The next day was even drearier and the only thing to be said in its favour was that it had the unreality of a nightmare. Archie London chattered, the rain dribbled, and in the sacred name of sport they were urged after rabbits over the Penge estate. Sometimes they shot the rabbits, some-times missed them, sometimes they tried ferrets and nets. The rabbits needed keeping down and perhaps that was why the entertainment had been forced on them: there was a prudent strain in Clive. They returned to lunch, and Maurice had a thrill: his telegram had arrived from Mr Lasker Jones, granting him an appointment for tomorrow. But the thrill soon passed. Archie thought they had better go after the bunnies again, and he was too depressed to refuse. The rain was now less, on the other hand the mist was thicker, the mud stickier, and towards tea time they lost a ferret. The keeper made out this was their fault, Archie knew better, and explained the matter to Maurice in the smoking-room with the aid of diagrams. Dinner arrived at eight, so did the politicians, and after dinner the drawing-room ceiling dripped into basins and saucers. Then in the Rus-set Room, the same weather, the same despair, and the fact that now Clive sat on his bed talking intimately did not make any difference. The talk might have moved him had it come earlier, but he had been so pained by the inhospitality, he had spent so lonely and so imbecile a day, that he could respond to the past no longer. His thoughts were all with Mr Lasker Jones, and he
wanted to be alone to compose a written statement about his case.
Clive felt the visit had been a failure, but, as he remarked, "Politics can't wait, and you happen to coincide with the rush." He was vexed too at forgetting that today was Maurice's birth-day—and was urgent that their guest should stop over the match. Maurice said he was frightfully sorry, but now couldn't, as he had this urgent and unexpected engagement in town.
"Can't you come back after keeping it? We're shocking hosts, but it's such a pleasure having you. Do treat the house as an hotel—go your way, and we'll go ours."
"The fact is I'm hoping to get married," said Maurice, the words flying from him as if they had independent life.
"I'm awfully glad," said Clive, dropping his eyes. "Maurice, I'm awfully glad. It's the greatest thing in the world, perhaps the only one—"
"I know." He was wondering why he had spoken. His sentence flew out into the rain; he was always conscious of the rain and the decaying roofs at Penge.
"I shan't bother you with talk, but I must just say that Anne guessed it. Women are extraordinary. She declared all along that you had something up your sleeve. I laughed, but now I shall have to give in." His eyes rose. "Oh Maurice, I'm so glad. It's very good of you to tell me—it's what I've always wished for you."
"I know you have."
There was a silence. Clive's old manner had come back. He was generous, charming.
"It's wonderful, isn't it?—the—I'm so glad. I wish I could think of something else to say. Do you mind if I just tell Anne?"
"Not a bit. Tell everyone," cried Maurice, with a brutality
that passed unnoticed. "The more the better." He courted ex-ternal pressure. "If the girl I want won't, there's others."
Clive smiled a little at this, but was too pleased to be squeam-ish. He was pleased partly for Maurice, but also because it rounded off his own position. He hated queerness, Cambridge, the Blue Room, certain glades in the park were—not tainted, there had been nothing disgraceful—but rendered subtly ridic-ulous. Quite lately he had turned up a poem written during Maurice's first visit to Penge, which might have hailed from the land through the looking-glass, so fatuous it was, so perverse. "Shade from the old hellenic ships." Had he addressed the sturdy undergraduate thus? And the knowledge that Maurice had equally outgrown such sentimentality purified it, and from him also words burst as if they had been alive.
"I've thought more often of you than you imagine, Maurice my dear. As I said last autumn, I care for you in the real sense, and always shall. We were young idiots, weren't we?—but one can get something even out of idiocy. Development. No, more than that, intimacy. You and I know and trust one another just because we were once idiots. Marriage has made no difference. Oh, that's jolly, I do think—"
"You give me your blessing then?"
"I should think so!"
"Thanks."
Clive's eyes softened. He wanted to convey something warmer than development. Dare he borrow a gesture from the past?
"Think of me all tomorrow," said Maurice, "and as for Anne— she may think of me too."
So gracious a reference decided him to kiss the fellow very gently on his big brown hand.
Maurice shuddered.
"You don't mind?"
"Oh no."
