They had left the
clearing
and were wandering
again through the chequered shade, with their arms round
each other's waists whenever it was wide enough to walk
two abreast.
again through the chequered shade, with their arms round
each other's waists whenever it was wide enough to walk
two abreast.
Orwell - 1984
Truck-load after truck-load of
the sad faces passed. Winston knew they were there but he
saw them only intermittently. The girl's shoulder, and her
arm right down to the elbow, were pressed against his. Her
cheek was almost near enough for him to feel its warmth.
She had immediately taken charge of the situation, just as
she had done in the canteen. She began speaking in the
same expressionless voice as before, with lips barely mov-
ing, a mere murmur easily drowned by the din of voices and
the rumbling of the trucks.
'Can you hear me? '
'Yes. '
'Can you get Sunday afternoon off? '
'Yes. '
'Then listen carefully. You'll have to remember this. Go
to Paddington Station '
With a sort of military precision that astonished him, she
outlined the route that he was to follow. A half-hour railway
journey; turn left outside the station; two kilometres along
the road; a gate with the top bar missing; a path across a
field; a grass-grown lane; a track between bushes; a dead
tree with moss on it. It was as though she had a map inside
her head. 'Can you remember all that? ' she murmured fi-
nally
'Yes. '
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'You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gate's
got no top bar. '
'Yes. What time? '
'About fifteen. You may have to wait. I'll get there by an-
other way. Are you sure you remember everything? '
'Yes. '
"Then get away from me as quick as you can. '
She need not have told him that. But for the moment
they could not extricate themselves from the crowd. The
trucks were still filing past, the people still insatiably gap-
ing. At the start there had been a few boos and hisses, but
it came only from the Party members among the crowd,
and had soon stopped. The prevailing emotion was simply
curiosity. Foreigners, whether from Eurasia or from Easta-
sia, were a kind of strange animal. One literally never saw
them except in the guise of prisoners, and even as prison-
ers one never got more than a momentary glimpse of them.
Nor did one know what became of them, apart from the
few who were hanged as war- criminals: the others simply
vanished, presumably into forced-labour camps. The round
Mogol faces had given way to faces of a more European type,
dirty, bearded and exhausted. From over scrubby cheek-
bones eyes looked into Winston's, sometimes with strange
intensity, and flashed away again. The convoy was drawing
to an end. In the last truck he could see an aged man, his
face a mass of grizzled hair, standing upright with wrists
crossed in front of him, as though he were used to having
them bound together. It was almost time for Winston and
the girl to part. But at the last moment, while the crowd still
146 1984
hemmed them in, her hand felt for his and gave it a fleeting
squeeze.
It could not have been ten seconds, and yet it seemed a
long time that their hands were clasped together. He had
time to learn every detail of her hand. He explored the long
fingers, the shapely nails, the work-hardened palm with its
row of callouses, the smooth flesh under the wrist. Merely
from feeling it he would have known it by sight. In the same
instant it occurred to him that he did not know what colour
the girl's eyes were. They were probably brown, but people
with dark hair sometimes had blue eyes. To turn his head
and look at her would have been inconceivable folly. With
hands locked together, invisible among the press of bodies,
they stared steadily in front of them, and instead of the eyes
of the girl, the eyes of the aged prisoner gazed mournfully
at Winston out of nests of hair.
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Chapter 2
Winston picked his way up the lane through dappled
light and shade, stepping out into pools of gold wher-
ever the boughs parted. Under the trees to the left of him
the ground was misty with bluebells. The air seemed to kiss
one's skin. It was the second of May. From somewhere deep-
er in the heart of the wood came the droning of ring doves.
He was a bit early. There had been no difficulties about
the journey, and the girl was so evidently experienced that
he was less frightened than he would normally have been.
Presumably she could be trusted to find a safe place. In
general you could not assume that you were much safer in
the country than in London. There were no telescreens, of
course, but there was always the danger of concealed mi-
crophones by which your voice might be picked up and
recognized; besides, it was not easy to make a journey by
yourself without attracting attention. For distances of less
than 100 kilometres it was not necessary to get your pass-
port endorsed, but sometimes there were patrols hanging
about the railway stations, who examined the papers of any
Party member they found there and asked awkward ques-
tions. However, no patrols had appeared, and on the walk
from the station he had made sure by cautious backward
glances that he was not being followed. The train was full
of proles, in holiday mood because of the summery weather.
148 1984
The wooden-seated carriage in which he travelled was filled
to overflowing by a single enormous family, ranging from
a toothless great-grandmother to a month-old baby, going
out to spend an afternoon with 'in-laws' in the country, and,
as they freely explained to Winston, to get hold of a little
blackmarket butter.
The lane widened, and in a minute he came to the foot-
path she had told him of, a mere cattle-track which plunged
between the bushes. He had no watch, but it could not be
fifteen yet. The bluebells were so thick underfoot that it was
impossible not to tread on them. He knelt down and began
picking some partly to pass the time away, but also from
a vague idea that he would like to have a bunch of flowers
to offer to the girl when they met. He had got together a
big bunch and was smelling their faint sickly scent when a
sound at his back froze him, the unmistakable crackle of a
foot on twigs. He went on picking bluebells. It was the best
thing to do. It might be the girl, or he might have been fol-
lowed after all. To look round was to show guilt. He picked
another and another. A hand fell lightly on his shoulder.
