For three years Maurice had been so fit and happy that he went on automatically for a day longer. He woke with the feeling that it must be all right soon. Clive would come back, apologizing or not as he chose, and he would apol-ogize to Clive. Clive must love him, because his whole life was dependent on love and here it was going on as usual. How could he sleep and rest if he had no friend? When he returned from town to find no news, he remained for a little calm, and allowed his family to speculate on Clive's departure. But he began to watch Ada. She looked sad—even their mother noticed it. Shad-ing his eyes, he watched her. Save for her, he would have dis-missed the scene as "one of Clive's long speeches", but she came into that speech as an example. He wondered why she was sad.
"I say—" he called when they were alone; he had no idea what he was going to say, though a sudden blackness should have warned him. She replied, but he could not hear her voice. "What's wrong with you?" he asked, trembling.
"Nothing."
"There is—I can see it. You can't take me in."
"Oh no—really, Maurice, nothing."
"Why did—what did he say?"
"Nothing."
"Who said nothing?" he yelled, crashing both fists on the table. He had caught her.
"Nothing—only Clive."
The name on her lips opened Hell. He suffered hideously1 and before he could stop himself had spoken words that neither ever forgot. He accused his sister of corrupting2 his friend. He let her suppose that Clive had complained of her conduct and gone back to town on that account. Her gentle nature was so outraged3 that she could not defend herself, but sobbed4 and sobbed, and implored5 him not to speak to her mother, just as if she were guilty. He assented6: jealousy7 had maddened him.
"But when you see him—Mr Durham—tell him I didn't mean —say there's no one whom I'd rather—"
"—go wrong with," he supplied: not till later did he under-stand his own blackguardism.
Hiding her face, Ada collapsed8.
"Ishall not tell him. I shall never see Durham again to tell. You've the satisfaction of breaking up that friendship."
She sobbed, "I don't mind that—you've always been so un-kind to us, always." He drew up at last. Kitty had said that sort of thing to him, but never Ada. He saw that beneath their ob-sequious surface his sisters disliked him: he had not even suc-ceeded at home. Muttering "It's not my fault," he left her.
A refined nature would have behaved better and perhaps have suffered less. Maurice was not intellectual, nor religious, nor had he that strange solace9 of self-pity that is granted to some. Except on one point his temperament10 was normal, and he behaved as would the average man who after two years of happiness had been betrayed by his wife. It was nothing to him that Nature had caught up this dropped stitch in order to continue her pat-tern. While he had love he had kept reason. Now he saw Clive's change as treachery and Ada as its cause, and returned in a few hours to the abyss where he had wandered as a boy.
After this explosion his career went forward. He caught the
usual train to town, to earn and spend money in the old man-ner; he read the old papers and discussed strikes and the divorce laws with his friends. At first he was proud of his self-control: did not he hold Clive's reputation in the hollow of his hand? But he grew more bitter, he wished that he had shouted while he had the strength and smashed down this front of lies. What if he too were involved? His family, his position in society—they had been nothing to him for years. He was an outlaw11 in disguise. Perhaps among those who took to the greenwood in old time there had been two men like himself—two. At times he enter-tained the dream. Two men can defy the world.
Yes: the heart of his agony would be loneliness. He took time to realize this, being slow. The incestuous jealousy, the morti-fication, the rage at his past obtuseness—these might pass, and having done much harm they did pass. Memories of Clive might pass. But the loneliness remained. He would wake and gasp12 "I've no one!" or "Oh Christ, what a world!" Clive took to visiting him in dreams. He knew there was no one, but Clive, smiling in his sweet way, said "I'm genuine this time," to torture him. Once he had a dream about the dream of the face and the voice, a dream about it, no nearer. Also old dreams of the other sort, that tried to disintegrate13 him. Days followed nights. An immense silence, as of death, encircled the young man, and as he was go-ing up to town one morning it struck him that he really was dead. What was the use of money-grubbing, eating, and playing games? That was all he did or had ever done.
"Life's a damn poor show," he exclaimed, crumpling14 up theDaily Telegraph.
The other occupants of the carriage who liked him began to laugh.
"I'd jump out of the window for twopence."