"Maurice dear, I wanted just to show I hadn't forgotten the past. I quite agree—don't let's mention it ever again, but I wanted to show just this once."
"All right."
"Aren't you thankful it's ended properly?"
"How properly?"
"Instead of that muddle last year."
"Oh with you."
"Quits, and I'll go."
Maurice applied his lips to the starched cuff of a dress shirt. Having functioned, he withdrew, leaving Clive more friendly than ever, and insistent he should return to Penge as soon as circumstances allowed this. Clive stopped talking late while the water gurgled over the dormer. When he had gone Maurice drew the curtains and fell on his knees, leaning his chin upon the window sill and allowing the drops to sprinkle his hair.
"Come!" he cried suddenly, surprising himself. Whom had he called? He had been thinking of nothing and the word had leapt out. As quickly as possible he shut out the air and the darkness, and re-enclosed his body in the Russet Room. Then he wrote his statement. It took some time, and, though far from imaginative, he went to bed with the jumps. He was convinced that someone had looked over his shoulder while he wrote. He wasn't alone. Or again, that he hadn't personally written. Since coming to Penge he seemed a bundle of voices, not Maurice, and now he could almost hear them quarrelling inside him. But none of them belonged to Clive: he had got that far.
次日更阴郁了。惟一可取之处是像做恶梦一般，使人有虚幻之感。阿尔赤·伦敦喋喋不休，雨声淅沥。在“运动”这一神圣的名义下，两个人在彭杰庄园里被怂恿追踪兔子。有时击中了兔子，有时落了空。他们间或尝试用雪貂（译注：欧洲人从罗马时代起，就用雪貂消灭鼠类和其他害兽，还用它把兔子从洞穴里赶出来。在亚洲，用雪貂狩猎的时间更早。饲养的雪貂不能独立生存，倘若走失，几天之内就会死去。野生的雪貂已被列为濒危动物）狩猎，也曾布下罗网。必须控制兔子的数量，兴许这正是迫使他们参加这项娱乐活动的原因。克莱夫有一种精打细算的倾向，他们回来吃午饭。莫瑞斯感到一阵激动袭上心头，拉斯克-琼斯先生的回电到了，约他第二天去看病。然而，这激动转瞬即逝。阿尔赤认为他们还是以饭后再去追捕兔子为好，莫瑞斯的心情抑郁得无法控制。现在雨下得小一些了，但是雾更浓了，更泥泞了。喝下午茶的时间将至，一只雪貂却逃之天天。猎场看守把这说成是他们的过错，阿尔赤知道事实并非如此，并且在吸烟室借助于示意图，把情况向莫瑞斯解释了一下。八点钟开晚饭，政客们也回来了。饭后，雨水从客厅的顶棚漏到盆和碟子里。然后，在赤褐屋里，是跟头天晚上如出一辙的天气和绝望。此刻，克莱夫坐在他的床上，亲密地侃侃而谈，但已于事无补。倘若克莱夫早一点儿来谈，可能会使莫瑞斯感动，然而他待客竟如此不友好，使莫瑞斯伤透了心。这一天他过得太孤寂、太不像话了，以致再也不能对往昔做出反应了。他满脑子都是拉斯克·琼斯先生的事，愿意一个人待在屋子里，以便把自己的症状写成书面材料。