He looked up. It was the girl. She shook her head, evi-
dently as a warning that he must keep silent, then parted
the bushes and quickly led the way along the narrow track
into the wood. Obviously she had been that way before, for
she dodged the boggy bits as though by habit. Winston fol-
lowed, still clasping his bunch of flowers. His first feeling
was relief, but as he watched the strong slender body mov-
ing in front of him, with the scarlet sash that was just tight
enough to bring out the curve of her hips, the sense of his
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own inferiority was heavy upon him. Even now it seemed
quite likely that when she turned round and looked at him
she would draw back after all. The sweetness of the air and
the greenness of the leaves daunted him. Already on the
walk from the station the May sunshine had made him feel
dirty and etiolated, a creature of indoors, with the sooty
dust of London in the pores of his skin. It occurred to him
that till now she had probably never seen him in broad day-
light in the open. They came to the fallen tree that she had
spoken of. The girl hopped over and forced apart the bush-
es, in which there did not seem to be an opening. When
Winston followed her, he found that they were in a natural
clearing, a tiny grassy knoll surrounded by tall saplings that
shut it in completely. The girl stopped and turned.
'Here we are,' she said.
He was facing her at several paces' distance. As yet he did
not dare move nearer to her.
T didn't want to say anything in the lane,' she went on,
'in case there's a mike hidden there. I don't suppose there is,
but there could be. There's always the chance of one of those
swine recognizing your voice. We're all right here. '
He still had not the courage to approach her. 'We're all
right here? ' he repeated stupidly.
'Yes. Look at the trees. ' They were small ashes, which at
some time had been cut down and had sprouted up again
into a forest of poles, none of them thicker than one's wrist.
'There's nothing big enough to hide a mike in. Besides, I've
been here before. '
They were only making conversation. He had managed
1984
to move closer to her now. She stood before him very up-
right, with a smile on her face that looked faintly ironical, as
though she were wondering why he was so slow to act. The
bluebells had cascaded on to the ground. They seemed to
have fallen of their own accord. He took her hand.
'Would you believe,' he said, 'that till this moment I
didn't know what colour your eyes were? ' They were brown,
he noted, a rather light shade of brown, with dark lashes.
'Now that you've seen what I'm really like, can you still bear
to look at me? '
'Yes, easily'
'I'm thirty-nine years old. I've got a wife that I can't get
rid of. I've got varicose veins. I've got five false teeth. '
T couldn't care less,' said the girl.
The next moment, it was hard to say by whose act, she was
in his his arms. At the beginning he had no feeling except
sheer incredulity. The youthful body was strained against
his own, the mass of dark hair was against his face, and yes!
actually she had turned her face up and he was kissing the
wide red mouth. She had clasped her arms about his neck,
she was calling him darling, precious one, loved one. He
had pulled her down on to the ground, she was utterly un-
resisting, he could do what he liked with her. But the truth
was that he had no physical sensation, except that of mere
contact. All he felt was incredulity and pride. He was glad
that this was happening, but he had no physical desire. It
was too soon, her youth and prettiness had frightened him,
he was too much used to living without women — he did
not know the reason. The girl picked herself up and pulled
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 151
a bluebell out of her hair. She sat against him, putting her
arm round his waist.
'Never mind, dear. There's no hurry. We've got the whole
afternoon. Isn't this a splendid hide-out? I found it when I
got lost once on a community hike. If anyone was coming
you could hear them a hundred metres away'
'What is your name? ' said Winston.
'Julia. I know yours. It's Winston — Winston Smith. '
'How did you find that out? '
'I expect I'm better at finding things out than you are,
dear. Tell me, what did you think of me before that day I
gave you the note? '
He did not feel any temptation to tell lies to her. It was
even a sort of love-offering to start off by telling the worst.
'I hated the sight of you,' he said. 'I wanted to rape you
and then murder you afterwards. Two weeks ago I thought
seriously of smashing your head in with a cobblestone. If
you really want to know, I imagined that you had some-
thing to do with the Thought Police. '
The girl laughed delightedly, evidently taking this as a
tribute to the excellence of her disguise.
'Not the Thought Police! You didn't honestly think that? '
'Well, perhaps not exactly that. But from your general
appearance — merely because you're young and fresh and
healthy, you understand — I thought that probably '
'You thought I was a good Party member. Pure in word
and deed. Banners, processions, slogans, games, commu-
nity hikes all that stuff. And you thought that if I had a
quarter of a chance I'd denounce you as a thought- criminal
1984
and get you killed off? '
'Yes, something of that kind. A great many young girls
are like that, you know. '
'It's this bloody thing that does it,' she said, ripping off
the scarlet sash of the Junior Anti-Sex League and flinging
it on to a bough. Then, as though touching her waist had
reminded her of something, she felt in the pocket of her
overalls and produced a small slab of chocolate. She broke
it in half and gave one of the pieces to Winston. Even be-
fore he had taken it he knew by the smell that it was very
unusual chocolate. It was dark and shiny, and was wrapped
in silver paper. Chocolate normally was dull-brown crum-
bly stuff that tasted, as nearly as one could describe it, like
the smoke of a rubbish fire. But at some time or another he
had tasted chocolate like the piece she had given him. The
first whiff of its scent had stirred up some memory which
he could not pin down, but which was powerful and trou-
bling.
'Where did you get this stuff? ' he said.
'Black market,' she said indifferently. Actually I am that
sort of girl, to look at. I'm good at games. I was a troop -lead-
er in the Spies. I do voluntary work three evenings a week
for the Junior Anti-Sex League. Hours and hours I've spent
pasting their bloody rot all over London. I always carry one
end of a banner in the processions. I always look cheer-
ful and I never shirk anything. Always yell with the crowd,
that's what I say. It's the only way to be safe. '
The first fragment of chocolate had melted on Win-
ston's tongue. The taste was delightful. But there was still
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that memory moving round the edges of his consciousness,
something strongly felt but not reducible to definite shape,
like an object seen out of the corner of one's eye. He pushed
it away from him, aware only that it was the memory of
some action which he would have liked to undo but could
not.
