a conscious, wilful act, one chose
to shorten the interval before it happened.
At this moment there was a quick step on the stairs. Julia
burst into the room. She was carrying a tool-bag of coarse
brown canvas, such as he had sometimes seen her carrying
to and fro at the Ministry. He started forward to take her in
his arms, but she disengaged herself rather hurriedly, partly
because she was still holding the tool-bag.
'Half a second,' she said. 'Just let me show you what I've
brought. Did you bring some of that filthy Victory Coffee?
I thought you would. You can chuck it away again, because
we shan't be needing it. Look here. '
She fell on her knees, threw open the bag, and tumbled
out some spanners and a screwdriver that filled the top part
of it. Underneath were a number of neat paper packets. The
first packet that she passed to Winston had a strange and
yet vaguely familiar feeling. It was filled with some kind of
heavy, sand-like stuff which yielded wherever you touched
it.
'It isn't sugar? ' he said.
176 1984
'Real sugar. Not saccharine, sugar. And here's a loaf of
bread — proper white bread, not our bloody stuff— and a lit-
tle pot of jam. And here's a tin of milk — but look! This is the
one I'm really proud of. I had to wrap a bit of sacking round
it, because '
But she did not need to tell him why she had wrapped it
up. The smell was already filling the room, a rich hot smell
which seemed like an emanation from his early childhood,
but which one did occasionally meet with even now, blow-
ing down a passage-way before a door slammed, or diffusing
itself mysteriously in a crowded street, sniffed for an instant
and then lost again.
'It's coffee,' he murmured, 'real coffee. '
'It's Inner Party coffee. There's a whole kilo here,' she
said.
'How did you manage to get hold of all these things? '
'It's all Inner Party stuff. There's nothing those swine
don't have, nothing. But of course waiters and servants and
people pinch things, and — look, I got a little packet of tea
as well. '
Winston had squatted down beside her. He tore open a
corner of the packet.
'It's real tea. Not blackberry leaves. '
"There's been a lot of tea about lately. They've captured In-
dia, or something,' she said vaguely. 'But listen, dear. I want
you to turn your back on me for three minutes. Go and sit
on the other side of the bed. Don't go too near the window.
And don't turn round till I tell you. '
Winston gazed abstractedly through the muslin curtain.
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Down in the yard the red-armed woman was still marching
to and fro between the washtub and the line. She took two
more pegs out of her mouth and sang with deep feeling:
They sye that time 'eals all things,
They sye you can always forget;
But the smiles an the tears acrorss the years
They twist my
'eart-strings yet!
She knew the whole drivelling song by heart, it seemed.
Her voice floated upward with the sweet summer air, very
tuneful, charged with a sort of happy melancholy. One had
the feeling that she would have been perfectly content, if the
June evening had been endless and the supply of clothes in-
exhaustible, to remain there for a thousand years, pegging
out diapers and singing rubbish. It struck him as a curious
fact that he had never heard a member of the Party singing
alone and spontaneously. It would even have seemed slightly
unorthodox, a dangerous eccentricity, like talking to one-
self. Perhaps it was only when people were somewhere near
the starvation level that they had anything to sing about.
'You can turn round now,' said Julia.
He turned round, and for a second almost failed to rec-
ognize her. What he had actually expected was to see her
naked. But she was not naked. The transformation that had
happened was much more surprising than that. She had
painted her face.
She must have slipped into some shop in the proletarian
178 1984
quarters and bought herself a complete set of make-up ma-
terials. Her lips were deeply reddened, her cheeks rouged,
her nose powdered; there was even a touch of something
under the eyes to make them brighter. It was not very skil-
fully done, but Winston's standards in such matters were
not high. He had never before seen or imagined a woman of
the Party with cosmetics on her face. The improvement in
her appearance was startling. With just a few dabs of colour
in the right places she had become not only very much pret-
tier, but, above all, far more feminine. Her short hair and
boyish overalls merely added to the effect. As he took her in
his arms a wave of synthetic violets flooded his nostrils. He
remembered the half- darkness of a basement kitchen, and a
woman's cavernous mouth. It was the very same scent that
she had used; but at the moment it did not seem to matter.
'Scent too! ' he said.
