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intervals, his cartoons were
appearing in the Times. They were simply an imitation of his earlier
manner, and curiously lifeless and unconvincing. Always they were a
rehashing of the ancient themes -- slum tenements, starving children,
street battles, capitalists in top hats -- even on the barricades the
capitalists still seemed to cling to their top hats an endless, hopeless
effort to get back into the past. He was a monstrous man, with a mane of
greasy grey hair, his face pouched and seamed, with thick negroid lips. At
one time he must have been immensely strong; now his great body was
sagging, sloping, bulging, falling away in every direction. He seemed to be
breaking up before one's eyes, like a mountain crumbling.
It was the lonely hour of fifteen. Winston could not now remember how
he had come to be in the cafe at such a time. The place was almost empty. A
tinny music was trickling from the telescreens. The three men sat in their
corner almost motionless, never speaking. Uncommanded, the waiter brought
fresh glasses of gin. There was a chessboard on the table beside them, with
the pieces set out but no game started. And then, for perhaps half a minute
in all, something happened to the telescreens. The tune that they were
playing changed, and the tone of the music changed too. There came into it
-- but it was something hard to describe. It was a peculiar, cracked,
braying, jeering note: in his mind Winston called it a yellow note. And
then a voice from the telescreen was singing:

Under the spreading chestnut tree
I sold you and you sold me:
There lie they, and here lie we
Under the spreading chestnut tree.

The three men never stirred. But when Winston glanced again at
Rutherford's ruinous face, he saw that his eyes were full of tears. And for
the first time he noticed, with a kind of inward shudder, and yet not
knowing at what he shuddered