'You are very young,' he said. 'You are ten or fifteen years
younger than I am. What could you see to attract you in a
man like me? '
'It was something in your face. I thought I'd take a chance.
I'm good at spotting people who don't belong. As soon as I
saw you I knew you were against THEM. '
THEM, it appeared, meant the Party, and above all the
Inner Party, about whom she talked with an open jeering
hatred which made Winston feel uneasy, although he knew
that they were safe here if they could be safe anywhere. A
thing that astonished him about her was the coarseness of
her language. Party members were supposed not to swear,
and Winston himself very seldom did swear, aloud, at any
rate. Julia, however, seemed unable to mention the Party,
and especially the Inner Party, without using the kind of
words that you saw chalked up in dripping alley-ways. He
did not dislike it. It was merely one symptom of her revolt
against the Party and all its ways, and somehow it seemed
natural and healthy, like the sneeze of a horse that smells
bad hay.
They had left the clearing and were wandering
again through the chequered shade, with their arms round
each other's waists whenever it was wide enough to walk
two abreast. He noticed how much softer her waist seemed
1984
to feel now that the sash was gone. They did not speak above
a whisper. Outside the clearing, Julia said, it was better to
go quietly. Presently they had reached the edge of the little
wood. She stopped him.
'Don't go out into the open. There might be someone
watching. We're all right if we keep behind the boughs. '
They were standing in the shade of hazel bushes. The
sunlight, filtering through innumerable leaves, was still hot
on their faces. Winston looked out into the field beyond,
and underwent a curious, slow shock of recognition. He
knew it by sight. An old, closebitten pasture, with a foot-
path wandering across it and a molehill here and there. In
the ragged hedge on the opposite side the boughs of the elm
trees swayed just perceptibly in the breeze, and their leaves
stirred faintly in dense masses like women's hair. Surely
somewhere nearby, but out of sight, there must be a stream
with green pools where dace were swimming?
'Isn't there a stream somewhere near here? ' he whis-
pered.
"That's right, there is a stream. It's at the edge of the next
field, actually. There are fish in it, great big ones. You can
watch them lying in the pools under the willow trees, wav-
ing their tails. '
'It's the Golden Country — almost,' he murmured.
'The Golden Country? '
'It's nothing, really. A landscape I've seen sometimes in
a dream. '
'Look! ' whispered Julia.
A thrush had alighted on a bough not five metres away,
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almost at the level of their faces. Perhaps it had not seen
them. It was in the sun, they in the shade. It spread out its
wings, fitted them carefully into place again, ducked its
head for a moment, as though making a sort of obeisance to
the sun, and then began to pour forth a torrent of song. In
the afternoon hush the volume of sound was startling. Win-
ston and Julia clung together, fascinated. The music went on
and on, minute after minute, with astonishing variations,
never once repeating itself, almost as though the bird were
deliberately showing off its virtuosity. Sometimes it stopped
for a few seconds, spread out and resettled its wings, then
swelled its speckled breast and again burst into song. Win-
ston watched it with a sort of vague reverence. For whom, for
what, was that bird singing? No mate, no rival was watch-
ing it. What made it sit at the edge of the lonely wood and
pour its music into nothingness? He wondered whether af-
ter all there was a microphone hidden somewhere near. He
and Julia had spoken only in low whispers, and it would not
pick up what they had said, but it would pick up the thrush.
Perhaps at the other end of the instrument some small, bee-
tle-like man was listening intently — listening to that. But
by degrees the flood of music drove all speculations out of
his mind. It was as though it were a kind of liquid stuff that
poured all over him and got mixed up with the sunlight
that filtered through the leaves. He stopped thinking and
merely felt. The girl's waist in the bend of his arm was soft
and warm. He pulled her round so that they were breast
to breast; her body seemed to melt into his. Wherever his
hands moved it was all as yielding as water. Their mouths
156 1984
clung together; it was quite different from the hard kisses
they had exchanged earlier. When they moved their faces
apart again both of them sighed deeply. The bird took fright
and fled with a clatter of wings.
Winston put his lips against her ear. 'NOW,' he whis-
pered.
'Not here,' she whispered back. 'Come back to the hide-
out. It's safer. '
Quickly, with an occasional crackle of twigs, they
threaded their way back to the clearing. When they were
once inside the ring of saplings she turned and faced him.
They were both breathing fast, but the smile had reappeared
round the corners of her mouth. She stood looking at him
for an instant, then felt at the zipper of her overalls. And,
yes! it was almost as in his dream. Almost as swiftly as he
had imagined it, she had torn her clothes off, and when she
flung them aside it was with that same magnificent gesture
by which a whole civilization seemed to be annihilated. Her
body gleamed white in the sun. But for a moment he did
not look at her body; his eyes were anchored by the freckled
face with its faint, bold smile. He knelt down before her and
took her hands in his.
'Have you done this before? '
'Of course. Hundreds of times — well, scores of times,
anyway'
'With Party members? '
'Yes, always with Party members. '
'With members of the Inner Party? '
'Not with those swine, no. But there's plenty that WOULD
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if they got half a chance. They're not so holy as they make
out. '
His heart leapt. Scores of times she had done it: he wished
it had been hundreds — thousands. Anything that hinted at
corruption always filled him with a wild hope. Who knew,
perhaps the Party was rotten under the surface, its cult of
strenuousness and self-denial simply a sham concealing in-
iquity. If he could have infected the whole lot of them with
leprosy or syphilis, how gladly he would have done so! Any-
thing to rot, to weaken, to undermine! He pulled her down
so that they were kneeling face to face.
