No More Learning

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-

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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's a mes-
sage from a hundred years ago, if one knew how to read it. '

'And that picture over there' — she nodded at the engrav-
ing on the opposite wall — 'would that be a hundred years
old? '

'More. Two hundred, I dare say. One can't tell. It's impos-
sible to discover the age of anything nowadays. '

She went over to look at it. 'Here's where that brute stuck
his nose out,' she said, kicking the wainscoting immediate-
ly below the picture. 'What is this place? I've seen it before
somewhere. '

'It's a church, or at least it used to be. St Clement Danes
its name was. ' The fragment of rhyme that Mr Charrington
had taught him came back into his head, and he added
half-nostalgically: 'Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St
Clement's! '

To his astonishment she capped the line:

'You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin's,
When will you pay me? say the bells of Old Bailey '

'I can't remember how it goes on after that. But anyway

FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 183



I remember it ends up, 'Here comes a candle to light you to
bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head! "

It was like the two halves of a countersign. But there
must be another line after 'the bells of Old Bailey'. Perhaps
it could be dug out of Mr Charrington's memory, if he were
suitably prompted.

'Who taught you that? ' he said.

'My grandfather. He used to say it to me when I was a lit-
tle girl. He was vaporized when I was eight — at any rate, he
disappeared. I wonder what a lemon was,' she added incon-
sequently 'I've seen oranges. They're a kind of round yellow
fruit with a thick skin. '

T can remember lemons,' said Winston. "They were quite
common in the fifties. They were so sour that it set your
teeth on edge even to smell them. '

T bet that picture's got bugs behind it,' said Julia. 'I'll
take it down and give it a good clean some day. I suppose
it's almost time we were leaving. I must start washing this
paint off. What a bore! I'll get the lipstick off your face af-
terwards. '

Winston did not get up for a few minutes more. The
room was darkening. He turned over towards the light and
lay gazing into the glass paperweight. The inexhaustibly
interesting thing was not the fragment of coral but the in-
terior of the glass itself. There was such a depth of it, and
yet it was almost as transparent as air. It was as though the
surface of the glass had been the arch of the sky, enclosing
a tiny world with its atmosphere complete. He had the feel-
ing that he could get inside it, and that in fact he was inside

184 1984



it, along with the mahogany bed and the gateleg table, and
the clock and the steel engraving and the paperweight itself.
The paperweight was the room he was in, and the coral was
Julia's life and his own, fixed in a sort of eternity at the heart
of the crystal.



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Chapter 5



Syme had vanished. A morning came, and he was miss-
ing from work: a few thoughtless people commented on
his absence. On the next day nobody mentioned him. On
the third day Winston went into the vestibule of the Re-
cords Department to look at the notice-board. One of the
notices carried a printed list of the members of the Chess
Committee, of whom Syme had been one. It looked almost
exactly as it had looked before — nothing had been crossed
out — but it was one name shorter. It was enough. Syme had
ceased to exist: he had never existed.

The weather was baking hot. In the labyrinthine Ministry
the windowless, air-conditioned rooms kept their normal
temperature, but outside the pavements scorched one's feet
and the stench of the Tubes at the rush hours was a hor-
ror. The preparations for Hate Week were in full swing, and
the staffs of all the Ministries were working overtime. Pro-
cessions, meetings, military parades, lectures, waxworks,
displays, film shows, telescreen programmes all had to be
organized; stands had to be erected, effigies built, slogans
coined, songs written, rumours circulated, photographs
faked. Julia's unit in the Fiction Department had been tak-
en off the production of novels and was rushing out a series
of atrocity pamphlets. Winston, in addition to his regular
work, spent long periods every day in going through back



1984



files of 'The Times' and altering and embellishing news
items which were to be quoted in speeches. Late at night,
when crowds of rowdy proles roamed the streets, the town
had a curiously febrile air. The rocket bombs crashed of-
tener than ever, and sometimes in the far distance there
were enormous explosions which no one could explain and
about which there were wild rumours.

The new tune which was to be the theme-song of Hate
Week (the Hate Song, it was called) had already been com-
posed and was being endlessly plugged on the telescreens.
It had a savage, barking rhythm which could not exactly be
called music, but resembled the beating of a drum. Roared
out by hundreds of voices to the tramp of marching feet, it
was terrifying. The proles had taken a fancy to it, and in the
midnight streets it competed with the still-popular 'It was
only a hopeless fancy'. The Parsons children played it at all
hours of the night and day, unbearably, on a comb and a
piece of toilet paper. Winston's evenings were fuller than
ever. Squads of volunteers, organized by Parsons, were pre-
paring the street for Hate Week, stitching banners, painting
posters, erecting flagstaff's on the roofs, and perilously sling-
ing wires across the street for the reception of streamers.
Parsons boasted that Victory Mansions alone would display
four hundred metres of bunting. He was in his native ele-
ment and as happy as a lark. The heat and the manual work
had even given him a pretext for reverting to shorts and
an open shirt in the evenings. He was everywhere at once,
pushing, pulling, sawing, hammering, improvising, jolly-
ing everyone along with comradely exhortations and giving

FreeeBooksatPlaneteBook. com 187



out from every fold of his body what seemed an inexhaust-
ible supply of acrid-smelling sweat.