'Yes, dear, scent too. And do you know what I'm going to
do next? I'm going to get hold of a real woman's frock from
somewhere and wear it instead of these bloody trousers. I'll
wear silk stockings and high-heeled shoes! In this room I'm
going to be a woman, not a Party comrade. '
They flung their clothes off and climbed into the huge
mahogany bed. It was the first time that he had stripped
himself naked in her presence. Until now he had been too
much ashamed of his pale and meagre body, with the vari-
cose veins standing out on his calves and the discoloured
patch over his ankle. There were no sheets, but the blanket
they lay on was threadbare and smooth, and the size and
springiness of the bed astonished both of them. 'It's sure
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to be full of bugs, but who cares? ' said Julia. One never saw
a double bed nowadays, except in the homes of the proles.
Winston had occasionally slept in one in his boyhood: Julia
had never been in one before, so far as she could remember.
Presently they fell asleep for a little while. When Win-
ston woke up the hands of the clock had crept round to
nearly nine. He did not stir, because Julia was sleeping with
her head in the crook of his arm. Most of her make-up had
transferred itself to his own face or the bolster, but a light
stain of rouge still brought out the beauty of her cheekbone.
A yellow ray from the sinking sun fell across the foot of the
bed and lighted up the fireplace, where the water in the pan
was boiling fast. Down in the yard the woman had stopped
singing, but the faint shouts of children floated in from the
street. He wondered vaguely whether in the abolished past
it had been a normal experience to lie in bed like this, in
the cool of a summer evening, a man and a woman with no
clothes on, making love when they chose, talking of what
they chose, not feeling any compulsion to get up, simply ly-
ing there and listening to peaceful sounds outside. Surely
there could never have been a time when that seemed ordi-
nary? Julia woke up, rubbed her eyes, and raised herself on
her elbow to look at the oilstove.
'Half that water's boiled away' she said. 'I'll get up and
make some coffee in another moment. We've got an hour.
What time do they cut the lights off at your flats? '
'Twenty-three thirty'
'It's twenty-three at the hostel. But you have to get in ear-
lier than that, because— Hi! Get out, you filthy brute! '
1984
She suddenly twisted herself over in the bed, seized a
shoe from the floor, and sent it hurtling into the corner with
a boyish jerk of her arm, exactly as he had seen her fling the
dictionary at Goldstein, that morning during the Two Min-
utes Hate.
'What was it? ' he said in surprise.
'A rat. I saw him stick his beastly nose out of the wain-
scoting. There's a hole down there. I gave him a good fright,
anyway'
'Rats! ' murmured Winston. 'In this room! '
'They're all over the place,' said Julia indifferently as she
lay down again. 'We've even got them in the kitchen at the
hostel. Some parts of London are swarming with them. Did
you know they attack children? Yes, they do. In some of
these streets a woman daren't leave a baby alone for two
minutes. It's the great huge brown ones that do it. And the
nasty thing is that the brutes always '
'DON'T GO ON! ' said Winston, with his eyes tightly
shut.
'Dearest! You've gone quite pale. What's the matter? Do
they make you feel sick? '
'Of all horrors in the world — a rat! '
She pressed herself against him and wound her limbs
round him, as though to reassure him with the warmth
of her body. He did not reopen his eyes immediately. For
several moments he had had the feeling of being back in a
nightmare which had recurred from time to time through-
out his life. It was always very much the same. He was
standing in front of a wall of darkness, and on the other
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side of it there was something unendurable, something too
dreadful to be faced. In the dream his deepest feeling was
always one of self-deception, because he did in fact know
what was behind the wall of darkness. With a deadly effort,
like wrenching a piece out of his own brain, he could even
have dragged the thing into the open. He always woke up
without discovering what it was: but somehow it was con-
nected with what Julia had been saying when he cut her
short.
'I'm sorry' he said, 'it's nothing. I don't like rats, that's
all'
'Don't worry, dear, we're not going to have the filthy
brutes in here. I'll stuff the hole with a bit of sacking before
we go. And next time we come here I'll bring some plaster
and bung it up properly'
Already the black instant of panic was half-forgotten.
Feeling slightly ashamed of himself, he sat up against the
bedhead. Julia got out of bed, pulled on her overalls, and
made the coffee. The smell that rose from the saucepan was
so powerful and exciting that they shut the window lest
anybody outside should notice it and become inquisitive.
What was even better than the taste of the coffee was the
silky texture given to it by the sugar, a thing Winston had
almost forgotten after years of saccharine. With one hand
in her pocket and a piece of bread and jam in the other, Ju-
lia wandered about the room, glancing indifferently at the
bookcase, pointing out the best way of repairing the gate-
leg table, plumping herself down in the ragged arm-chair to
see if it was comfortable, and examining the absurd twelve-
1984
hour clock with a sort of tolerant amusement. She brought
the glass paperweight over to the bed to have a look at it in a
better light. He took it out of her hand, fascinated, as always,
by the soft, rainwatery appearance of the glass.
