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一九八四|Nineteen Eighty-Four

第二部 第一章|Part 2 Chapter 1

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 乔治.奥威尔] 阅读：[7183]
别名《1984》
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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近晌午时候，温斯顿离开他的小办公室，到厕所里去。

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从灯光明亮的狭长走廊的那一头，向他走来了一个孤单的人影。那是那个黑发姑娘。自从那天晚上他在那家旧货铺门口碰到她以来已有四天了。她走近的时候，他看到她的右臂接着绷带，远处不大看得清，因为颜色与她穿的制服相同，大概是她在转那“构想”小说情节的大万花筒时压伤了手。那是小说司常见的事故。

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他们相距四公尺的时候，那个姑娘绊了一交，几乎扑倒在地上。她发出一声呼痛的尖叫。她一定又跌在那条受伤的手臂上了。温斯顿马上停步。那姑娘已经跪了起来。她的脸色一片蜡黄，嘴唇显得更红了。她的眼睛紧紧地盯住他，求援的神色与其说是出于痛楚不如说是出于害怕。

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温斯顿心中的感情很是奇特。在他前面的是一个要想杀害他的敌人，然而也是一个受伤的，也许骨折的人。他出于本能已经走上前去要援助她。他一看到她跌着的地方就在那条扎着绷带的手臂上，就感到好象痛在自己身上一样。

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“你摔痛了没有？”他问着。

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“没什么。摔痛了胳膊。一会儿就好了。”

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她说话时好象心在怦怦地乱跳。她的脸色可真是苍白得很。

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“你没有摔断什么吗？”

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“没有，没事儿。痛一会儿就会好的。”

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她把没事的手伸给他，他把她搀了起来。她的脸色恢复了一点，看上去好多了。

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“没事儿，”她又简短地说。“我只是把手腕摔痛了一些。谢谢你，同志！”

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她说完就朝原来的方向走去，动作轻快，好象真的没事儿一样。整个事情不会超过半分钟。不让自己的脸上现出内心的感情已成为一种本能，而且在刚才这件事发生的时候，他们正好站在一个电幕的前面。

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尽管如此，他还是很难不露出一时的惊异，因为就在他搀她起身时，那姑娘把一件不知什么东西塞在他的手里。她是有心这样做的，这已毫无疑问。

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那是一个扁平的小东西。他进厕所门时，把它揣在口袋里，用手指摸摸它。原来是折成小方块的一张纸条。

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他一边站着小便，一边设法就在口袋里用手指把它打了开来。显然，里面一定写着要同他说的什么话。他一时冲动之下，想到单间的马桶间里去马上打开它。但是这样做太愚蠢。这他也知道。没有任何别的地方使你更有把握，因为电幕在连续不断地监视着人们。

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他回到了他的小办公室，坐了下来，把那纸片随便放在桌上的一堆纸里，戴上了眼镜，把听写器拉了过来。他对自已说，“五分钟，至少至少要等五分钟！”他的心怦怦地在胸口跳着，声音大得令人吃惊。幸而他在做的那件工作不过是一件例行公事，纠正一长列的数字，不需要太多的注意力。

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不论那纸片上写的是什么，那一定是有些政治章义的。

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他能够估计到的，只有两种可能性。一种可能性的可能较大。即那个姑娘是思想警察的特务，就象他所担心的那样。

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他不明白，为什么思想警察要用那种方式送信，不过他们也许有他们的理由。纸片上写的也许是一个威胁，也许是一张传票，也许是一个要他自杀的命令，也许是一个不知什么的圈套。但是还有一种比较荒诞不经的可能性不断地抬头，他怎么也压不下去。那就是，这根本不是思想警察那里来的而是某个地下组织送来的信息。

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也许，兄弟团真的是确有其事的！也许那姑娘是其中的一员！没有疑问，这个念头很荒谬，但是那张纸片一接触到他的手，他的心中就马上出现了这个念头。过了一两分钟以后，他才想到另外一个比较可能的解释。即使现在，他的理智告诉他，这个信息可能就是死亡，但是，他仍旧不信，那个不合理的希望仍旧不散，他的心房仍在怦怦地跳着，他好不容易才克制住自己。在对着听写器低声说一些数字时，使自已的声音不致发颤。

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他把做完的工作卷了起来，放在输送管里。时间已经过去了八分钟。他端正了鼻梁上的眼镜，叹了一口气，把下一批的工作拉到前面，上面就有那张纸片，他把它摊平了。上面写的是几个歪歪斜斜的大字：

