“Yes， dear， it has occurred to me， several times. But I’m not going to do it， all the same.”
“We’ve been lucky，” he said，“but it can’t last much longer. You’re young. You look normal and innocent. If you keep clear of people like me， you might stay alive for another fifty years.”
“No. I’ve thought it all out. What you do， I’m going to do. And don’t be too downhearted. I’m rather good at staying alive.”
“We may be together for another six months — a year — there’s no knowing. At the end we’re certain to be apart. Do you realize how utterly alone we shall be？ When once they get hold of us there will be nothing， literally nothing， that either of us can do for the other. If I confess， they’ll shoot you， and if I refuse to confess， they’ll shoot you just the same. Nothing that I can do or say， or stop myself from saying， will put off your death for as much as five minutes. Neither of us will even know whether the other is alive or dead. We shall be utterly without power of any kind. The one thing that matters is that we shouldn’t betray one another， although even that can’t make the slightest difference.”
“If you mean confessing，” she said， “we shall do that， right enough. Everybody always confesses. You can’t help it. They torture you.”
“I don’t mean confessing. Confession is not betrayal. What you say or do doesn’t matter： only feelings matter. If they could make me stop loving you — that would be the real betrayal.”
She thought it over. “They can’t do that，”she said finally. “It’s the one thing they can’t do. They can make you say anything — anything — but they can’t make you believe it. They can"t get inside you.”
“No，”he said a little more hopefully， “no； that’s quite true. They can’t get inside you. If you can feel that staying human is worth while， even when it can’t have any result whatever， you’ve beaten them.”
He thought of the telescreen with its never-sleeping ear. They could spy upon you night and day， but if you kept your head you could still outwit them. With all their cleverness they had never mastered the secret of finding out what another human being was thinking. Perhaps that was less true when you were actually in their hands. One did not know what happened inside the Ministry of Love， but it was possible to guess： tortures， drugs， delicate instruments that registered your nervous reactions， gradual wearing-down by sleeplessness and solitude and persistent questioning. Facts， at any rate， could not be kept hidden. They could be tracked down by enquiry， they could be squeezed out of you by torture. But if the object was not to stay alive but to stay human， what difference did it ultimately make？ They could not alter your feelings： for that matter you could not alter them yourself， even if you wanted to. They could lay bare in the utmost detail everything that you had done or said or thought； but the inner heart， whose workings were mysterious even to yourself， remained impregnable.
英文十六
They had done it， they had done it at last！
The room they were standing in was long-shaped and softly lit. The telescreen was dimmed to a low murmur； the richness of the dark-blue carpet gave one the impression of treading on velvet. At the far end of the room O’Brien was sitting at a table under a green-shaded lamp， with a mass of papers on either side of him. He had not bothered to look up when the servant showed Julia and Winston in.
Winston’s heart was thumping so hard that he doubted whether he would be able to speak. They had done it， they had done it at last， was all he could think. It had been a rash act to come here at all， and sheer folly to arrive together； though it was true that they had come by different routes and only met on O’Brien’s doorstep. But merely to walk into such a place needed an effort of the nerve. It was only on very rare occasions that one saw inside the dwelling-places of the Inner Party， or even penetrated into the quarter of the town where they lived. The whole atmosphere of the huge block of flats， the richness and spaciousness of everything， the unfamiliar smells of good food and good tobacco， the silent and incredibly rapid lifts sliding up and down， the white-jacketed servants hurrying to and fro — everything was intimidating. Although he had a good pretext for coming here， he was haunted at every step by the fear that a black-uniformed guard would suddenly appear from round the corner， demand his papers， and order him to get out. O’Brien’s servant， however， had admitted the two of them without demur. He was a small， dark-haired man in a white jacket， with a diamond-shaped， completely expressionless face which might have been that of a Chinese. The passage down which he led them was softly carpeted， with cream-papered walls and white wainscoting， all exquisitely clean. That too was intimidating. Winston could not remember ever to have seen a passageway whose walls were not grimy from the contact of human bodies.
O’Brien had a slip of paper between his fingers and seemed to be studying it intently. His heavy face， bent down so that one could see the line of the nose， looked both formidable and intelligent. For perhaps twenty seconds he sat without stirring. Then he pulled the speakwrite towards him and rapped out a message in the hybrid jargon of the Ministries：