'What is it, do you think? ' said Julia.
'I don't think it's anything — I mean, I don't think it was
ever put to any use. That's what I like about it. It's a little
chunk of history that they've forgotten to alter.
it would still have been difficult to find time to meet. Win-
ston's working week was sixty hours, Julia's was even longer,
and their free days varied according to the pressure of work
1984
and did not often coincide. Julia, in any case, seldom had an
evening completely free. She spent an astonishing amount
of time in attending lectures and demonstrations, distrib-
uting literature for the junior Anti-Sex League, preparing
banners for Hate Week, making collections for the savings
campaign, and such-like activities. It paid, she said, it was
camouflage. If you kept the small rules, you could break the
big ones. She even induced Winston to mortgage yet an-
other of his evenings by enrolling himself for the part-time
munition work which was done voluntarily by zealous Par-
ty members. So, one evening every week, Winston spent
four hours of paralysing boredom, screwing together small
bits of metal which were probably parts of bomb fuses, in a
draughty, ill-lit workshop where the knocking of hammers
mingled drearily with the music of the telescreens.
When they met in the church tower the gaps in their
fragmentary conversation were filled up. It was a blazing af-
ternoon. The air in the little square chamber above the bells
was hot and stagnant, and smelt overpoweringly of pigeon
dung. They sat talking for hours on the dusty, twig-littered
floor, one or other of them getting up from time to time to
cast a glance through the arrowslits and make sure that no
one was coming.
Julia was twenty- six years old. She lived in a hostel with
thirty other girls ('Always in the stink of women! How I
hate women! ' she said parenthetically), and she worked, as
he had guessed, on the novel-writing machines in the Fic-
tion Department. She enjoyed her work, which consisted
chiefly in running and servicing a powerful but tricky elec-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 163
trie motor. She was 'not clever', but was fond of using her
hands and felt at home with machinery. She could describe
the whole process of composing a novel, from the general
directive issued by the Planning Committee down to the
final touching-up by the Rewrite Squad. But she was not in-
terested in the finished product. She 'didn't much care for
reading,' she said. Books were just a commodity that had to
be produced, like jam or bootlaces.
She had no memories of anything before the early six-
ties and the only person she had ever known who talked
frequently of the days before the Revolution was a grand-
father who had disappeared when she was eight. At school
she had been captain of the hockey team and had won the
gymnastics trophy two years running. She had been a troop-
leader in the Spies and a branch secretary in the Youth
League before joining the Junior Anti-Sex League. She had
always borne an excellent character. She had even (an infal-
lible mark of good reputation) been picked out to work in
Pornosec, the sub-section of the Fiction Department which
turned out cheap pornography for distribution among the
proles. It was nicknamed Muck House by the people who
worked in it, she remarked. There she had remained for a
year, helping to produce booklets in sealed packets with ti-
tles like 'Spanking Stories' or 'One Night in a Girls' School',
to be bought furtively by proletarian youths who were un-
der the impression that they were buying something illegal.
'What are these books like? ' said Winston curiously.
'Oh, ghastly rubbish. They're boring, really. They only
have six plots, but they swap them round a bit. Of course
164 1984
I was only on the kaleidoscopes. I was never in the Rewrite
Squad. I'm not literary, dear — not even enough for that. '
He learned with astonishment that all the workers in
Pornosec, except the heads of the departments, were girls.
The theory was that men, whose sex instincts were less con-
trollable than those of women, were in greater danger of
being corrupted by the filth they handled.
"They don't even like having married women there,' she
added. Girls are always supposed to be so pure. Here's one
who isn't, anyway.
She had had her first love-affair when she was sixteen,
with a Party member of sixty who later committed suicide
to avoid arrest. 'And a good job too,' said Julia, 'otherwise
they'd have had my name out of him when he confessed. '
Since then there had been various others. Life as she saw it
was quite simple. You wanted a good time; 'they', meaning
the Party, wanted to stop you having it; you broke the rules
as best you could. She seemed to think it just as natural that
'they' should want to rob you of your pleasures as that you
should want to avoid being caught. She hated the Party, and
said so in the crudest words, but she made no general criti-
cism of it. Except where it touched upon her own life she
had no interest in Party doctrine. He noticed that she never
used Newspeak words except the ones that had passed into
everyday use. She had never heard of the Brotherhood, and
refused to believe in its existence. Any kind of organized
revolt against the Party, which was bound to be a failure,
struck her as stupid. The clever thing was to break the rules
and stay alive all the same. He wondered vaguely how many
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 165
others like her there might be in the younger generation
people who had grown up in the world of the Revolution,
knowing nothing else, accepting the Party as something
unalterable, like the sky, not rebelling against its authority
but simply evading it, as a rabbit dodges a dog.