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我爱你

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他吃惊之余，一时忘了把这容易招罪的东西丢进忘怀洞里。等到他这么做时，他尽管很明白，表露出太多的兴趣是多么危险，还是禁不住要再看一遍，哪怕只是为了弄清楚上面确实写着这几个字。

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这天上午他就无心工作。要集中精力做那些琐细的工作固然很难，更难的是要掩藏他的激动情绪，不让电幕察觉。

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他感到好象肚子里有一把火在烧一样。在那人声嘈杂、又挤又热的食堂里吃饭成了一件苦事。他原来希望在吃中饭的时候能清静一会儿，但是不巧的是，那个笨蛋派逊斯又一屁股坐在他旁边，他的汗臭把一点点菜香都压过了，嘴里还没完没了地在说着仇恨周的准备情况。他对他女儿的侦察队为仇恨周做的一个硬纸板老大哥头部模型特别说得起劲，那模型足有两公尺宽。讨厌的是，在嗡嗡的人声中，温斯顿一点也听不清派逊斯在说些什么，他得不断地请他把那些蠢话再说一遍。只有一次，他看到了那个姑娘，她同两个姑娘坐在食堂的那一头。她好象没有瞧见他，他也就没有再向那边望一眼。

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下午比较好过一些。午饭以后送来的一件工作比较复杂困难，要好几个小时才能完成，必须把别的事情都暂时撇在一边。这项工作是要篡改两年前的一批产量报告，目的是要损害核心党内一个重要党员的威信，这个人现在已经蒙上了阴影。

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这是温斯顿最拿手的事情，两个多小时里他居然把那个姑娘完全置诸脑后了。但是接着，他的记忆中又出现了她的面容，引起了不可克制的要找个清静地方的炽烈欲望。

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他不找到个清静的地方，是无法把这桩新发生的事理出一个头绪来的。今晚又是他该去参加邻里活动中心站的晚上，他又马马虎虎地在食堂里吃了一顿无味的晚饭，匆匆到中心站去，参加“讨论组”的讨论，这是一种一本正经的蠢事，打两局乒乓球，喝几杯杜松子酒，听半小时题叫《英社与象棋的关系》的报告。他内心里厌烦透了，可是他第一次没有要逃避中心站活动的冲动。看到了我爱你(I love you)三字以后，他要活下去的欲望猛然高涨，为一些小事担风险太不划算了。

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一直到了二十三点，他回家上床以后，在黑暗中他才能连贯地思考问题。在黑暗中，只要你保持静默，你是能够躲开电幕的监视而安然无事的。

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要解决的问题是个实际问题：怎样同那姑娘联系，安排一次约会？他不再认为她可能是在对他布置圈套了。他知道不会是这样，因为她把纸片递给他时，毫无疑问显得很激动。显然她吓得要命，谁都要吓坏的。他的心里也从来没有想到过拒绝她的垂青。

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五天以前的晚上，他还想用一块铺路的鹅卵石击破她的脑袋；不过这没有关系。他想到她的赤裸的年轻的肉体，象在梦中见到的那样。他原来以为她象她们别人一样也是个傻瓜，头脑里尽是些谎言和仇恨，肚子里尽是些冰块。一想到他可能会失掉她，她的年轻白嫩的肉体可能从他手中滑掉，他就感到一阵恐慌。他最担心的是，如果他不同她马上联系上，她可能就此改变主意。但是要同她见面，具体的困难很大。

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这就象在下棋的时候，你已经给将死了却还想走一步。你不论朝什么方向，都有电幕对着你。实际上，从他看到那字条起，五分钟之内，他就想遍了所有同她联系的方法。现在有了考虑的时间，他就逐个逐个地再检查一遍，好象在桌上摆开一排工具一样。

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显然，今天上午那样的相遇是无法依样画葫芦地再来一遍的了。要是她在记录司工作，那就简单得多，但是小说司在大楼里的坐落情况，他只有个极为模糊的概念，他也没有什么借口可到那里去。要是他知道她住在哪里和什么时候下班，他就可以想法在她回家的路上去见她。

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但是要跟在她后面回家并不安全，因为这需要在真理部外面荡来荡去，这一定会被人家注意到的。至于通过邮局写信给她，那根本办不到。因为所有的信件在邮递的过程中都要受到检查，这样一种必经的手续已不是什么秘密了。

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实际上，很少人写信。有时万不得已要传递信息，就用印好的明信片，上面印有一长串现成的辞句，只要把不适用的话划掉就行了。反正，他也不知道那个姑娘的姓名，更不用说地址了。

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最后他决定，最安全的地方是食堂。要是他能够在她单独坐在一张桌子旁时接近她，地点又是在食堂中央，距离电幕不要太近，周围人声嘈杂，只要这样的条件持续有那么三十秒钟，也许就可以交谈几句了。