'Listen. The more men you've had, the more I love you.
Do you understand that? '
'Yes, perfectly'
'I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don't want any virtue
to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the
bones. '
'Well then, I ought to suit you, dear. I'm corrupt to the
bones. '
'You like doing this? I don't mean simply me: I mean the
thing in itself? '
'I adore it. '
That was above all what he wanted to hear. Not merely
the love of one person but the animal instinct, the simple
undifferentiated desire: that was the force that would tear
the Party to pieces. He pressed her down upon the grass,
among the fallen bluebells. This time there was no difficul-
ty Presently the rising and falling of their breasts slowed
to normal speed, and in a sort of pleasant helplessness they
1984
fell apart. The sun seemed to have grown hotter. They were
both sleepy. He reached out for the discarded overalls and
pulled them partly over her. Almost immediately they fell
asleep and slept for about half an hour.
Winston woke first. He sat up and watched the freck-
led face, still peacefully asleep, pillowed on the palm of her
hand. Except for her mouth, you could not call her beauti-
ful. There was a line or two round the eyes, if you looked
closely. The short dark hair was extraordinarily thick and
soft. It occurred to him that he still did not know her sur-
name or where she lived.
The young, strong body, now helpless in sleep, awoke in
him a pitying, protecting feeling. But the mindless tender-
ness that he had felt under the hazel tree, while the thrush
was singing, had not quite come back. He pulled the over-
alls aside and studied her smooth white flank. In the old
days, he thought, a man looked at a girl's body and saw that
it was desirable, and that was the end of the story. But you
could not have pure love or pure lust nowadays. No emo-
tion was pure, because everything was mixed up with fear
and hatred. Their embrace had been a battle, the climax a
victory. It was a blow struck against the Party. It was a po-
litical act.
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Chapter 3
^ We can come here once again,' said Julia. 'It's generally safe
to use any hide-out twice. But not for another month or
two, of course. '
As soon as she woke up her demeanour had changed. She
became alert and business-like, put her clothes on, knot-
ted the scarlet sash about her waist, and began arranging
the details of the journey home. It seemed natural to leave
this to her. She obviously had a practical cunning which
Winston lacked, and she seemed also to have an exhaus-
tive knowledge of the countryside round London, stored
away from innumerable community hikes. The route she
gave him was quite different from the one by which he had
come, and brought him out at a different railway station.
'Never go home the same way as you went out,' she said, as
though enunciating an important general principle. She
would leave first, and Winston was to wait half an hour be-
fore following her.
She had named a place where they could meet after work,
four evenings hence. It was a street in one of the poorer
quarters, where there was an open market which was gener-
ally crowded and noisy. She would be hanging about among
the stalls, pretending to be in search of shoelaces or sewing-
thread. If she judged that the coast was clear she would blow
her nose when he approached; otherwise he was to walk
1984
past her without recognition. But with luck, in the middle
of the crowd, it would be safe to talk for a quarter of an hour
and arrange another meeting.
'And now I must go,' she said as soon as he had mastered
his instructions. 'I'm due back at nineteen-thirty. I've got to
put in two hours for the Junior Anti-Sex League, handing
out leaflets, or something. Isn't it bloody? Give me a brush-
down, would you? Have I got any twigs in my hair? Are you
sure? Then good-bye, my love, good-bye! '
She flung herself into his arms, kissed him almost vi-
olently, and a moment later pushed her way through the
saplings and disappeared into the wood with very little
noise. Even now he had not found out her surname or her
address. However, it made no difference, for it was incon-
ceivable that they could ever meet indoors or exchange any
kind of written communication.
As it happened, they never went back to the clearing in
the wood. During the month of May there was only one
further occasion on which they actually succeeded in mak-
ing love. That was in another hiding-place known to Julia,
the belfry of a ruinous church in an almost- deserted stretch
of country where an atomic bomb had fallen thirty years
earlier. It was a good hiding-place when once you got there,
but the getting there was very dangerous. For the rest they
could meet only in the streets, in a different place every eve-
ning and never for more than half an hour at a time. In the
street it was usually possible to talk, after a fashion. As they
drifted down the crowded pavements, not quite abreast
and never looking at one another, they carried on a curi-
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ous, intermittent conversation which flicked on and off like
the beams of a lighthouse, suddenly nipped into silence by
the approach of a Party uniform or the proximity of a tele-
screen, then taken up again minutes later in the middle of
a sentence, then abruptly cut short as they parted at the
agreed spot, then continued almost without introduction
on the following day Julia appeared to be quite used to this
kind of conversation, which she called 'talking by instal-
ments'. She was also surprisingly adept at speaking without
moving her lips. Just once in almost a month of nightly
meetings they managed to exchange a kiss. They were pass-
ing in silence down a side-street (Julia would never speak
when they were away from the main streets) when there was
a deafening roar, the earth heaved, and the air darkened,
and Winston found himself lying on his side, bruised and
terrified. A rocket bomb must have dropped quite near at
hand. Suddenly he became aware of Julia's face a few centi-
metres from his own, deathly white, as white as chalk. Even
her lips were white. She was dead! He clasped her against
him and found that he was kissing a live warm face. But
there was some powdery stuff that got in the way of his lips.
Both of their faces were thickly coated with plaster.
