上，他曾苦恼过，昨天却充满了欢乐。他们二人始终是一致行动的，在摩托车里好像比在其他地方挨得更近了。摩托车具有了自己的生命，他们在车里会合，并实现了柏拉图所倡导的那种结合。摩托车已经没有了，莫瑞斯搭乘的火车也急驰而去，把他们相互拉着的手拆散开来。克莱夫的精神崩溃了，于是回到自己的房间，写了一封充满绝望的信。
第二天早晨，莫瑞斯收到了信。这封信把他的家族已经开始做的那件事结束了。他对世界头一次爆发了愤怒。
Chapter 15
"I can`tapologize, mother—I explained last night there's nothing to apologize about. They had no right to send me down when everyone cuts lectures. It's pure spite, and you can ask anyone—Ada, do try turning on the coffee in-stead of the salt water."
She sobbed, "Maurice, you've upset mother: how can you be so unkind and brutal?"
"I'm sure I don't mean to be. I don't see I've been unkind. I shall go straight into the business now, like father did, without taking one of their rotten degrees. I see no harm in that."
"You might have kept your poor father out, he never had any unpleasantness," said Mrs Hall. "Oh Morrie, my darling—and we did so look forward to Cambridge."
"All this crying's a mistake," announced Kitty, who aspired to the functions of a tonic. "It only makes Maurice tfunk he's im-portant, which he isn't: he'll write to the Dean as soon as no one wants him to."
"I shan't. It's unsuitable," replied her brother, hard as iron.
"I don't see that."
"Little girls don't see a good deal."
"I'm not so sure!"
He glanced at her. But she only said that she saw a good deal more than some little boys who thought themselves little men. She was merely maundering, and the fear, tinged with respect,
i
that had arisen in him died down. No, he couldn't apologize. He had done nothing wrong and wouldn't say he had, it was the first taste of honesty he had known for years, and honesty is like blood. In his unbending mood the boy thought it would be pos-sible to live without compromise, and ignore all that didn't yield to himself and Clive! Clive's letter had maddened him. No doubt he is stupid—the sensible lover would apologize and get back to comfort his friend—but it was the stupidity of passion, which would rather have nothing than a little.‖本‖作‖品‖由‖‖網‖提‖供‖下‖載‖與‖在‖線‖閱‖讀‖
They continued talking and weeping. At last he rose, said, "I can't eat to this accompaniment," and went into the garden. His mother followed with a tray. Her very softness enraged him, for love develops the athlete. It cost her nothing to muck about with tender words and toast: she only wanted to make him soft too.
She wanted to know whether she had heard rightly, was he refusing to apologize? She wondered what her father would say, and incidentally learnt that the birthday gift was lying beside some East Anglian drove. She grew seriously concerned, for its loss was more intelligible to her than the loss of a degree. The girls minded too. They mourned the bicycle for the rest of the morning, and, though Maurice could always silence them or send them out of earshot, he felt that their pliancy might sap his strength again, as in the Easter vacation.
In the afternoon he had a collapse. He remembered that Clive and he had only been together one day! And they had spent it careering about like fools—instead of in one another's arms! Maurice did not know that they had thus spent it perfectly—he was too young to detect the triviality of contact for contact's sake. Though restrained by his friend, he would have surfeited passion. Later on, when his love took second strength, he real-ized how well Fate had served him. The one embrace in the
darkness, the one long day in the light and the wind, were twin columns, each useless without the other. And all the agony of separation that he went through now, instead of destroying, was to fulfil.
He tried to answer Clive's letter. Already he feared to ring false. In the evening he received another, composed of the words "Maurice! I love you." He answered, "Clive, I love you." Then they wrote every day and for all their care created new images in each other's hearts. Letters distort even more quickly than silence. A terror seized Clive that something was going wrong, and just before his exam he got leave to run down to town. Maurice lunch