They did not return to the subject until they had been in bed for half an hour. The evening was just cool enough to make it worth while to pull up the counterpane. From below came the familiar sound of singing and the scrape of boots on the flagstones. The brawny red-armed woman whom Winston had seen there on his first visit was almost a fixture in the yard. There seemed to be no hour of daylight when she was not marching to and fro between the washtub and the line， alternately gagging herself with clothes pegs and breaking forth into lusty song. Julia had settled down on her side and seemed to be already on the point of falling asleep. He reached out for the book， which was lying on the floor， and sat up against the bedhead.
“We must read it，” he said. “You too. All members of the Brotherhood have to read it.”
“You read it，” she said with her eyes shut. “Read it aloud. That’s the best way. Then you can explain it to me as you go.”
The clock’s hands said six， meaning eighteen. They had three or four hours ahead of them. He propped the book against his knees and began reading：
Chapter I
Ignorance is Strength
“Julia， are you awake？” said Winston.
“Yes， my love， I’m listening. Go on. It’s marvellous.”
He continued reading：
Winston became aware of silence， as one becomes aware of a new sound. It seemed to him that Julia had been very still for some time past. She was lying on her side， naked from the waist upwards， with her cheek pillowed on her hand and one dark lock tumbling across her eyes. Her breast rose and fell slowly and regularly.
“Julia.”
No answer.
“Julia， are you awake？”
No answer. She was asleep. He shut the book， put it carefully on the floor， lay down， and pulled the coverlet over both of them.
He had still， he reflected， not learned the ultimate secret. He understood how； he did not understand why. Chapter I， like Chapter III， had not actually told him anything that he did not know， it had merely systematized the knowledge that he possessed already. But after reading it he knew better than before that he was not mad. Being in a minority， even a minority of one， did not make you mad. There was truth and there was untruth， and if you clung to the truth even against the whole world， you were not mad. A yellow beam from the sinking sun slanted in through the window and fell across the pillow. He shut his eyes. The sun on his face and the girl’s smooth body touching his own gave him a strong， sleepy， confident feeling. He was safe， everything was all right. He fell asleep murmuring “Sanity is not statistical，” with the feeling that this remark contained in it a profound wisdom.
英文十八
When he woke it was with the sensation of having slept for a long time， but a glance at the old-fashioned clock told him that it was only twenty-thirty. He lay dozing for a while； then the usual deep-lunged singing struck up from the yard below；
The driveling song seemed to have kept its popularity. You still heard it all over the place. It had outlived the Hate Song. Julia woke at the sound， stretched herself luxuriously， and got out of bed.
“I’m hungry，” she said. “Let’s make some more coffee. Damn！ The stove’s gone out and the water’s cold.” She picked the stove up and shook it. “There’s no oil in it.”
“We can get some from old Charrington， I expect.”
“The funny thing is I made sure it was full. I’m going to put my clothes on，” she added. “It seems to have got colder.”Winston also got up and dressed himself. The indefatigable voice sang on：
As he fastened the belt of his overalls he strolled across to the window. The sun must have gone down behind the houses； it was not shining into the yard any longer. The flagstones were wet as though they had just been washed， and he had the feeling that the sky had been washed too， so fresh and pale was the blue between the chimney-pots. Tirelessly the woman marched to and fro， corking and uncorking herself， singing and falling silent， and pegging out more diapers， and more and yet more. He wondered whether she took in washing for a living or was merely the slave of twenty or thirty grandchildren. Julia had come across to his side； together they gazed down with a sort of fascination at the sturdy figure below. As he looked at the woman in her characteristic attitude， her thick arms reaching up for the line， her powerful mare-like buttocks protruded， it struck him for the first time that she was beautiful. It had never before occurred to him that the body of a woman of fifty， blown up to monstrous dimensions by childbearing， then hardened， roughened by work till it was coarse in the grain like an over-ripe turnip， could be beautiful. But it was so， and after all， he thought， why not？ The solid， contourless body， like a block of granite， and the rasping red skin， bore the same relation to the body of a girl as the rose-hip to the rose. Why should the fruit be held inferior to the flower？
“She’s beautiful，”he murmured.
“She’s a metre across the hips， easily，”said Julia.
“That is her style of beauty，”said Winston.