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在这以后的一个星期里，生活就象在做辗转反侧的梦一样。第二天，在他要离开食堂时她才到来，那时已吹哨了。她大概换了夜班。他们两人擦身而过时连看也不看一眼。接着那一天，她在平时到食堂的时候在食堂中出现，可是有三个姑娘在一起，而且就坐在电幕下面。接着三天，她都没有出现。这使他身心紧张，特别敏感脆弱，好象一碰即破似的；他的任何一举一动，不管是接触还是声音，不管是他自己说话还是听人家说话，都成了无法忍受的痛苦。即使在睡梦中，他也无法完全逃避她的形象。

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他在这几天里没有去碰日记。如果说有什么事情能使他忘怀的话，那就是他的工作，有时可以一口气十分钟忘掉他自己。她究竟发生了什么，他一无所知，也不能去打听。她可能已经化为乌有了，也可能自杀了，也可能调到大洋国的另外一头去了——最糟糕，也是最可能的是，她可能改变了主意，决定避开他了。

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第二天她又出现了，胳臂已去了悬吊的绷带，不过手腕上贴着橡皮膏。看到她，使他高兴得禁不住直挺挺地盯着她看了几秒钟。

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下一天，他差一点同她说成了话。那是当他进食堂的时候，她坐在一张距墙很远的桌子旁，周围没有旁人。时间很早，食堂的人不怎么多。队伍慢慢前进，温斯顿快到柜台边的时候，忽然由于前面有人说他没有领到一片糖精而又停顿了两分钟。

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但是温斯顿领到他的一盘饭莱，开始朝那姑娘的桌子走去时，她还是一个人坐在那里。他若无其事地朝她走去，眼光却在她后面的一张桌子那边探索。当时距离她大概有三公尺远。再过两秒钟就可到她身旁了。

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这时他的背后忽然有人叫他“史密斯！”他假装没有听见。那人又喊了一声 “史密斯！”，声音比刚才大一些。再假装没有听见已没有用了。

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他转过头去一看，是个头发金黄、面容愚蠢的年青人，名叫维尔希，此人他并不熟，可是面露笑容，邀他到他桌边的一个空位子上坐下来。拒绝他是不安全的。

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在别人认出他以后，他不能再到一个孤身的姑娘的桌边坐下。这样做太会引起注意了。于是他面露笑容，坐了下来。那张愚蠢的脸也向他笑容相迎。温斯顿恨不得提起一把斧子把它砍成两半。

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几分钟之后，那姑娘的桌子也就坐满了。

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但是她一定看到了他向她走去，也许她领会了这个暗示。第二天，他很早就去了。

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果然，她又坐在那个老地方附近的一张桌边，又是一个人。队伍里站在他前面的那个人个子矮小，动作敏捷，象个甲壳虫一般，他的脸型平板，眼睛很小，目光多疑。温斯顿端起盘子离开柜台时，他看到那个小个子向那个姑娘的桌子走去。他的希望又落空了。

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再过去一张桌子有个空位子，但那小个子的神色表露出他很会照顾自己，一定会挑选一张最空的桌子。

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温斯顿心里一阵发凉，只好跟在他后边，走过去再说。除非他能单独与那姑娘在一起，否则是没有用的，就在这个时候，忽然忽拉一声。那小个子四脚朝天，跌在地上，盘子不知飞到哪里去了，汤水和咖啡流满一地。

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他爬了起来，不高兴地看了温斯顿一眼，显然怀疑是他故意绊他跌交的。不过不要紧。五秒钟以后，温斯顿心怦怦地跳着，他坐在姑娘的桌旁了。

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他没有看她，他放好盘子就很快吃起来。应该趁还没有人到来以前马上说话，但是他忽然一阵疑惧袭心。打从上次她向他有所表示以来，已有一个星期了。她很可能已经改变了主意，她一定已经改变了主意！这件事要搞成功是不可能的；实际生活里是不会发生这种事情的。

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要不是他看到那个长发诗人安普尔福思端着一盘菜饭到处逡巡要想找个座位坐下，他很可能根本不想开口的。安普尔福思对温斯顿好象有种说不出的感情，如果看到温斯顿，肯定是会到他这里就座的。现在大约只有一分钟的时间，要行动就得迅速。

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这时温斯顿和那姑娘都在吃饭。他们吃的东西是用菜豆做的炖菜，实际上同汤一样。温斯顿这时就低声说起来。

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他们两人都没有抬起头来看，一边把稀溜溜的东西送到嘴里，一边轻声地交换几句必要的话，声色不露。

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“你什么时候下班？”