There were evenings when they reached their rendezvous
and then had to walk past one another without a sign, be-
cause a patrol had just come round the corner or a helicopter
was hovering overhead. 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-
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.
the sad faces passed. Winston knew they were there but he
saw them only intermittently. The girl's shoulder, and her
arm right down to the elbow, were pressed against his. Her
cheek was almost near enough for him to feel its warmth.
She had immediately taken charge of the situation, just as
she had done in the canteen. She began speaking in the
same expressionless voice as before, with lips barely mov-
ing, a mere murmur easily drowned by the din of voices and
the rumbling of the trucks.
'Can you hear me? '
'Yes. '
'Can you get Sunday afternoon off? '
'Yes. '
'Then listen carefully. You'll have to remember this. Go
to Paddington Station '
With a sort of military precision that astonished him, she
outlined the route that he was to follow. A half-hour railway
journey; turn left outside the station; two kilometres along
the road; a gate with the top bar missing; a path across a
field; a grass-grown lane; a track between bushes; a dead
tree with moss on it. It was as though she had a map inside
her head. 'Can you remember all that? ' she murmured fi-
nally
'Yes. '
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'You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gate's
got no top bar. '
'Yes. What time? '
'About fifteen. You may have to wait. I'll get there by an-
other way. Are you sure you remember everything? '
'Yes. '
"Then get away from me as quick as you can. '
She need not have told him that. But for the moment
they could not extricate themselves from the crowd. The
trucks were still filing past, the people still insatiably gap-
ing. At the start there had been a few boos and hisses, but
it came only from the Party members among the crowd,
and had soon stopped. The prevailing emotion was simply
curiosity. Foreigners, whether from Eurasia or from Easta-
sia, were a kind of strange animal. One literally never saw
them except in the guise of prisoners, and even as prison-
ers one never got more than a momentary glimpse of them.
Nor did one know what became of them, apart from the
few who were hanged as war- criminals: the others simply
vanished, presumably into forced-labour camps. The round
Mogol faces had given way to faces of a more European type,
dirty, bearded and exhausted. From over scrubby cheek-
bones eyes looked into Winston's, sometimes with strange
intensity, and flashed away again. The convoy was drawing
to an end. In the last truck he could see an aged man, his
face a mass of grizzled hair, standing upright with wrists
crossed in front of him, as though he were used to having
them bound together. It was almost time for Winston and
the girl to part. But at the last moment, while the crowd still
146 1984
hemmed them in, her hand felt for his and gave it a fleeting
squeeze.
It could not have been ten seconds, and yet it seemed a
long time that their hands were clasped together. He had
time to learn every detail of her hand. He explored the long
fingers, the shapely nails, the work-hardened palm with its
row of callouses, the smooth flesh under the wrist. Merely
from feeling it he would have known it by sight. In the same
instant it occurred to him that he did not know what colour
the girl's eyes were. They were probably brown, but people
with dark hair sometimes had blue eyes. To turn his head
and look at her would have been inconceivable folly. With
hands locked together, invisible among the press of bodies,
they stared steadily in front of them, and instead of the eyes
of the girl, the eyes of the aged prisoner gazed mournfully
at Winston out of nests of hair.
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Chapter 2
Winston picked his way up the lane through dappled
light and shade, stepping out into pools of gold wher-
ever the boughs parted. Under the trees to the left of him
the ground was misty with bluebells. The air seemed to kiss
one's skin. It was the second of May. From somewhere deep-
er in the heart of the wood came the droning of ring doves.
He was a bit early. There had been no difficulties about
the journey, and the girl was so evidently experienced that
he was less frightened than he would normally have been.
Presumably she could be trusted to find a safe place. In
general you could not assume that you were much safer in
the country than in London. There were no telescreens, of
course, but there was always the danger of concealed mi-
crophones by which your voice might be picked up and
recognized; besides, it was not easy to make a journey by
yourself without attracting attention. For distances of less
than 100 kilometres it was not necessary to get your pass-
port endorsed, but sometimes there were patrols hanging
about the railway stations, who examined the papers of any
Party member they found there and asked awkward ques-
tions. However, no patrols had appeared, and on the walk
from the station he had made sure by cautious backward
glances that he was not being followed. The train was full
of proles, in holiday mood because of the summery weather.
148 1984
The wooden-seated carriage in which he travelled was filled
to overflowing by a single enormous family, ranging from
a toothless great-grandmother to a month-old baby, going
out to spend an afternoon with 'in-laws' in the country, and,
as they freely explained to Winston, to get hold of a little
blackmarket butter.
The lane widened, and in a minute he came to the foot-
path she had told him of, a mere cattle-track which plunged
between the bushes. He had no watch, but it could not be
fifteen yet. The bluebells were so thick underfoot that it was
impossible not to tread on them. He knelt down and began
picking some partly to pass the time away, but also from
a vague idea that he would like to have a bunch of flowers
to offer to the girl when they met. He had got together a
big bunch and was smelling their faint sickly scent when a
sound at his back froze him, the unmistakable crackle of a
foot on twigs. He went on picking bluebells. It was the best
thing to do. It might be the girl, or he might have been fol-
lowed after all. To look round was to show guilt. He picked
another and another. A hand fell lightly on his shoulder.