Having spoken, he began to contemplate15 suicide. There was
nothing to deter16 him. He had no initial fear of death, and no sense of a world beyond it, nor did he mind disgracing his fam-ily. He knew that loneliness was poisoning him, so that he grew viler17 as well as more unhappy. Under these circumstances might he not cease? He began to compare ways and means, and would have shot himself but for an unexpected event. This event was the illness and death of his grandfather, which induced a new state of mind.
Meanwhile, he had received letters from Clive, but they al-ways contained the sentence, "We had better not meet just yet." He grasped the situation now—his friend would do anything for him except be with him; it had been thus ever since the first illness, and on these lines he was offered friendship in the future. Maurice did not cease to love, but his heart had been broken; he never had wild thoughts of winning Clive back. What he grasped he grasped with a firmness that the refined might envy, and suffered up to the hilt.
He answered these letters, oddly sincere. He still wrote what was true, and confided18 that he was unbearably19 lonely and should blow out his brains before the year ended. But he wrote without emotion. It was more a tribute to their heroic past, and accepted by Durham as such. His replies were unemotional also, and it was plain that, however much help he was given and however hard he tried, he could no longer penetrate20 into Mau-rice's mind.
三年以来，莫瑞斯生活得无比健康幸福，第二天也习惯成自然地度过了。一觉醒来，他感到一切都会很快好起来。克莱夫将会回来，道歉与否，由他自己决定。至于他呢，是要向克莱夫道歉的。克莱夫非爱他不可，因为他的整个人生是仰仗爱情的。今天，他不是也在正常地生活着吗？倘若没有朋友，他怎么能睡觉、休息呢？他从伦敦回到家里后，得悉没有克莱夫的音讯。他暂时保持冷静，听任家里人推测克莱夫为什么突然告辞。但是他开始留心观察艾达。她的神情忧伤，就连他们的母亲都注意到了。他垂下眼皮，审视着她。若不是克莱夫提到了她，莫瑞斯会认为昨天晚上那一场是“克莱夫又一次发表冗长的讲话”。然而在那篇讲话中，艾达作为一个例子被提到了。奇怪的是，她为什么感到忧伤。
“喂．”只剩下他们二人在一起时，他开口说话了。可足他不知道自己打算说什么，黑暗警告了他。她回答了，但是他听不见她的声音。“你怎么啦？”他浑身发颤，问道。
“没怎么。”
“就是有事——我看得出来，你骗不了我。”
“哦，不——真的，莫瑞斯，没事。”
“为什么——他说什么来着？”
“什么都没说。”
“什么都没说，你指的是谁？”他攥起双拳砸桌子，大喊大叫。这下可让他逮了个正着。
“什么都没说——克莱夫呀。”
她吐出的这个名字使地狱之门敞开了。他体验到巨大的痛苦，来不及抑制自己，说出了双方都永远忘不掉的话。他指责妹妹腐蚀了他的朋友，他让她以为，克莱夫曾抱怨过她的行为，由于这个缘故才回伦敦去的。性格温和的她受到伤害后甚至不懂得替自己辩护，只是一味地呜咽，哀求他别跟妈妈说，就好像她本人有什么过错似的。他答应不给她告状。忌妒使他变得疯狂了。
“可你见到他——德拉姆先生——的时候，告诉他我没有那个意思——我跟任何人都没有……”
“……犯错误的打算。”他补充说。后来他才明白此言何等粗鄙。
艾达把脸藏起来，她支持不住了。
“我不告诉他。我永远不会跟德拉姆见面了，什么也告诉不了他。你破坏了我们之间的友谊，这下子称心了吧。”