They did not discuss the possibility of getting married.
It was too remote to be worth thinking about. No imagin-
able committee would ever sanction such a marriage even
if Katharine, Winston's wife, could somehow have been got
rid of. It was hopeless even as a daydream.
'What was she like, your wife? ' said Julia.
'She was — do you know the Newspeak word GOOD-
THINKFUL? Meaning naturally orthodox, incapable of
thinking a bad thought? '
'No, I didn't know the word, but I know the kind of per-
son, right enough. '
He began telling her the story of his married life, but cu-
riously enough she appeared to know the essential parts of
it already. She described to him, almost as though she had
seen or felt it, the stiffening of Katharine's body as soon
as he touched her, the way in which she still seemed to be
pushing him from her with all her strength, even when her
arms were clasped tightly round him. With Julia he felt no
difficulty in talking about such things: Katharine, in any
case, had long ceased to be a painful memory and became
merely a distasteful one.
'I could have stood it if it hadn't been for one thing,' he
said. He told her about the frigid little ceremony that Kath-
arine had forced him to go through on the same night every
1984
week. 'She hated it, but nothing would make her stop doing
it. She used to call it — but you'll never guess. '
'Our duty to the Party' said Julia promptly.
'How did you know that? '
'I've been at school too, dear. Sex talks once a month for
the over-sixteens. And in the Youth Movement. They rub it
into you for years. I dare say it works in a lot of cases. But of
course you can never tell; people are such hypocrites. '
She began to enlarge upon the subject. With Julia, every-
thing came back to her own sexuality. As soon as this was
touched upon in any way she was capable of great acuteness.
Unlike Winston, she had grasped the inner meaning of the
Party's sexual puritanism. It was not merely that the sex
instinct created a world of its own which was outside the
Party's control and which therefore had to be destroyed if
possible. What was more important was that sexual priva-
tion induced hysteria, which was desirable because it could
be transformed into war-fever and leader-worship. The way
she put it was:
'When you make love you're using up energy; and after-
wards you feel happy and don't give a damn for anything.
They can't bear you to feel like that. They want you to be
bursting with energy all the time. All this marching up and
down and cheering and waving flags is simply sex gone sour.
If you're happy inside yourself, why should you get excited
about Big Brother and the Three-Year Plans and the Two
Minutes Hate and all the rest of their bloody rot? '
That was very true, he thought. There was a direct inti-
mate connexion between chastity and political orthodoxy.
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 167
For how could the fear, the hatred, and the lunatic credulity
which the Party needed in its members be kept at the right
pitch, except by bottling down some powerful instinct and
using it as a driving force? The sex impulse was dangerous to
the Party, and the Party had turned it to account. They had
played a similar trick with the instinct of parenthood. The
family could not actually be abolished, and, indeed, people
were encouraged to be fond of their children, in almost the
old-fashioned way. The children, on the other hand, were
systematically turned against their parents and taught to
spy on them and report their deviations. The family had
become in effect an extension of the Thought Police. It was
a device by means of which everyone could be surrounded
night and day by informers who knew him intimately.
Abruptly his mind went back to Katharine. Katharine
would unquestionably have denounced him to the Thought
Police if she had not happened to be too stupid to detect the
unorthodoxy of his opinions. But what really recalled her
to him at this moment was the stifling heat of the afternoon,
which had brought the sweat out on his forehead. He began
telling Julia of something that had happened, or rather had
failed to happen, on another sweltering summer afternoon,
eleven years ago.
It was three or four months after they were married. They
had lost their way on a community hike somewhere in Kent.
They had only lagged behind the others for a couple of min-
utes, but they took a wrong turning, and presently found
themselves pulled up short by the edge of an old chalk
quarry. It was a sheer drop of ten or twenty metres, with
1984
boulders at the bottom. There was nobody of whom they
could ask the way As soon as she realized that they were
lost Katharine became very uneasy To be away from the
noisy mob of hikers even for a moment gave her a feeling of
wrong-doing. She wanted to hurry back by the way they had
come and start searching in the other direction. But at this
moment Winston noticed some tufts of loosestrife growing
in the cracks of the cliff beneath them. One tuft was of two
colours, magenta and brick-red, apparently growing on the
same root. He had never seen anything of the kind before,
and he called to Katharine to come and look at it.