A new poster had suddenly appeared all over London. It
had no caption, and represented simply the monstrous fig-
ure of a Eurasian soldier, three or four metres high, striding
forward with expressionless Mongolian face and enor-
mous boots, a submachine gun pointed from his hip. From
whatever angle you looked at the poster, the muzzle of the
gun, magnified by the foreshortening, seemed to be point-
ed straight at you. The thing had been plastered on every
blank space on every wall, even outnumbering the por-
traits of Big Brother. The proles, normally apathetic about
the war, were being lashed into one of their periodical fren-
zies of patriotism. As though to harmonize with the general
mood, the rocket bombs had been killing larger numbers
of people than usual. One fell on a crowded film theatre in
Stepney, burying several hundred victims among the ruins.
The whole population of the neighbourhood turned out for
a long, trailing funeral which went on for hours and was in
effect an indignation meeting. Another bomb fell on a piece
of waste ground which was used as a playground and sever-
al dozen children were blown to pieces. There were further
angry demonstrations, Goldstein was burned in effigy, hun-
dreds of copies of the poster of the Eurasian soldier were
torn down and added to the flames, and a number of shops
were looted in the turmoil; then a rumour flew round that
spies were directing the rocket bombs by means of wireless
waves, and an old couple who were suspected of being of
foreign extraction had their house set on fire and perished



1984



of suffocation.

In the room over Mr Charrington's shop, when they could
get there, Julia and Winston lay side by side on a stripped
bed under the open window, naked for the sake of coolness.
The rat had never come back, but the bugs had multiplied
hideously in the heat. It did not seem to matter. Dirty or
clean, the room was paradise. As soon as they arrived they
would sprinkle everything with pepper bought on the black
market, tear off their clothes, and make love with sweating
bodies, then fall asleep and wake to find that the bugs had
rallied and were massing for the counter-attack.

Four, five, six — seven times they met during the month
of June. Winston had dropped his habit of drinking gin at
all hours. He seemed to have lost the need for it. He had
grown fatter, his varicose ulcer had subsided, leaving only
a brown stain on the skin above his ankle, his fits of cough-
ing in the early morning had stopped. The process of life
had ceased to be intolerable, he had no longer any impulse
to make faces at the telescreen or shout curses at the top of
his voice. Now that they had a secure hiding-place, almost a
home, it did not even seem a hardship that they could only
meet infrequently and for a couple of hours at a time. What
mattered was that the room over the junk-shop should exist.
To know that it was there, inviolate, was almost the same as
being in it. The room was a world, a pocket of the past where
extinct animals could walk. Mr Charrington, thought Win-
ston, was another extinct animal. He usually stopped to talk
with Mr Charrington for a few minutes on his way upstairs.
The old man seemed seldom or never to go out of doors,

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and on the other hand to have almost no customers. He
led a ghostlike existence between the tiny, dark shop, and
an even tinier back kitchen where he prepared his meals
and which contained, among other things, an unbelievably
ancient gramophone with an enormous horn. He seemed
glad of the opportunity to talk. Wandering about among
his worthless stock, with his long nose and thick spectacles
and his bowed shoulders in the velvet jacket, he had always
vaguely the air of being a collector rather than a tradesman.
With a sort of faded enthusiasm he would finger this scrap
of rubbish or that — a china bottle-stopper, the painted lid of
a broken snuffbox, a pinchbeck locket containing a strand
of some long-dead baby's hair — never asking that Winston
should buy it, merely that he should admire it. To talk to
him was like listening to the tinkling of a worn-out musical-
box. He had dragged out from the corners of his memory
some more fragments of forgotten rhymes. There was one
about four and twenty blackbirds, and another about a cow
with a crumpled horn, and another about the death of poor
Cock Robin. 'It just occurred to me you might be interested,'
he would say with a deprecating little laugh whenever he
produced a new fragment. But he could never recall more
than a few lines of any one rhyme.

Both of them knew — in a way, it was never out of their
minds that what was now happening could not last long.