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“十八点三十分。”

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“咱们在什么地方可以见面？”

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“胜利广场，纪念碑附近。”

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“那里尽是电幕。”

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“人多就不要紧。”

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“有什么暗号吗？”

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“没有。看到我混在人群中的时候才可以过来。眼睛别看我。跟在身边就行了。”

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“什么时间？”

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“十九点。”

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“好吧。”

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安普尔福思没有见到温斯顿，在另外一张桌子边坐了下来。那姑娘很快地吃完了饭就走了，温斯顿留了下来抽了一支烟。他们没有再说话，而且也没有相互看一眼，两个人面对面坐在一张桌子旁，这可不容易做到。

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温斯顿在约定时间之前就到了胜利广场。他在那个大笛子般的圆柱底座周围徘徊，圆柱顶上老大哥的塑像向南方天际凝视着，他在那边曾经在“一号空降场战役”中歼灭了欧亚国的飞机(而在几年之前则是东亚国的飞机)。

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纪念碑前的街上，有个骑马人的塑像，据说是奥立佛克伦威尔。

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在约定时间五分钟以后，那个姑娘还没有出现。温斯顿心中又是一阵疑惧。

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她没有来，她改变了主意！

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他慢慢地走到广场北面，认出了圣马丁教堂，不由得感到有点高兴，那个教堂的钟声——当它还有钟的时候——曾经敲出过“你欠我三个铜板”的歌声。

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这时他忽然看到那姑娘站在纪念碑底座前面在看——或者说装着在看——上面贴着的一张招贴。在没有更多的人聚在她周围之前上去走近她，不太安全。

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纪念碑四周尽是电幕。但是这时忽然发生一阵喧哗，左边什么地方传来了一阵重型车辆的声音。突然人人都奔过广场。那个姑娘轻捷地在底座的雕狮旁边跳过去，混在人群中去了。

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温斯顿跟了上去。他跑去的时候，从叫喊声中听出来，原来是有几车欧亚国的俘虏经过。

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这时密密麻麻的人群已经堵塞了广场的南边。温斯顿平时碰到这种人头济济的场合，总是往边上靠的，这次却又推又搡，向人群中央挤去。他不久就到了离那姑娘伸手可及的地方，但中间夹了一个魁梧的无产者和一个同样肥大的女人，大概是无产者的妻子，他们形成了一道无法越过的肉墙。温斯顿把身子侧过来，猛的一挤，把肩膀插在他们两人的中间，打开了一个缺口，可是五脏六肺好象被那两个壮实的躯体挤成肉浆一样。但他出了一身大汗，终于挤了过去。他现在就在那姑娘身旁了。他们肩挨着肩，但眼睛都呆呆地直视着前方。

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这时有一长队的卡车慢慢地开过街道，车上每个角落都直挺挺地站着手持轻机枪、面无表情的警卫。车上蹲着许多身穿草绿色破旧军服的人，脸色发黄，互相挤在一起。他们的悲哀的蒙古种的脸木然望着卡车的外面，一点也没有感到好奇的样子。有时卡车稍有颠簸，车上就发出几声铁链叮当的声音；所有的俘虏都戴着脚镣。一车一车的愁容满脸的俘虏开了过去。

76
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温斯顿知道他们不断地在经过，但是他只是时断时续地看到他们。那姑娘的肩膀和她手肘以上的胳臂都碰到了他。她的脸颊挨得这么近，使他几乎可以感到她的温暖。这时她马上掌握了局面，就象在食堂那次一样。她又口也不张，用不露声色的声音开始说话，这样细声低语在人声喧杂和卡车隆隆中是很容易掩盖过去的。

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“你能听到我说话吗？”

78
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"是的"

79
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[p1]“星期天下午你能调休吗？”

80
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[p2]”能。“

81
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“那么听好了。你得记清楚。到巴丁顿车站去——”

82
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她逐一说明了他要走的路线，清楚明确，犹如军事计划一样，使他感到惊异。坐半小时火车，然后出车站往左拐，沿公路走两公里，到了一扇顶上没有横梁的大门，穿过了田野中的一条小径，到了一条长满野草的路上，灌木丛中又有一条小路，上面横着一根长了青苔的枯木。

83
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好象她头脑里有一张地图一样。她最后低声说，“这些你都能记得吗？”

84
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“你先左拐，然后右转，最后又左拐。那扇大门顶上没横梁。”

85
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“知道。什么时间？”

86
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“大约十五点。你可能要等。我从另外一条路到那里。你都记清了？”

87
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“记清了。”

88
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“那么马上离开我吧。”