她抽噎着说：“破坏了我也不在乎。你对我们从来都是冷酷的，从来都是。”他终于变得冷酷了。他看出，妹妹们表面上顺从，骨子里是厌恶他的。甚至在家中，他也没有成功可言。他悄声说：“这不是我的过错。”随后离开了她。
有教养的人，举止更文雅一些，也许少受些折磨。莫瑞斯没有才智，不信仰宗教，也缺乏某些人所拥有的自我怜悯这一奇妙的慰藉方法。除了这一点，他的性情是正常的，他采取的是度过两年幸福生活后被妻子背叛了的任何一个普通男人那样的行动。大自然补上遗漏了的这一针，以便继续编织它的图案，对他来说是无所谓的。拥有爱的时候，他保持了理智。现在他把克莱夫的变心看成背叛，艾达就是起因。不出几个钟头，他就返回到曾在少年时代徘徊过的那个深渊。
这次爆发后，他的人生延续下去。他照例乘那趟火车赴伦敦，像原先那样挣钱并花钱。他依旧读以前那几份报纸，跟同事们谈论罢工啦，离婚法啦。起初他对拥有自制力感到得意。他不是已经把克莱夫的名声攥在手心里了吗？然而他更加充满怨恨，他希望趁着自己还有那股气力，大声喊出来，把这骗人的幌子扔到一旁。即使连他本人也牵涉进去了，那又怎么样？他的家族，他的社会地位——对他而言，多年来都已经无所谓了。他是个乔装打扮的不法分子，也许从前逃进绿林（译注：绿林是英国一系列民谣中的传奇英雄罗宾汉隐居的地方。有些民谣可以追溯到14世纪以前，罗宾汉是反叛者，是结伙抢劫官府的代表人物，所获钱财却分给穷人。）的人中有两个像他这样的——两个。两个人就可以向整个世界挑战，有时他怀有这样的梦想，并自得其乐。
苦恼的核心是寂寞。他是个迟钝的人，过了一个时期才认识到这一点。乱伦的妒忌、屈辱，由于往日的愚钝而引起的愤怒一这一切都会过去的，对他造成的那么多伤害也会过去。对克莱夫的回忆可能会过去，寂寞却挥之不去。他醒过来，气喘吁吁地说：“我什么人也没有！”“啊，天哪，这是什么世道呀！”克莱夫开始出现在梦里了。他知道什么人都没有，然而克莱夫甜蜜地微笑着说：“这次我可是真的。”使他受尽折磨。有一次他梦见了原先做过的那个有关脸和声音的梦。梦中梦，更朦胧。另外一些旧梦也频频进入梦境，企图让他崩溃。日以继夜，死亡般的无止境的静寂笼罩着这个青年。一天早晨，在开往伦敦的火车中，他觉得自己实际上已经死了。赚钱、吃饭、规规矩矩地活着，有什么用呢？他所做的或他曾经做过的，无非是这些。
“生活是一出蹩脚透顶的戏，”他一边把《每日电讯报》揉成一团，一边呼喊。
其他乘客并不讨厌他，都笑起来了。
“我会满不在乎地从窗子跳出去。”
说罢，他开始仔细考虑自杀的事，什么也制止不了他。他对死亡本来就没有畏惧，也不相信来世，更不在乎使家族丢脸。他知道孤独正在伤害自己，于是变得更加可憎，越来越愁闷。在这样的境遇下，是否不如死了算了呢？他开始比较该采取什么办法与手段，若不是发生了一件意想不到的事，他会开枪自杀的。外祖父患病并且去世了，使他进入新的精神状态。
其间，克莱夫寄来了好几封信，然而信中总是这么写着：“咱们还是别见面为好。”现在他领会了自己的处境——他这个朋友什么都愿r劳，惟独拒绝跟他待在一起。克莱夫自从头一次生病就是这样，今后他所提供的也是这样的友情。莫瑞斯一往情深，然而他的心被弄碎了。他从来没有异想天开地认为能把克莱夫争取回来，他以高尚的人所羡慕的那种坚定来领悟自己所该领悟的东西。他把苦酒饮到最后一滴。
莫瑞斯一封封地写了回信，写得出奇地诚恳。他写的依然是真实的，吐露说自己寂寞难耐，年内将击穿头颅而死。但他写得没有感情，不如说是对他们那英勇的往昔的颂辞，德拉姆就是这样来接受的，他的回信也缺乏感情。有一点是明显的：不论借助什么，不论下多大工夫，他再也不可能看透莫瑞斯的心了。
收听单词发音 |
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hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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corrupting
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的现在分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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disintegrate
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| v.瓦解，解体，（使）碎裂，（使）粉碎 | |
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crumpling
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的现在分词 )； 变皱 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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viler
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的比较级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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