He looked up. It was the girl. She shook her head, evi-
dently as a warning that he must keep silent, then parted
the bushes and quickly led the way along the narrow track
into the wood. Obviously she had been that way before, for
she dodged the boggy bits as though by habit. Winston fol-
lowed, still clasping his bunch of flowers. His first feeling
was relief, but as he watched the strong slender body mov-
ing in front of him, with the scarlet sash that was just tight
enough to bring out the curve of her hips, the sense of his
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own inferiority was heavy upon him. Even now it seemed
quite likely that when she turned round and looked at him
she would draw back after all. The sweetness of the air and
the greenness of the leaves daunted him. Already on the
walk from the station the May sunshine had made him feel
dirty and etiolated, a creature of indoors, with the sooty
dust of London in the pores of his skin. It occurred to him
that till now she had probably never seen him in broad day-
light in the open. They came to the fallen tree that she had
spoken of. The girl hopped over and forced apart the bush-
es, in which there did not seem to be an opening. When
Winston followed her, he found that they were in a natural
clearing, a tiny grassy knoll surrounded by tall saplings that
shut it in completely. The girl stopped and turned.
'Here we are,' she said.
He was facing her at several paces' distance. As yet he did
not dare move nearer to her.
T didn't want to say anything in the lane,' she went on,
'in case there's a mike hidden there. I don't suppose there is,
but there could be. There's always the chance of one of those
swine recognizing your voice. We're all right here. '
He still had not the courage to approach her. 'We're all
right here? ' he repeated stupidly.
'Yes. Look at the trees. ' They were small ashes, which at
some time had been cut down and had sprouted up again
into a forest of poles, none of them thicker than one's wrist.
'There's nothing big enough to hide a mike in. Besides, I've
been here before. '
They were only making conversation. He had managed
1984
to move closer to her now. She stood before him very up-
right, with a smile on her face that looked faintly ironical, as
though she were wondering why he was so slow to act. The
bluebells had cascaded on to the ground. They seemed to
have fallen of their own accord. He took her hand.
'Would you believe,' he said, 'that till this moment I
didn't know what colour your eyes were? ' They were brown,
he noted, a rather light shade of brown, with dark lashes.
'Now that you've seen what I'm really like, can you still bear
to look at me? '
'Yes, easily'
'I'm thirty-nine years old. I've got a wife that I can't get
rid of. I've got varicose veins. I've got five false teeth. '
T couldn't care less,' said the girl.
The next moment, it was hard to say by whose act, she was
in his his arms. At the beginning he had no feeling except
sheer incredulity. The youthful body was strained against
his own, the mass of dark hair was against his face, and yes!
actually she had turned her face up and he was kissing the
wide red mouth. She had clasped her arms about his neck,
she was calling him darling, precious one, loved one. He
had pulled her down on to the ground, she was utterly un-
resisting, he could do what he liked with her. But the truth
was that he had no physical sensation, except that of mere
contact. All he felt was incredulity and pride. He was glad
that this was happening, but he had no physical desire. It
was too soon, her youth and prettiness had frightened him,
he was too much used to living without women — he did
not know the reason. The girl picked herself up and pulled
FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 151
a bluebell out of her hair. She sat against him, putting her
arm round his waist.
'Never mind, dear. There's no hurry. We've got the whole
afternoon. Isn't this a splendid hide-out? I found it when I
got lost once on a community hike. If anyone was coming
you could hear them a hundred metres away'
'What is your name? ' said Winston.
'Julia. I know yours. It's Winston — Winston Smith. '
'How did you find that out? '
'I expect I'm better at finding things out than you are,
dear. Tell me, what did you think of me before that day I
gave you the note? '
He did not feel any temptation to tell lies to her. It was
even a sort of love-offering to start off by telling the worst.
'I hated the sight of you,' he said. 'I wanted to rape you
and then murder you afterwards. Two weeks ago I thought
seriously of smashing your head in with a cobblestone. If
you really want to know, I imagined that you had some-
thing to do with the Thought Police. '
The girl laughed delightedly, evidently taking this as a
tribute to the excellence of her disguise.
'Not the Thought Police! You didn't honestly think that? '
'Well, perhaps not exactly that. But from your general
appearance — merely because you're young and fresh and
healthy, you understand — I thought that probably '
'You thought I was a good Party member. Pure in word
and deed. Banners, processions, slogans, games, commu-
nity hikes all that stuff. And you thought that if I had a
quarter of a chance I'd denounce you as a thought- criminal
1984
and get you killed off? '
'Yes, something of that kind. A great many young girls
are like that, you know. '
'It's this bloody thing that does it,' she said, ripping off
the scarlet sash of the Junior Anti-Sex League and flinging
it on to a bough. Then, as though touching her waist had
reminded her of something, she felt in the pocket of her
overalls and produced a small slab of chocolate. She broke
it in half and gave one of the pieces to Winston. Even be-
fore he had taken it he knew by the smell that it was very
unusual chocolate. It was dark and shiny, and was wrapped
in silver paper. Chocolate normally was dull-brown crum-
bly stuff that tasted, as nearly as one could describe it, like
the smoke of a rubbish fire. But at some time or another he
had tasted chocolate like the piece she had given him. The
first whiff of its scent had stirred up some memory which
he could not pin down, but which was powerful and trou-
bling.
'Where did you get this stuff? ' he said.
'Black market,' she said indifferently. Actually I am that
sort of girl, to look at. I'm good at games. I was a troop -lead-
er in the Spies. I do voluntary work three evenings a week
for the Junior Anti-Sex League. Hours and hours I've spent
pasting their bloody rot all over London. I always carry one
end of a banner in the processions. I always look cheer-
ful and I never shirk anything. Always yell with the crowd,
that's what I say. It's the only way to be safe. '
The first fragment of chocolate had melted on Win-
ston's tongue. The taste was delightful. But there was still
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that memory moving round the edges of his consciousness,
something strongly felt but not reducible to definite shape,
like an object seen out of the corner of one's eye. He pushed
it away from him, aware only that it was the memory of
some action which he would have liked to undo but could
not.