'Look, Katharine! Look at those flowers. That clump
down near the bottom. Do you see they're two different co-
lours? '
She had already turned to go, but she did rather fretfully
come back for a moment. She even leaned out over the cliff
face to see where he was pointing. He was standing a little
behind her, and he put his hand on her waist to steady her.
At this moment it suddenly occurred to him how completely
alone they were. There was not a human creature anywhere,
not a leaf stirring, not even a bird awake. In a place like
this the danger that there would be a hidden microphone
was very small, and even if there was a microphone it would
only pick up sounds. It was the hottest sleepiest hour of the
afternoon. The sun blazed down upon them, the sweat tick-
led his face. And the thought struck him. . .
'Why didn't you give her a good shove? ' said Julia. 'I
would have. '
'Yes, dear, you would have. I would, if I'd been the same
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 169
person then as I am now. Or perhaps I would — I'm not cer-
tain. '
'Are you sorry you didn't? '
'Yes. On the whole I'm sorry I didn't. '
They were sitting side by side on the dusty floor. He
pulled her closer against him. Her head rested on his shoul-
der, the pleasant smell of her hair conquering the pigeon
dung. She was very young, he thought, she still expected
something from life, she did not understand that to push an
inconvenient person over a cliff solves nothing.
'Actually it would have made no difference,' he said.
"Then why are you sorry you didn't do it? '
'Only because I prefer a positive to a negative. In this
game that we're playing, we can't win. Some kinds of failure
are better than other kinds, that's all. '
He felt her shoulders give a wriggle of dissent. She al-
ways contradicted him when he said anything of this kind.
She would not accept it as a law of nature that the individ-
ual is always defeated. In a way she realized that she herself
was doomed, that sooner or later the Thought Police would
catch her and kill her, but with another part of her mind
she believed that it was somehow possible to construct a se-
cret world in which you could live as you chose. All you
needed was luck and cunning and boldness. She did not un-
derstand that there was no such thing as happiness, that the
only victory lay in the far future, long after you were dead,
that from the moment of declaring war on the Party it was
better to think of yourself as a corpse.
'We are the dead,' he said.
1984
'We're not dead yet,' said Julia prosaically.
'Not physically Six months, a year — five years, conceiv-
ably. I am afraid of death. You are young, so presumably
you're more afraid of it than I am. Obviously we shall put it
off as long as we can. But it makes very little difference. So
long as human beings stay human, death and life are the
same thing. '
'Oh, rubbish! Which would you sooner sleep with, me or
a skeleton? Don't you enjoy being alive? Don't you like feel-
ing: This is me, this is my hand, this is my leg, I'm real, I'm
solid, I'm alive! Don't you like THIS? '
She twisted herself round and pressed her bosom against
him. He could feel her breasts, ripe yet firm, through her
overalls. Her body seemed to be pouring some of its youth
and vigour into his.
'Yes, I like that,' he said.
"Then stop talking about dying. And now listen, dear,
we've got to fix up about the next time we meet. We may as
well go back to the place in the wood. We've given it a good
long rest. But you must get there by a different way this time.
I've got it all planned out. You take the train — but look, I'll
draw it out for you. '
And in her practical way she scraped together a small
square of dust, and with a twig from a pigeon's nest began
drawing a map on the floor.
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Chapter 4
Winston looked round the shabby little room above Mr
Charrington's shop. Beside the window the enormous
bed was made up, with ragged blankets and a coverless bol-
ster. The old-fashioned clock with the twelve-hour face was
ticking away on the mantelpiece. In the corner, on the gate-
leg table, the glass paperweight which he had bought on his
last visit gleamed softly out of the half-darkness.
In the fender was a battered tin oilstove, a saucepan, and
two cups, provided by Mr Charrington. Winston lit the
burner and set a pan of water to boil. He had brought an
envelope full of Victory Coffee and some saccharine tablets.
The clock's hands said seventeen-twenty: it was nineteen-
twenty really. She was coming at nineteen-thirty
Folly, folly, his heart kept saying: conscious, gratuitous,
suicidal folly. Of all the crimes that a Party member could
commit, this one was the least possible to conceal. Actu-
ally the idea had first floated into his head in the form of a
vision, of the glass paperweight mirrored by the surface of
the gateleg table. As he had foreseen, Mr Charrington had
made no difficulty about letting the room. He was obviously
glad of the few dollars that it would bring him. Nor did he
seem shocked or become offensively knowing when it was
made clear that Winston wanted the room for the purpose
of a love-affair. Instead he looked into the middle distance
1984
and spoke in generalities, with so delicate an air as to give
the impression that he had become partly invisible. Privacy,
he said, was a very valuable thing. Everyone wanted a place
where they could be alone occasionally. And when they had
such a place, it was only common courtesy in anyone else
who knew of it to keep his knowledge to himself. He even,
seeming almost to fade out of existence as he did so, add-
ed that there were two entries to the house, one of them
through the back yard, which gave on an alley.
