1984 - Tone Analysis Practice CER(ER)

Winston picked his way up the lane through dappled light and shade,

stepping out into pools of gold wherever the boughs parted. Under the

trees to the left of him the ground was misty with bluebells. The air

seemed to kiss one's skin. It was the second of May. From somewhere deeper

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in the heart of the wood came the droning of ring-doves.

He was a bit early. There had been no difficulties about the journey, and

the girl was so evidently experienced that he was less frightened than he

would normally have been. Presumably she could be trusted to find a safe

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place. In general you could not assume that you were much safer in the

country than in London. There were no telescreens, of course, but there

was always the danger of concealed microphones by which your voice might

be picked up and recognized; besides, it was not easy to make a journey

by yourself without attracting attention. For distances of less than

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100 kilometres it was not necessary to get your passport endorsed, but

sometimes there were patrols hanging about the railway stations, who

examined the papers of any Party member they found there and asked awkward

questions. However, no patrols had appeared, and on the walk from the

station he had made sure by cautious backward glances that he was not

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being followed. The train was full of proles, in holiday mood because of

the summery weather. The wooden-seated carriage in which he travelled was

filled to overflowing by a single enormous family, ranging from a toothless

great-grandmother to a month-old baby, going out to spend an afternoon

with 'in-laws' in the country, and, as they freely explained to Winston,

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to get hold of a little black-market butter.

The lane widened, and in a minute he came to the footpath she had told him

of, a mere cattle-track which plunged between the bushes. He had no watch,

but it could not be fifteen yet. The bluebells were so thick underfoot

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that it was impossible not to tread on them. He knelt down and began

picking some partly to pass the time away, but also from a vague idea that

he would like to have a bunch of flowers to offer to the girl when they

met. He had got together a big bunch and was smelling their faint sickly

scent when a sound at his back froze him, the unmistakable crackle of a

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foot on twigs. He went on picking bluebells. It was the best thing to do.

It might be the girl, or he might have been followed after all. To look

round was to show guilt. He picked another and another. A hand fell

lightly on his shoulder.

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He looked up. It was the girl. She shook her head, evidently as a warning

that he must keep silent, then parted the bushes and quickly led the way

along the narrow track into the wood. Obviously she had been that way

before, for she dodged the boggy bits as though by habit. Winston followed,

still clasping his bunch of flowers. His first feeling was relief, but as

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he watched the strong slender body moving in front of him, with the scarlet

sash that was just tight enough to bring out the curve of her hips, the

sense of his own inferiority was heavy upon him. Even now it seemed quite

likely that when she turned round and looked at him she would draw back

after all. The sweetness of the air and the greenness of the leaves daunted

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him. Already on the walk from the station the May sunshine had made him

feel dirty and etiolated, a creature of indoors, with the sooty dust of

London in the pores of his skin. It occurred to him that till now she had

probably never seen him in broad daylight in the open. They came to the

fallen tree that she had spoken of. The girl hopped over and forced apart

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the bushes, in which there did not seem to be an opening. When Winston

followed her, he found that they were in a natural clearing, a tiny grassy

knoll surrounded by tall saplings that shut it in completely. The girl

stopped and turned.