'You are very young,' he said. 'You are ten or fifteen years
younger than I am. What could you see to attract you in a
man like me? '
'It was something in your face. I thought I'd take a chance.
I'm good at spotting people who don't belong. As soon as I
saw you I knew you were against THEM. '
THEM, it appeared, meant the Party, and above all the
Inner Party, about whom she talked with an open jeering
hatred which made Winston feel uneasy, although he knew
that they were safe here if they could be safe anywhere. A
thing that astonished him about her was the coarseness of
her language. Party members were supposed not to swear,
and Winston himself very seldom did swear, aloud, at any
rate. Julia, however, seemed unable to mention the Party,
and especially the Inner Party, without using the kind of
words that you saw chalked up in dripping alley-ways. He
did not dislike it. It was merely one symptom of her revolt
against the Party and all its ways, and somehow it seemed
natural and healthy, like the sneeze of a horse that smells
bad hay.
They had left the clearing and were wandering
again through the chequered shade, with their arms round
each other's waists whenever it was wide enough to walk
two abreast. He noticed how much softer her waist seemed
1984
to feel now that the sash was gone. They did not speak above
a whisper. Outside the clearing, Julia said, it was better to
go quietly. Presently they had reached the edge of the little
wood. She stopped him.
'Don't go out into the open. There might be someone
watching. We're all right if we keep behind the boughs. '
They were standing in the shade of hazel bushes. The
sunlight, filtering through innumerable leaves, was still hot
on their faces. Winston looked out into the field beyond,
and underwent a curious, slow shock of recognition. He
knew it by sight. An old, closebitten pasture, with a foot-
path wandering across it and a molehill here and there. In
the ragged hedge on the opposite side the boughs of the elm
trees swayed just perceptibly in the breeze, and their leaves
stirred faintly in dense masses like women's hair. Surely
somewhere nearby, but out of sight, there must be a stream
with green pools where dace were swimming?
'Isn't there a stream somewhere near here? ' he whis-
pered.
"That's right, there is a stream. It's at the edge of the next
field, actually. There are fish in it, great big ones. You can
watch them lying in the pools under the willow trees, wav-
ing their tails. '
'It's the Golden Country — almost,' he murmured.
'The Golden Country? '
'It's nothing, really. A landscape I've seen sometimes in
a dream. '
'Look! ' whispered Julia.
A thrush had alighted on a bough not five metres away,
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almost at the level of their faces. Perhaps it had not seen
them. It was in the sun, they in the shade. It spread out its
wings, fitted them carefully into place again, ducked its
head for a moment, as though making a sort of obeisance to
the sun, and then began to pour forth a torrent of song. In
the afternoon hush the volume of sound was startling. Win-
ston and Julia clung together, fascinated. The music went on
and on, minute after minute, with astonishing variations,
never once repeating itself, almost as though the bird were
deliberately showing off its virtuosity. Sometimes it stopped
for a few seconds, spread out and resettled its wings, then
swelled its speckled breast and again burst into song. Win-
ston watched it with a sort of vague reverence. For whom, for
what, was that bird singing? No mate, no rival was watch-
ing it. What made it sit at the edge of the lonely wood and
pour its music into nothingness? He wondered whether af-
ter all there was a microphone hidden somewhere near. He
and Julia had spoken only in low whispers, and it would not
pick up what they had said, but it would pick up the thrush.
Perhaps at the other end of the instrument some small, bee-
tle-like man was listening intently — listening to that. But
by degrees the flood of music drove all speculations out of
his mind. It was as though it were a kind of liquid stuff that
poured all over him and got mixed up with the sunlight
that filtered through the leaves. He stopped thinking and
merely felt. The girl's waist in the bend of his arm was soft
and warm. He pulled her round so that they were breast
to breast; her body seemed to melt into his. Wherever his
hands moved it was all as yielding as water. Their mouths
156 1984
clung together; it was quite different from the hard kisses
they had exchanged earlier. When they moved their faces
apart again both of them sighed deeply. The bird took fright
and fled with a clatter of wings.
Winston put his lips against her ear. 'NOW,' he whis-
pered.
'Not here,' she whispered back. 'Come back to the hide-
out. It's safer. '
Quickly, with an occasional crackle of twigs, they
threaded their way back to the clearing. When they were
once inside the ring of saplings she turned and faced him.
They were both breathing fast, but the smile had reappeared
round the corners of her mouth. She stood looking at him
for an instant, then felt at the zipper of her overalls. And,
yes! it was almost as in his dream. Almost as swiftly as he
had imagined it, she had torn her clothes off, and when she
flung them aside it was with that same magnificent gesture
by which a whole civilization seemed to be annihilated. Her
body gleamed white in the sun. But for a moment he did
not look at her body; his eyes were anchored by the freckled
face with its faint, bold smile. He knelt down before her and
took her hands in his.
'Have you done this before? '
'Of course. Hundreds of times — well, scores of times,
anyway'
'With Party members? '
'Yes, always with Party members. '
'With members of the Inner Party? '
'Not with those swine, no. But there's plenty that WOULD
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if they got half a chance. They're not so holy as they make
out. '
His heart leapt. Scores of times she had done it: he wished
it had been hundreds — thousands. Anything that hinted at
corruption always filled him with a wild hope. Who knew,
perhaps the Party was rotten under the surface, its cult of
strenuousness and self-denial simply a sham concealing in-
iquity. If he could have infected the whole lot of them with
leprosy or syphilis, how gladly he would have done so! Any-
thing to rot, to weaken, to undermine! He pulled her down
so that they were kneeling face to face.