Under the window somebody was singing. Winston
peeped out, secure in the protection of the muslin curtain.
The June sun was still high in the sky, and in the sun-filled
court below, a monstrous woman, solid as a Norman pil-
lar, with brawny red forearms and a sacking apron strapped
about her middle, was stumping to and fro between a wash-
tub and a clothes line, pegging out a series of square white
things which Winston recognized as babies' diapers. When-
ever her mouth was not corked with clothes pegs she was
singing in a powerful contralto:
It was only an 'opeless fancy.
It passed like an Ipril dye,
But a look an a word an the dreams they stirred!
They 'ave
stolen my 'eart awye!
The tune had been haunting London for weeks past. It
was one of countless similar songs published for the ben-
efit of the proles by a sub-section of the Music Department.
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 173
The words of these songs were composed without any hu-
man intervention whatever on an instrument known as a
versificator. But the woman sang so tunefully as to turn the
dreadful rubbish into an almost pleasant sound. He could
hear the woman singing and the scrape of her shoes on the
flagstones, and the cries of the children in the street, and
somewhere in the far distance a faint roar of traffic, and yet
the room seemed curiously silent, thanks to the absence of
a telescreen.
Folly, folly, folly! he thought again. It was inconceiv-
able that they could frequent this place for more than a few
weeks without being caught. But the temptation of having a
hiding-place that was truly their own, indoors and near at
hand, had been too much for both of them. For some time
after their visit to the church belfry it had been impossible
to arrange meetings. Working hours had been drastically
increased in anticipation of Hate Week. It was more than
a month distant, but the enormous, complex preparations
that it entailed were throwing extra work on to everybody.
Finally both of them managed to secure a free afternoon on
the same day. They had agreed to go back to the clearing
in the wood. On the evening beforehand they met briefly
in the street. As usual, Winston hardly looked at Julia as
they drifted towards one another in the crowd, but from
the short glance he gave her it seemed to him that she was
paler than usual.
'It's all off,' she murmured as soon as she judged it safe to
speak. 'Tomorrow, I mean. '
'What? '
1984
'Tomorrow afternoon. I can't come. '
'Why not? '
'Oh, the usual reason. It's started early this time. '
For a moment he was violently angry. During the month
that he had known her the nature of his desire for her had
changed. At the beginning there had been little true sensu-
ality in it. Their first love-making had been simply an act
of the will. But after the second time it was different. The
smell of her hair, the taste of her mouth, the feeling of her
skin seemed to have got inside him, or into the air all round
him. She had become a physical necessity, something that
he not only wanted but felt that he had a right to. When she
said that she could not come, he had the feeling that she was
cheating him. But just at this moment the crowd pressed
them together and their hands accidentally met. She gave
the tips of his fingers a quick squeeze that seemed to in-
vite not desire but affection. It struck him that when one
lived with a woman this particular disappointment must be
a normal, recurring event; and a deep tenderness, such as
he had not felt for her before, suddenly took hold of him. He
wished that they were a married couple of ten years' stand-
ing. He wished that he were walking through the streets
with her just as they were doing now but openly and with-
out fear, talking of trivialities and buying odds and ends
for the household. He wished above all that they had some
place where they could be alone together without feeling
the obligation to make love every time they met. It was not
actually at that moment, but at some time on the following
day, that the idea of renting Mr Charrington's room had oc-
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 175
curred to him. When he suggested it to Julia she had agreed
with unexpected readiness. Both of them knew that it was
lunacy. It was as though they were intentionally stepping
nearer to their graves. As he sat waiting on the edge of the
bed he thought again of the cellars of the Ministry of Love.
It was curious how that predestined horror moved in and
out of one's consciousness. There it lay, fixed in future times,
preceding death as surely as 99 precedes 100. One could not
avoid it, but one could perhaps postpone it: and yet instead,
every now and again, by a conscious, wilful act, one chose
to shorten the interval before it happened.
At this moment there was a quick step on the stairs. Julia
burst into the room. She was carrying a tool-bag of coarse
brown canvas, such as he had sometimes seen her carrying
to and fro at the Ministry. He started forward to take her in
his arms, but she disengaged herself rather hurriedly, partly
because she was still holding the tool-bag.