89
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这，不需要她告诉他．但是他们在人群中一时还脱不开身。卡车还在经过，人们还都永不知足地呆看着。开始有几声嘘叫，但这只是从人群中间的党员那里发出来的，很快就停止了。

90
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现在大家的情绪完全是好奇。不论是从欧亚国或东亚国来的外国人都是一种奇怪陌生的动物。除了俘虏，很少看到他们，即使是俘虏，也只是匆匆一瞥。

91
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而且你也不知道他们的下场如何，只知其中有少数人要作为战犯吊死。别的就无影无踪了，大概送到了强迫劳动营。圆圆的蒙古种的脸过去之后，出现了比较象欧洲人的脸，肮脏憔悴，满面胡须。

92
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从毛茸茸的面颊上露出的目光射到了温斯顿的脸上，有时紧紧地盯着，但马上就一闪而过了。车队终于走完。他在最后一辆卡车上看到一个上了年纪的人，满脸毛茸茸的胡须，直挺挺地站在那里，双手叉在胸前，好象久已习惯于把他的双手铐在一起了。

93
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温斯顿和那姑娘该到了分手的时候了。但就在这最后一刹那，趁四周人群还是很挤的时候，她伸过手来，很快地捏了一把他的手。

94
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这一捏不可能超过十秒钟，但是两只手好象握了很长时间。他有充裕的时间摸熟了她的手的每一个细部。他摸到了纤长的手指，椭圆的指甲，由于操劳而磨出了老茧的掌心，手腕上光滑的皮肤。这样一摸，他不看也能认得出来。这时他又想到，他连她的眼睛是什么颜色也不知道。可能是棕色，但是黑头发的人的眼睛往往是蓝色的。现在再回过头来看她，未免太愚蠢了。

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他们两人的手握在一起，在拥挤的人群中是不易发觉的，他们不敢相互看一眼，只是直挺挺地看着前面，而看着温斯顿的不是那姑娘，而是那个上了年纪的俘虏，他的眼光悲哀地从毛发丛中向他凝视着。

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It was the middle of the morning, and Winston had left the cubicle to go to the lavatory.

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A solitary figure was coming towards him from the other end of the long, brightly-lit corridor. It was the girl with dark hair. Four days had gone past since the evening when he had run into her outside the junk-shop. As she came nearer he saw that her right arm was in a sling , not noticeable at a distance because it was of the same colour as her overalls . Probably she had crushed her hand while swinging round one of the big kaleidoscopes on which the plots of novels were ’roughed in’. It was a common accident in the Fiction Department.

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They were perhaps four metres apart when the girl stumbled and fell almost flat on her face. A sharp cry of pain was wrung out of her. She must have fallen right on the injured arm. Winston stopped short. The girl had risen to her knees. Her face had turned a milky yellow colour against which her mouth stood out redder than ever. Her eyes were fixed on his, with an appealing expression that looked more like fear than pain.

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A curious emotion stirred in Winston’s heart. In front of him was an enemy who was trying to kill him: in front of him, also, was a human creature, in pain and perhaps with a broken bone. Already he had instinctively started forward to help her. In the moment when he had seen her fall on the bandaged arm, it had been as though he felt the pain in his own body.

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’You’re hurt?’ he said.

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’It’s nothing. My arm. It’ll be all right in a second.’

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She spoke as though her heart were fluttering. She had certainly turned very pale.

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’You haven’t broken anything?’

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’No, I’m all right. It hurt for a moment, that’s all.’

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She held out her free hand to him, and he helped her up. She had regained some of her colour, and appeared very much better.

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’It’s nothing,’ she repeated shortly. ’I only gave my wrist a bit of a bang. Thanks, comrade!’

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And with that she walked on in the direction in which she had been going, as briskly as though it had really been nothing. The whole incident could not have taken as much as half a minute. Not to let one’s feelings appear in one’s face was a habit that had acquired the status of an instinct, and in any case they had been standing straight in front of a telescreen when the thing happened.

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Nevertheless it had been very difficult not to betray a momentary surprise, for in the two or three seconds while he was helping her up the girl had slipped something into his hand. There was no question that she had done it intentionally .

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It was something small and flat. As he passed through the lavatory door he transferred it to his pocket and felt it with the tips of his fingers. It was a scrap of paper folded into a square.

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While he stood at the urinal he managed, with a little more fingering, to get it unfolded. Obviously there must be a message of some kind written on it. For a moment he was tempted to take it into one of the water-closets and read it at once. But that would be shocking folly , as he well knew. There was no place where you could be more certain that the telescreens were watched continuously.