'Listen. The more men you've had, the more I love you.
Do you understand that? '
'Yes, perfectly'
'I hate purity, I hate goodness! I don't want any virtue
to exist anywhere. I want everyone to be corrupt to the
bones. '
'Well then, I ought to suit you, dear. I'm corrupt to the
bones. '
'You like doing this? I don't mean simply me: I mean the
thing in itself? '
'I adore it. '
That was above all what he wanted to hear. Not merely
the love of one person but the animal instinct, the simple
undifferentiated desire: that was the force that would tear
the Party to pieces. He pressed her down upon the grass,
among the fallen bluebells. This time there was no difficul-
ty Presently the rising and falling of their breasts slowed
to normal speed, and in a sort of pleasant helplessness they
1984
fell apart. The sun seemed to have grown hotter. They were
both sleepy. He reached out for the discarded overalls and
pulled them partly over her. Almost immediately they fell
asleep and slept for about half an hour.
Winston woke first. He sat up and watched the freck-
led face, still peacefully asleep, pillowed on the palm of her
hand. Except for her mouth, you could not call her beauti-
ful. There was a line or two round the eyes, if you looked
closely. The short dark hair was extraordinarily thick and
soft. It occurred to him that he still did not know her sur-
name or where she lived.
The young, strong body, now helpless in sleep, awoke in
him a pitying, protecting feeling. But the mindless tender-
ness that he had felt under the hazel tree, while the thrush
was singing, had not quite come back. He pulled the over-
alls aside and studied her smooth white flank. In the old
days, he thought, a man looked at a girl's body and saw that
it was desirable, and that was the end of the story. But you
could not have pure love or pure lust nowadays. No emo-
tion was pure, because everything was mixed up with fear
and hatred. Their embrace had been a battle, the climax a
victory. It was a blow struck against the Party. It was a po-
litical act.
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Chapter 3
^ We can come here once again,' said Julia. 'It's generally safe
to use any hide-out twice. But not for another month or
two, of course. '
As soon as she woke up her demeanour had changed. She
became alert and business-like, put her clothes on, knot-
ted the scarlet sash about her waist, and began arranging
the details of the journey home. It seemed natural to leave
this to her. She obviously had a practical cunning which
Winston lacked, and she seemed also to have an exhaus-
tive knowledge of the countryside round London, stored
away from innumerable community hikes. The route she
gave him was quite different from the one by which he had
come, and brought him out at a different railway station.
'Never go home the same way as you went out,' she said, as
though enunciating an important general principle. She
would leave first, and Winston was to wait half an hour be-
fore following her.
She had named a place where they could meet after work,
four evenings hence. It was a street in one of the poorer
quarters, where there was an open market which was gener-
ally crowded and noisy. She would be hanging about among
the stalls, pretending to be in search of shoelaces or sewing-
thread. If she judged that the coast was clear she would blow
her nose when he approached; otherwise he was to walk
1984
past her without recognition. But with luck, in the middle
of the crowd, it would be safe to talk for a quarter of an hour
and arrange another meeting.
'And now I must go,' she said as soon as he had mastered
his instructions. 'I'm due back at nineteen-thirty. I've got to
put in two hours for the Junior Anti-Sex League, handing
out leaflets, or something. Isn't it bloody? Give me a brush-
down, would you? Have I got any twigs in my hair? Are you
sure? Then good-bye, my love, good-bye! '
She flung herself into his arms, kissed him almost vi-
olently, and a moment later pushed her way through the
saplings and disappeared into the wood with very little
noise. Even now he had not found out her surname or her
address. However, it made no difference, for it was incon-
ceivable that they could ever meet indoors or exchange any
kind of written communication.
As it happened, they never went back to the clearing in
the wood. During the month of May there was only one
further occasion on which they actually succeeded in mak-
ing love. That was in another hiding-place known to Julia,
the belfry of a ruinous church in an almost- deserted stretch
of country where an atomic bomb had fallen thirty years
earlier. It was a good hiding-place when once you got there,
but the getting there was very dangerous. For the rest they
could meet only in the streets, in a different place every eve-
ning and never for more than half an hour at a time. In the
street it was usually possible to talk, after a fashion. As they
drifted down the crowded pavements, not quite abreast
and never looking at one another, they carried on a curi-
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ous, intermittent conversation which flicked on and off like
the beams of a lighthouse, suddenly nipped into silence by
the approach of a Party uniform or the proximity of a tele-
screen, then taken up again minutes later in the middle of
a sentence, then abruptly cut short as they parted at the
agreed spot, then continued almost without introduction
on the following day Julia appeared to be quite used to this
kind of conversation, which she called 'talking by instal-
ments'. She was also surprisingly adept at speaking without
moving her lips. Just once in almost a month of nightly
meetings they managed to exchange a kiss. They were pass-
ing in silence down a side-street (Julia would never speak
when they were away from the main streets) when there was
a deafening roar, the earth heaved, and the air darkened,
and Winston found himself lying on his side, bruised and
terrified. A rocket bomb must have dropped quite near at
hand. Suddenly he became aware of Julia's face a few centi-
metres from his own, deathly white, as white as chalk. Even
her lips were white. She was dead! He clasped her against
him and found that he was kissing a live warm face. But
there was some powdery stuff that got in the way of his lips.
Both of their faces were thickly coated with plaster.
There were evenings when they reached their rendezvous
and then had to walk past one another without a sign, be-
cause a patrol had just come round the corner or a helicopter
was hovering overhead. 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-
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.