'Half a second,' she said. 'Just let me show you what I've
brought. Did you bring some of that filthy Victory Coffee?
I thought you would. You can chuck it away again, because
we shan't be needing it. Look here. '
She fell on her knees, threw open the bag, and tumbled
out some spanners and a screwdriver that filled the top part
of it. Underneath were a number of neat paper packets. The
first packet that she passed to Winston had a strange and
yet vaguely familiar feeling. It was filled with some kind of
heavy, sand-like stuff which yielded wherever you touched
it.
'It isn't sugar? ' he said.
176 1984
'Real sugar. Not saccharine, sugar. And here's a loaf of
bread — proper white bread, not our bloody stuff— and a lit-
tle pot of jam. And here's a tin of milk — but look! This is the
one I'm really proud of. I had to wrap a bit of sacking round
it, because '
But she did not need to tell him why she had wrapped it
up. The smell was already filling the room, a rich hot smell
which seemed like an emanation from his early childhood,
but which one did occasionally meet with even now, blow-
ing down a passage-way before a door slammed, or diffusing
itself mysteriously in a crowded street, sniffed for an instant
and then lost again.
'It's coffee,' he murmured, 'real coffee. '
'It's Inner Party coffee. There's a whole kilo here,' she
said.
'How did you manage to get hold of all these things? '
'It's all Inner Party stuff. There's nothing those swine
don't have, nothing. But of course waiters and servants and
people pinch things, and — look, I got a little packet of tea
as well. '
Winston had squatted down beside her. He tore open a
corner of the packet.
'It's real tea. Not blackberry leaves. '
"There's been a lot of tea about lately. They've captured In-
dia, or something,' she said vaguely. 'But listen, dear. I want
you to turn your back on me for three minutes. Go and sit
on the other side of the bed. Don't go too near the window.
And don't turn round till I tell you. '
Winston gazed abstractedly through the muslin curtain.
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Down in the yard the red-armed woman was still marching
to and fro between the washtub and the line. She took two
more pegs out of her mouth and sang with deep feeling:
They sye that time 'eals all things,
They sye you can always forget;
But the smiles an the tears acrorss the years
They twist my
'eart-strings yet!
She knew the whole drivelling song by heart, it seemed.
Her voice floated upward with the sweet summer air, very
tuneful, charged with a sort of happy melancholy. One had
the feeling that she would have been perfectly content, if the
June evening had been endless and the supply of clothes in-
exhaustible, to remain there for a thousand years, pegging
out diapers and singing rubbish. It struck him as a curious
fact that he had never heard a member of the Party singing
alone and spontaneously. It would even have seemed slightly
unorthodox, a dangerous eccentricity, like talking to one-
self. Perhaps it was only when people were somewhere near
the starvation level that they had anything to sing about.
'You can turn round now,' said Julia.
He turned round, and for a second almost failed to rec-
ognize her. What he had actually expected was to see her
naked. But she was not naked. The transformation that had
happened was much more surprising than that. She had
painted her face.
She must have slipped into some shop in the proletarian
178 1984
quarters and bought herself a complete set of make-up ma-
terials. Her lips were deeply reddened, her cheeks rouged,
her nose powdered; there was even a touch of something
under the eyes to make them brighter. It was not very skil-
fully done, but Winston's standards in such matters were
not high. He had never before seen or imagined a woman of
the Party with cosmetics on her face. The improvement in
her appearance was startling. With just a few dabs of colour
in the right places she had become not only very much pret-
tier, but, above all, far more feminine. Her short hair and
boyish overalls merely added to the effect. As he took her in
his arms a wave of synthetic violets flooded his nostrils. He
remembered the half- darkness of a basement kitchen, and a
woman's cavernous mouth. It was the very same scent that
she had used; but at the moment it did not seem to matter.
'Scent too! ' he said.
'Yes, dear, scent too. And do you know what I'm going to
do next? I'm going to get hold of a real woman's frock from
somewhere and wear it instead of these bloody trousers. I'll
wear silk stockings and high-heeled shoes! In this room I'm
going to be a woman, not a Party comrade. '
They flung their clothes off and climbed into the huge
mahogany bed. It was the first time that he had stripped
himself naked in her presence. Until now he had been too
much ashamed of his pale and meagre body, with the vari-
cose veins standing out on his calves and the discoloured
patch over his ankle. There were no sheets, but the blanket
they lay on was threadbare and smooth, and the size and
springiness of the bed astonished both of them. 'It's sure
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to be full of bugs, but who cares? ' said Julia. One never saw
a double bed nowadays, except in the homes of the proles.