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He went back to his cubicle, sat down, threw the fragment of paper casually among the other papers on the desk, put on his spectacles and hitched the speakwrite towards him. ’five minutes,’ he told himself, ’five minutes at the very least!’ His heart bumped in his breast with frightening loudness. Fortunately the piece of work he was engaged on was mere routine, the rectification of a long list of figures, not needing close attention.

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Whatever was written on the paper, it must have some kind of political meaning.

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So far as he could see there were two possibilities. One, much the more likely, was that the girl was an agent of the Thought Police, just as he had feared.

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He did not know why the Thought Police should choose to deliver their messages in such a fashion, but perhaps they had their reasons. The thing that was written on the paper might be a threat, a summons, an order to commit suicide, a trap of some description. But there was another, wilder possibility that kept raising its head, though he tried vainly to suppress it. This was, that the message did not come from the Thought Police at all, but from some kind of underground organization.

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Perhaps the Brotherhood existed after all! Perhaps the girl was part of it! No doubt the idea was absurd, but it had sprung into his mind in the very instant of feeling the scrap of paper in his hand. It was not till a couple of minutes later that the other, more probable explanation had occurred to him. And even now, though his intellect told him that the message probably meant death -- still, that was not what he believed, and the unreasonable hope persisted, and his heart banged, and it was with difficulty that he kept his voice from trembling as he murmured his figures into the speakwrite.

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He rolled up the completed bundle of work and slid it into the pneumatic tube. Eight minutes had gone by. He re-adjusted his spectacles on his nose, sighed, and drew the next batch of work towards him, with the scrap of paper on top of it. He flattened it out. On it was written, in a large unformed handwriting:

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I love you.

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For several seconds he was too stunned even to throw the incriminating thing into the memory hole. When he did so, although he knew very well the danger of showing too much interest, he could not resist reading it once again, just to make sure that the words were really there.

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For the rest of the morning it was very difficult to work. What was even worse than having to focus his mind on a series of niggling jobs was the need to conceal his agitation from the telescreen.

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He felt as though a fire were burning in his belly . Lunch in the hot, crowded, noise-filled canteen was torment . He had hoped to be alone for a little while during the lunch hour, but as bad luck would have it the imbecile Parsons flopped down beside him, the tang of his sweat almost defeating the tinny smell of stew , and kept up a stream of talk about the preparations for Hate Week. He was particularly enthusiastic about a papier-mache model of Big Brother’s head, two metres wide, which was being made for the occasion by his daughter’s troop of Spies. The irritating thing was that in the racket of voices Winston could hardly hear what Parsons was saying, and was constantly having to ask for some fatuous remark to be repeated. Just once he caught a glimpse of the girl, at a table with two other girls at the far end of the room. She appeared not to have seen him, and he did not look in that direction again.

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The afternoon was more bearable. Immediately after lunch there arrived a delicate, difficult piece of work which would take several hours and necessitated putting everything else aside. It consisted in falsifying a series of production reports of two years ago, in such a way as to cast discredit on a prominent member of the Inner Party, who was now under a cloud.

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This was the kind of thing that Winston was good at, and for more than two hours he succeeded in shutting the girl out of his mind altogether. Then the memory of her face came back, and with it a raging, intolerable desire to be alone.

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Until he could be alone it was impossible to think this new development out. Tonight was one of his nights at the Community Centre. He wolfed another tasteless meal in the canteen, hurried off to the Centre, took part in the solemn foolery of a ’discussion group’, played two games of table tennis, swallowed several glasses of gin, and sat for half an hour through a lecture entitled ’Ingsoc in relation to chess’. His soul writhed with boredom , but for once he had had no impulse to shirk his evening at the Centre. At the sight of the words I love you the desire to stay alive had welled up in him, and the taking of minor risks suddenly seemed stupid.

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It was not till twenty-three hours, when he was home and in bed -- in the darkness, where you were safe even from the telescreen so long as you kept silent -- that he was able to think continuously.

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It was a physical problem that had to be solved: how to get in touch with the girl and arrange a meeting. He did not consider any longer the possibility that she might be laying some kind of trap for him. He knew that it was not so, because of her unmistakable agitation when she handed him the note. Obviously she had been frightened out of her wits, as well she might be. Nor did the idea of refusing her advances even cross his mind.

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Only five nights ago he had contemplated smashing her skull in with a cobblestone, but that was of no importance. He thought of her naked, youthful body, as he had seen it in his dream. He had imagined her a fool like all the rest of them, her head stuffed with lies and hatred , her belly full of ice. A kind of fever seized him at the thought that he might lose her, the white youthful body might slip away from him! What he feared more than anything else was that she would simply change her mind if he did not get in touch with her quickly. But the physical difficulty of meeting was enormous.

