ed and again withdrew. It seemed as certain that he hadn't as that he had a friend.
"Anything to do with that girl?"
"No."
"You wrote you liked her."
"I didn't—don't."
Deeper sighs broke from him. They rattled in his throat, turn-ing to groans. His head fell back, and he forgot the pressure of Durham on his knee, forgot that Durham was watching his turbid agony. He stared at the ceiling with wrinkled mouth and eyes, understanding nothing except that man has been created to feel pain and loneliness without help from heaven.
Now Durham stretched up to him, stroked his hair. They clasped one another. They were lying breast against breast soon, head was on shoulder, but just as their cheeks met someone called "Hall" from the court, and he answered: he always had answered when people called. Both started violently, and Dur-ham sprang to the mantelpiece where he leant his head on his arm. Absurd people came thundering up the stairs. They wanted tea. Maurice pointed to it, then was drawn into their conversa-tion, and scarcely noticed his friend's departure. It had been an ordinary talk, he told himself, but too sentimental, and he culti-vated a breeziness against their next meeting.
This took place soon enough. With half a dozen others he was starting for the theatre after hall when Durham called him.
"I knew you read theSymposium in the vac," he said in a low voice.
Maurice felt uneasy.
"Then you understand—without me saying more—"
"How do you mean?"
Durham could not wait. People were all around them, but with eyes that had gone intensely blue he whispered, "I love you."
Maurice was scandalized, horrified. He was shocked to the bottom of his suburban soul, and exclaimed, "Oh, rot!" The words, the manner, were out of him before he could recall them.
"Durham, you're an Englishman. I'm another. Don't talk non-sense. I'm not offended, because I know you don't mean it, but it's the only subject absolutely beyond the limit as you know, it's the worst crime in the calendar, and you must never mention it again. Durham! a rotten notion really—"
But his friend was gone, gone without a word, flying across the court, the bang of his door heard through the sounds of spring.
上学期莫瑞斯曾在精神方面达到非同凡响的水平，然而假期又把他拖回到公学学生的程度。他没那么机敏了，重新按照他认为人们所期待的那样来行动——对于未被赋予想象力的人而言，这是危险的。他的精神并未处于完全的阴暗中，云影经常从上面掠过。奥尔科特小姐的事已成为过去，把他引到她身边的那种虚伪仍然存在。他的家族是发生这件事的主要缘由。这一次，他不得不认识到她们比他强大，对他有难以估量的影响力。跟她们相处三周，他的思路没有了条理，感情变得脆弱。看上去每一件事都取得了胜利，从整体来看却一败涂地。他回到学校时，不论考虑问题还是谈吐都跟他的母亲或艾达如出一辙。
德拉姆返校之前，莫瑞斯不曾意识到自己退化了。德拉姆因身体不好，迟几天才回来。当他那张比平时更显苍白的脸出现在门口朝屋里看时。一阵绝望袭上莫瑞斯的心头。他试图想起他们二人上学期曾伫立过的地方，为了继续开展战斗找线索。他感到自己已经懒惰了，害怕采取行动。他的精神世界的最坏的部分浮到表面上来了，怂恿他宁可得到慰藉，也不愿意寻求快乐。
“喂，老兄！”他局促不安地说。
德拉姆一声不响地溜进来了。
“你怎么啦？”
“没怎么。”莫瑞斯说罢，明白了自己业已失掉线索。在上学期，他是了解德拉姆为什么默默地走进来的。
“先坐下来吧。”
德拉姆找了个莫瑞斯伸手够不着的角落，在地板上坐下来。已经到了黄昏时分，五月这个学期的声音，剑桥景色里的花香，从窗户飘进来对莫瑞斯说：“你不配做我们当中的一员。”他知道自己的身体已死掉四分之三，在剑桥是个异邦人，是步人雅典的一个乡下人。他没有资格跟这样一个友人待在一起。
“喂，德拉姆……”
德拉姆凑近了他。莫瑞斯伸出一只手，感觉出德拉姆将头靠在他的胳膊上。他忘记自己想说什么来着。声音和花香悄声说：“你是我们当中的一个，我们朝气蓬勃。”他无比温柔地抚摩德拉姆的头发，犹如爱抚德拉姆的头脑一般，将自己的手指插到德拉姆的头发之间。
“喂，德拉姆，你一直都好吗？”
“你呢？”
“不好。”
“你在信里说你很好。”
“一点儿都不好。”
他的嗓音流露出的真情使他浑身发颤。“假期过得糟透了，而我自己居然没察觉。”莫瑞斯想知道自己究竟能领悟多少呢。他确信雾又会降下来，于是闷闷不乐地叹了口气，将德拉姆的脑袋拉到他的膝头，就好像那是个法宝，可以使他明智地活下去似的。德拉姆的头一动不动地待在那儿。莫瑞斯发现了表达柔情的一种新方式一不断地从德拉姆的鬓角抚摸到喉咙。接着，他将双手挪开，耷拉在身体两侧，坐在那儿叹气。
“霍尔。”
莫瑞斯将视线移向德拉姆的脸。
“你有什么心事吗？”^^網^文^檔^下^載^與^在^線^閱^讀^
莫瑞斯又爱抚一番，随后缩回手。看起来他肯定连一个朋友都没有。
“跟那个姑娘有什么关系吗？”
“没有。”
“你在信上说过你喜欢她。”
“我没喜欢过她——现在也不喜欢。”
他爆发出几声更深的叹息。它们在他的喉咙里咯咯作响，变成呻[yín]声。他把头往后仰，忘记德拉姆的头压在他的膝上，忘记了德拉姆在留心观察着他那混乱的苦恼。他睁大眼睛看着天花板，嘴边满是皱纹，眼角出现了鱼尾纹。人是在得不到老天保佑的情况下，为了感受痛苦和孤独而被创造的，除此以外他什么也不理解。
这时德拉姆伸过手来，爱抚他的头发。他们二人相互搂抱在一起。不一会儿，他们就胸挨着胸躺在那儿了，彼此把头靠在对方的肩上。然而，他们二入刚把脸蛋儿贴在一块儿，有人在院子里喊了声“霍尔”，他就答应了。只要有人喊他，他一向马上就答应。两个人都剧烈地动弹了一下，德拉姆一个箭步蹿到壁炉架跟前，用胳膊托着头。一帮蠢材乱哄哄地冲上楼梯。他们提出喝茶的要求，莫瑞斯指了指茶具在哪儿，接着就被拖进他们的谈话，几乎没理会到朋友的告辞。他告诉自己，他跟德拉姆之间谈的是一些普普通通的话，只不过是太带伤感情绪了。他做好思想准备，下次跟德拉姆见面时，要装出一副毫不在意、快快活活的样子。
他们很快就相遇了。会餐后，莫瑞斯和五六个人结伴向剧场走去。德拉姆将他叫住了。
“我知道你在假期里读过《会饮篇》。”他低声说。
莫瑞斯感到不安。
“那么，你就该明白了——用不着我再说什么。”
“你这话是什么意思？”
德拉姆已经迫不及待，尽管周围有那么多人，他那双蓝眼睛热情到极点，对莫瑞斯耳语道：“我爱你。”
莫瑞斯感到愤慨，毛骨悚然。他那郊区居民的狭隘灵魂深深地受到震惊，大