克莱夫觉察出朋友的造访失败了，然而他说：“政治是刻不容缓的，而且你刚好赶上了大忙特忙的时候。”他还为自己忘记了今天是莫瑞斯的生日而懊恼。他极力主张，客人一直逗留到比赛结束后再走。莫瑞斯说他非常抱歉，现在可不行了，因为在伦敦有一件意想不到的急事。
“完事之后你能不能回来？我们是很糟糕的东道主，但是能请你来作客，荣幸之至。尽管把这房子当作旅馆好了——怎么想就怎么做，我们也随心所欲地去做。”
“说实在的，我还希望结婚呢。”莫瑞斯说，这话冲口而出，犹如有着独立的生命一般。
“我高兴极了。”克莱夫边垂下眼睛边说。“莫瑞斯，我高兴极了。这是世界上最了不起的事，也许是独一无二的——”
“我知道。”为什么要说出这样的话呢？他心里很纳闷。他的词句飞到户外的雨里。他时时刻刻意识到雨和彭杰那腐朽的屋顶。
“我不再啰啰嗦嗦地打扰你了。然而我必须说一句：安妮猜到了。女人是不同凡响的。一开始她就坚持说，你留有后手。我笑了，然而现在我甘拜下风。”他抬起眼睛来。“哦，莫瑞斯，我多么高兴啊，你肯告诉我，太好啦——我一向希望你能这样。”
“这我是知道的。”
随后是一阵沉默。克莱夫故态复萌，他既洒脱又可爱。
“令人惊喜，不是吗？——那——我兴高采烈。我但愿自己能想出一些其他的措词。如果我告诉安妮，你介意吗？”
“一点儿也不。告诉所有的人吧。”莫瑞斯大声叫喊。克莱夫不曾理会他的口气中所蕴含的冷酷无情。“多多益善。”他寻求外界的压力。“倘若我想得到的姑娘把我甩了，还有别人呢。”
克莱夫听罢，面泛笑意，由于太高兴了，并没有吹毛求疵。有几分是为莫瑞斯而高兴，然而也因为他本人的态度从此能自圆其说了。他厌恶同性爱。剑桥、蓝屋、园林里的羊齿丛——并没有污迹，毫无可耻之处——却带有微妙的滑稽可笑的意味。最近他偶然翻出来一首诗，是他在莫瑞斯第一次造访彭杰期间所写的。简直像是从镜子里来到世界上的。它是如此荒唐，如此乖张。“往昔那一艘艘希腊海轮的身影。”难道他是这样向那个健壮的大学生致意的吗？他知道莫瑞斯也同样成长得不再需要故作多情，于是感到神清气爽，仿佛被赋予了生命一般的话语也脱口而出。
“莫瑞斯，我亲爱的，我多次想到你，超过了你的想象。正如我去年秋天说过的那样，我在真正的意义上关怀你，也将永远关怀下去。咱们曾经是一对年轻的傻子，是吧？——然而，即便从傻劲儿里，也能获得点儿什么。成长，不，超过了这个，亲密。正因为咱们一度做过傻子，所以才能相互了解并信赖。婚姻并没有使咱们之间发生分歧。哦，多愉快啊，我真的认为——”
“那么，你为我祝福喽？”
“可不是嘛！”
“谢谢。”
克莱夫的眼神变得柔和了。他想要表达比成长来得亲切的东西。他胆敢从过去借个姿态吗？
“明天一整天你都想着我吧。”莫瑞斯说，“至于安妮——她也可以想着我。”
他所做的表示是如此宽厚谦和，以至克莱夫决定轻轻地吻了一下他那褐色的大手。
莫瑞斯浑身战栗了。
“你不介意吧？”
“哦，不。”
“莫瑞斯，亲爱的，我只不过是想让你知道我没有忘掉过去。我完全赞成——咱们再也不要提到过去的事了。然而我仅仅想表示这么一次。”
“好的。”
“它妥善地结束了，难道你不感到欣慰吗？”
“怎样妥善法儿？”
“没像去年那样弄得一团糟。”
“哦，去你的。”
“咱们两清，随后我就走。”
莫瑞斯将自己的嘴唇碰了碰那上过浆的礼服用衬衫袖口。仪式刚一结束，他就往后退了退。克莱夫越发跟他亲密了，坚持说，办完事请务必及早回到彭杰来。克莱夫谈到很晚才住口，这时候隔着天窗，传来了流水的汩汩声。他走后，莫瑞斯拉开窗帘，双膝着地，将下巴抵在窗台上，听任雨水淋湿头发。
“来吧！”他猛然大喊一声，使自己吓了一跳。他呼唤的是谁呢？他什么也没想，词儿却蹦出来了。他尽快地将新鲜空气和黑暗关在外面，重新将自身圈在赤褐屋里。随后他就写起书面材料来，颇费了些工夫。尽管他远远不是个富于想象力的人，就寝之际心里却烦乱不宁。他确信自己正写的时候，有人越过肩膀看着，他并非孤身无助。再者，他觉得这不是他亲自写成的。自从来到彭杰后他好像已不是莫瑞斯了，却变为一大堆声音，这时他几乎能听见这些声音在他内部争吵。然而，没有一个声音是克莱夫的：莫瑞斯已经达到这个地步了。