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It was like trying to make a move at chess when you were already mated. Whichever way you turned, the telescreen faced you. Actually, all the possible ways of communicating with her had occurred to him within five minutes of reading the note; but now, with time to think, he went over them one by one, as though laying out a row of instruments on a table.

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Obviously the kind of encounter that had happened this morning could not be repeated. If she had worked in the Records Department it might have been comparatively simple, but he had only a very dim idea whereabouts in the building the Fiction Departrnent lay, and he had no pretext for going there. If he had known where she lived, and at what time she left work, he could have contrived to meet her somewhere on her way home;

33

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but to try to follow her home was not safe, because it would mean loitering about outside the Ministry , which was bound to be noticed. As for sending a letter through the mails, it was out of the question. By a routine that was not even secret, all letters were opened in transit .

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Actually, few people ever wrote letters. For the messages that it was occasionally necessary to send, there were printed postcards with long lists of phrases, and you struck out the ones that were inapplicable. In any case he did not know the girl’s name, let alone her address.

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Finally he decided that the safest place was the canteen. If he could get her at a table by herself, somewhere in the middle of the room, not too near the telescreens, and with a sufficient buzz of conversation all round -- if these conditions endured for, say, thirty seconds, it might be possible to exchange a few words.

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For a week after this, life was like a restless dream. On the next day she did not appear in the canteen until he was leaving it, the whistle having already blown. Presumably she had been changed on to a later shift. They passed each other without a glance. On the day after that she was in the canteen at the usual time, but with three other girls and immediately under a telescreen. Then for three dreadful days she did not appear at all. His whole mind and body seemed to be afflicted with an unbearable sensitivity, a sort of transparency, which made every movement, every sound, every contact, every word that he had to speak or listen to, an agony. Even in sleep he could not altogether escape from her image.

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He did not touch the diary during those days. If there was any relief, it was in his work, in which he could sometimes forget himself for ten minutes at a stretch. He had absolutely no clue as to what had happened to her. There was no enquiry he could make. She might have been vaporized, she might have committed suicide, she might have been transferred to the other end of Oceania: worst and likeliest of all, she might simply have changed her mind and decided to avoid him.

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The next day she reappeared. Her arm was out of the sling and she had a band of sticking-plaster round her wrist. The relief of seeing her was so great that he could not resist staring directly at her for several seconds.

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On the following day he very nearly succeeded in speaking to her. When he came into the canteen she was sitting at a table well out from the wall, and was quite alone. It was early, and the place was not very full. The queue edged forward till Winston was almost at the counter, then was held up for two minutes because someone in front was complaining that he had not received his tablet of saccharine .

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But the girl was still alone when Winston secured his tray and began to make for her table. He walked casually towards her, his eyes searching for a place at some table beyond her. She was perhaps three metres away from him. Another two seconds would do it.

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Then a voice behind him called, ’Smith!’ He pretended not to hear. ’Smith!’ repeated the voice, more loudly. It was no use.

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He turned round. A blond-headed, silly-faced young man named Wilsher, whom he barely knew, was inviting him with a smile to a vacant place at his table. It was not safe to refuse.

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After having been recognized, he could not go and sit at a table with an unattended girl. It was too noticeable. He sat down with a friendly smile. The silly blond face beamed into his. Winston had a hallucination of himself smashing a pick-axe right into the middle of it.

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The girl’s table filled up a few minutes later.

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But she must have seen him coming towards her, and perhaps she would take the hint. Next day he took care to arrive early.

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Surely enough, she was at a table in about the same place, and again alone. The person immediately ahead of him in the queue was a small, swiftly-moving, beetle-like man with a flat face and tiny, suspicious eyes. As Winston turned away from the counter with his tray, he saw that the little man was making straight for the girl’s table. His hopes sank again.

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There was a vacant place at a table further away, but something in the little man’s appearance suggested that he would be sufficiently attentive to his own comfort to choose the emptiest table.

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With ice at his heart Winston followed. It was no use unless he could get the girl alone. At this moment there was a tremendous crash. The little man was sprawling on all fours, his tray had gone flying, two streams of soup and coffee were flowing across the floor.

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He started to his feet with a malignant glance at Winston, whom he evidently suspected of having tripped him up. But it was all right. Five seconds later, with a thundering heart, Winston was sitting at the girl’s table.

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He did not look at her. He unpacked his tray and promptly began eating. It was all-important to speak at once, before anyone else came, but now a terrible fear had taken possession of him. A week had gone by since she had first approached him. She would have changed her mind, she must have changed her mind! It was impossible that this affair should end successfully; such things did not happen in real life.

