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
bolster. The old-fashioned clock with the twelve-hour face was ticking
away on the mantelpiece. In the corner, on the gateleg table, the glass
paperweight which he had bought on his last visit gleamed softly out of
In the fender was a battered tin oil stove , 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. Actually 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 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, added
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 pillar, with brawny red forearms and a sacking apron strapped
about her middle, was stumping to and fro between a washtub and a
clothes line, pegging out a series of square white things which Winston
recognized as babies' diapers. Whenever 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 benefit of the proles by a
sub-section of the Music Department. The words of these songs were
composed without any human 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 inconceivable 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.'
'Tomorrow afternoon. I can't come.'
'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 sensuality 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 invite 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'
standing. He wished that he were walking through the streets with her
just as they were doing now but openly and without 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 occurred 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
'It isn't sugar?' he said.
'Real sugar. Not saccharine, sugar. And here's a loaf of bread proper
white bread, not our bloody stuff – and a little 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, blowing 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
'It's real tea. Not blackberry leaves.'
'There's been a lot of tea about lately. They've captured India, 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. 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
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 driveling 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 inexhaustible, 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 oneself. 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 recognize 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 paint ed her face.
She must have slipped into some shop in the proletarian quarters and
bought herself a complete set of make-up materials. 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
skillfully 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 prettier, 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
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 varicose 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 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 Winston 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 lying there and listening
to peaceful sounds outside. Surely there could never have been a time
when that seemed ordinary? Julia woke up, rubbed her eyes, and raised
herself on her elbow to look at the oil stove .
'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?'
'It's twenty-three at the hostel. But you have to get in earlier than
that, because – Hi! Get out, you filthy brute!'
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 Minutes Hate.
'What was it?' he said in surprise.
'A rat. I saw him stick his beastly nose out of the wainscoting. 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
'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 throughout his life. It
was always very much the same. He was standing in front of a wall of
darkness, and on the other 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 connected 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, Julia wandered about the room, glancing indifferently at the
bookcase, pointing out the best way of repairing the gateleg table,
plumping herself down in the ragged arm-chair to see if it was
comfortable, and examining the absurd twelve-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 message from a hundred years
ago, if one knew how to read it.'
'And that picture over there' – she nodded at the engraving on the
opposite wall – 'would that be a hundred years old?'
'More. Two hundred, I dare say. One can't tell. It's impossible 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 immediately 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 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 little girl. He
was vaporized when I was eight – at any rate, he disappeared. I wonder
what a lemon was,' she added inconsequently. 'I've seen oranges. They're
a kind of round yellow fruit with a thick skin.'
'I 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
'I 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 afterwards.'
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 interior 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 feeling that he could get
inside it, and that in fact he was inside 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.