Winston had occasionally slept in one in his boyhood: Julia
had never been in one before, so far as she could remember.
Presently they fell asleep for a little while. When Win-
ston woke up the hands of the clock had crept round to
nearly nine. He did not stir, because Julia was sleeping with
her head in the crook of his arm. Most of her make-up had
transferred itself to his own face or the bolster, but a light
stain of rouge still brought out the beauty of her cheekbone.
A yellow ray from the sinking sun fell across the foot of the
bed and lighted up the fireplace, where the water in the pan
was boiling fast. Down in the yard the woman had stopped
singing, but the faint shouts of children floated in from the
street. He wondered vaguely whether in the abolished past
it had been a normal experience to lie in bed like this, in
the cool of a summer evening, a man and a woman with no
clothes on, making love when they chose, talking of what
they chose, not feeling any compulsion to get up, simply ly-
ing there and listening to peaceful sounds outside. Surely
there could never have been a time when that seemed ordi-
nary? Julia woke up, rubbed her eyes, and raised herself on
her elbow to look at the oilstove.
'Half that water's boiled away' she said. 'I'll get up and
make some coffee in another moment. We've got an hour.
What time do they cut the lights off at your flats? '
'Twenty-three thirty'
'It's twenty-three at the hostel. But you have to get in ear-
lier than that, because— Hi! Get out, you filthy brute! '
1984
She suddenly twisted herself over in the bed, seized a
shoe from the floor, and sent it hurtling into the corner with
a boyish jerk of her arm, exactly as he had seen her fling the
dictionary at Goldstein, that morning during the Two Min-
utes Hate.
'What was it? ' he said in surprise.
'A rat. I saw him stick his beastly nose out of the wain-
scoting. There's a hole down there. I gave him a good fright,
anyway'
'Rats! ' murmured Winston. 'In this room! '
'They're all over the place,' said Julia indifferently as she
lay down again. 'We've even got them in the kitchen at the
hostel. Some parts of London are swarming with them. Did
you know they attack children? Yes, they do. In some of
these streets a woman daren't leave a baby alone for two
minutes. It's the great huge brown ones that do it. And the
nasty thing is that the brutes always '
'DON'T GO ON! ' said Winston, with his eyes tightly
shut.
'Dearest! You've gone quite pale. What's the matter? Do
they make you feel sick? '
'Of all horrors in the world — a rat! '
She pressed herself against him and wound her limbs
round him, as though to reassure him with the warmth
of her body. He did not reopen his eyes immediately. For
several moments he had had the feeling of being back in a
nightmare which had recurred from time to time through-
out his life. It was always very much the same. He was
standing in front of a wall of darkness, and on the other
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side of it there was something unendurable, something too
dreadful to be faced. In the dream his deepest feeling was
always one of self-deception, because he did in fact know
what was behind the wall of darkness. With a deadly effort,
like wrenching a piece out of his own brain, he could even
have dragged the thing into the open. He always woke up
without discovering what it was: but somehow it was con-
nected with what Julia had been saying when he cut her
short.
'I'm sorry' he said, 'it's nothing. I don't like rats, that's
all'
'Don't worry, dear, we're not going to have the filthy
brutes in here. I'll stuff the hole with a bit of sacking before
we go. And next time we come here I'll bring some plaster
and bung it up properly'
Already the black instant of panic was half-forgotten.
Feeling slightly ashamed of himself, he sat up against the
bedhead. Julia got out of bed, pulled on her overalls, and
made the coffee. The smell that rose from the saucepan was
so powerful and exciting that they shut the window lest
anybody outside should notice it and become inquisitive.
What was even better than the taste of the coffee was the
silky texture given to it by the sugar, a thing Winston had
almost forgotten after years of saccharine. With one hand
in her pocket and a piece of bread and jam in the other, Ju-
lia wandered about the room, glancing indifferently at the
bookcase, pointing out the best way of repairing the gate-
leg table, plumping herself down in the ragged arm-chair to
see if it was comfortable, and examining the absurd twelve-
1984
hour clock with a sort of tolerant amusement. She brought
the glass paperweight over to the bed to have a look at it in a
better light. He took it out of her hand, fascinated, as always,
by the soft, rainwatery appearance of the glass.
'What is it, do you think? ' said Julia.
'I don't think it's anything — I mean, I don't think it was
ever put to any use. That's what I like about it. It's a little
chunk of history that they've forgotten to alter.