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He might have flinched altogether from speaking if at this moment he had not seen Ampleforth, the hairy-eared poet, wandering limply round the room with a tray, looking for a place to sit down. In his vague way Ampleforth was attached to Winston, and would certainly sit down at his table if he caught sight of him. There was perhaps a minute in which to act.

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Both Winston and the girl were eating steadily . The stuff they were eating was a thin stew, actually a soup, of haricot beans. In a low murmur Winston began speaking.

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Neither of them looked up; steadily they spooned the watery stuff into their mouths, and between spoonfuls exchanged the few necessary words in low expressionless voices.

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’What time do you leave work?’

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’Eighteen-thirty.’

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’Where can we meet?’

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’Victory Square, near the monument.

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’It’s full of telescreens.’

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’It doesn’t matter if there’s a crowd.’

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’Any signal?’

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’No. Don’t come up to me until you see me among a lot of people. And don’t look at me. Just keep somewhere near me.’

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’What time?’

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’Nineteen hours.’

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’All right.’

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Ampleforth failed to see Winston and sat down at another table. They did not speak again, and, so far as it was possible for two people sitting on opposite sides of the same table, they did not look at one another. The girl finished her lunch quickly and made off, while Winston stayed to smoke a cigarette.

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Winston was in Victory Square before the appointed time. He wandered round the base of the enormous fluted column, at the top of which Big Brother’s statue gazed southward towards the skies where he had vanquished the Eurasian aeroplanes (the Eastasian aeroplanes, it had been, a few years ago) in the Battle of Airstrip One.

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In the street in front of it there was a statue of a man on horseback which was supposed to represent Oliver Cromwell.

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At five minutes past the hour the girl had still not appeared. Again the terrible fear seized upon Winston.

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She was not coming, she had changed her mind!

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He walked slowly up to the north side of the square and got a sort of pale-coloured pleasure from identifying St Martin’s Church, whose bells, when it had bells, had chimed ’You owe me three farthings.’

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Then he saw the girl standing at the base of the monument, reading or pretending to read a poster which ran spirally up the column. It was not safe to go near her until some more people had accumulated.

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There were telescreens all round the pediment. But at this moment there was a din of shouting and a zoom of heavy vehicles from somewhere to the left. Suddenly everyone seemed to be running across the square. The girl nipped nimbly round the lions at the base of the monument and joined in the rush.

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Winston followed. As he ran, he gathered from some shouted remarks that a convoy of Eurasian prisoners was passing.

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Already a dense mass of people was blocking the south side of the square. Winston, at normal times the kind of person who gravitates to the outer edge of any kind of scrimmage, shoved, butted , squirmed his way forward into the heart of the crowd. Soon he was within arm’s length of the girl, but the way was blocked by an enormous prole and an almost equally enormous woman, presumably his wife, who seemed to form an impenetrable wall of flesh. Winston wriggled himself sideways, and with a violent lunge managed to drive his shoulder between them. For a moment it felt as though his entrails were being ground to pulp between the two muscular hips , then he had broken through, sweating a little. He was next to the girl. They were shoulder to shoulder, both staring fixedly in front of them.

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A long line of trucks, with wooden-faced guards armed with sub-machine guns standing upright in each corner, was passing slowly down the street. In the trucks little yellow men in shabby greenish uniforms were squatting , jammed close together. Their sad, Mongolian faces gazed out over the sides of the trucks utterly incurious. Occasionally when a truck jolted there was a clank-clank of metal: all the prisoners were wearing leg-irons. Truck-load after truck-load of the sad faces passed.

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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 moving, a mere murmur easily drowned by the din of voices and the rumbling of the trucks.

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’Can you hear me?’

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’Yes.’

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’Can you get Sunday afternoon off?’

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’Yes.’

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’Then listen carefully. You’ll have to remember this. Go to Paddington Station -’

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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.

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It was as though she had a map inside her head. ’Can you remember all that?’ she murmured finally.

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’You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gate’s got no top bar.’

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’Yes. What time?’

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’About fifteen. You may have to wait. I’ll get there by another way. Are you sure you remember everything?’

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’Yes.’

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"Yes."

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’Then get away from me as quick as you can.’

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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 gaping . 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.

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The prevailing emotion was simply curiosity. Foreigners, whether from Eurasia or from Eastasia, were a kind of strange animal. One literally never saw them except in the guise of prisoners, and even as prisoners one never got more than a momentary glimpse of them.

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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 .

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From over scrubby cheekbones 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.

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It was almost time for Winston and the girl to part. But at the last moment, while the crowd still hemmed them in, her hand felt for his and gave it a fleeting squeeze.

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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.

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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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