Maurice

  "What else?"

  "What else? A cr— a cr—"

  "Crack in the floor."

  "And then?"

  Maurice changed his position and said, "I stepped over it."

  "And then?"

  He was silent.

  "And then?" the persuasive voice repeated.

  "I hear you all right," said Maurice. "The bother is I've not gone off. I went just a little muzzy at the start, but now I'm as wide awake as you are. You might have another shot."

  They tried again, with no success.

  "What in Hell can have happened? You could bowl me out last week first ball. What's your explanation?"

  "You should not resist me."

  "Damn it all, I don't."

  "You are less suggestible than you were."

  "I don't know what that may mean, not being an expert in the jargon, but I swear from the bottom of my heart I want to be healed. I want to be like other men, not this outcast whom no­body wants—"

  They tried again.

  "Then am I one of your twenty-five per cent failures?"

  "I could do a little with you last week, but we do have these sudden disappointments."

  "Sudden disappointment, am I? Well, don't be beat, don't give up," he guffawed, affectedly bluff.

  "I do not propose to give up, Mr Hall."

  Again they failed.

  "And what's to happen to me?" said Maurice, with a sudden drop in his voice. He spoke in despair, but Mr Lasker Jones had an answer to every question. "I'm afraid I can only advise you to live in some country that has adopted the Code Napoleon," he said.

  "I don't understand."

  "France or Italy, for instance. There homosexuality is no longer criminal."

  "You mean that a Frenchman could share with a friend and yet not go to prison?"

  "Share? Do you mean unite? If both are of age and avoid public indecency, certainly."

  "Will the law ever be that in England?"

  "I doubt it. England has always been disinclined to accept human nature."

  Maurice understood. He was an Englishman himself, and only his troubles had kept him awake. He smiled sadly. "It comes to this then: there always have been people like me and always will be, and generally they have been persecuted."

  "That is so, Mr Hall; or, as psychiatry prefers to put it, there has been, is, and always will be every conceivable type of per­son. And you must remember that your type was once put to death in England."

  "Was it really? On the other hand, they could get away. Eng-

  land wasn't all built over and policed. Men of my sort could take to the greenwood."

  "Is that so? I was not aware."

  "Oh, it's only my own notion," said Maurice, laying the fee down. "It strikes me there may have been more about the Greeks—Theban Band—and the rest of it. Well, this wasn't un­like. I don't see how they could have kept together otherwise— especially when they came from such different classes."

  "An interesting theory."

  Words flying out of him again, he said, "I've not been straight with you."

  "Indeed, Mr Hall."

  What a comfort the man was! Science is better than sympa­thy, if only it is science.

  "Since I was last here I went wrong with a—he's nothing but a gamekeeper. I don't know what to do."

  "I can scarcely advise you on such a point."

  "I know you can't. But you might tell me whether he's pulling me away from sleep. I half wondered."

  "No one can be pulled against his will, Mr Hall."

  "I'd a notion he'd stopped me going into the trance, and I wished—that seems silly—that I hadn't happened to have a letter from him in my pocket—read it as I've told you so much. I feel simply walking on a volcano. He's an uneducated man; he's got me in his power. In court would he have a case?"

  "I am no lawyer," came the unvarying voice, "but I do not think this letter can be construed as containing a menace. It's a matter on which you should consult your solicitor, not me."

  "I'm sorry, but it's been a relief. I wonder if you'd be awfully kind—hypnotize me once more. I feel I might go off now I've told you. I'd hoped to get cured without giving myself away. Are there such things as men getting anyone in their power through dreams?"

  "I will try on condition your confession is this time exhaus­tive. Otherwise you waste both my time and your own."

  It was exhaustive. He spared neither his lover nor himself. When all was detailed, the perfection of the night appeared as a transient grossness, such as his father had indulged in thirty years before.

  "Sit down once again."

  Maurice heard a slight noise and swerved.

  "It is my children playing overhead."

  "I get half to believe in spooks."

  "It is merely the children."

  Silence returned. The afternoon sunshine fell yellow through the window upon the roll-top desk. This time Maurice fixed his attention on that. Before recommencing, the doctor took Alec's letter, and solemnly burnt it to ashes before his eyes.

  Nothing happened.

  41 By pleasuring the body Maurice had confirmed— that very word was used in the final verdict—he had confirmed his spirit in its perversion, and cut himself off from the congregation of normal man. In his irritation he stammered; "What I want to know is—what I can't tell you nor you me— how did a country lad like that know so much about me? Why did he thunder up that special night when I was weakest? I'd never let him touch me with my friend in the house, because, damn it all, I'm more or less a gentleman—public school, var­sity, and so on—I can't even now believe that it was with him." Regretting he had not possessed Clive in the hour of their pas­sion, he left, left his last shelter, while the doctor said perfunc­torily. "Fresh air and exercise may do wonders yet." The doctor wanted to get on to his next patient, and he did not care for Maurice's type. He was not shocked like Dr Barry, but he was bored, and never thought of the young invert again.

  On the doorstep something rejoined Maurice—his old self perhaps, for as he walked along a voice spoke out of his mortifi­cation, and its accents recalled Cambridge; a reckless youthful voice that girded at him for being a fool. "You've done for your­self this time," it seemed to say, and when he stopped outside the park, because the King and Queen were passing, he de­spised them at the moment he bared his head. It was as if the barrier that kept him from his fellows had taken another aspect. He was not afraid or ashamed anymore. After all, the forests and the night were on his side, not theirs; they, not he, were in-

  side a ring fence. He had acted wrongly, and was still being punished—but wrongly because he had tried to get the best of both worlds. "But I must belong to my class, that's fixed," he persisted.

  "Very well," said his old self. "Now go home, and tomorrow morning mind you catch the 8.36 up to the office, for your holi­day is over, remember, and mind you never turn your head, as I may, towards Sherwood."

  "I'm not a poet, I'm not that kind of an ass—"

  The King and Queen vanished into their palace, the sun fell behind the park trees, which melted into one huge creature that had fingers and fists of green.

  "The life of the earth, Maurice? Don't you belong to that?"

  "Well, what do you call the 'life of the earth'—it ought to be the same as my daily life—the same as society. One ought to be built on the other, as Clive once said."

  "Quite so. Most unfortunate, that facts pay no attention to Clive."

  "Anyhow, I must stick to my class."

  "Night is coming—be quick then—take a taxi—be quick like your father, before doors close."

  Hailing one, he caught the 6.20. Another letter from Scudder awaited him on the leather tray in the hall. He knew the writing at once, the "Mr M. Hall" instead of "Esq.", the stamps plastered crooked. He was frightened and annoyed, yet not so much as he would have been in the morning, for though science despaired of him he despaired less of himself. After all, is not a real Hell bet­ter than a manufa
ctured Heaven? He was not sorry that he had eluded the manipulations of Mr Lasker Jones. He put the letter into the pocket of his dinner-jacket, where it tugged unread, while he played cards, and heard how the chauffeur had given notice; one didn't know what servants were coming to: to his suggestion that servants might be flesh and blood like ourselves

  his aunt opposed a loud "They aren't". At bedtime he kissed his mother and Kitty without the fear of defiling them; their short­lived sanctity was over, and all that they did and said had re­sumed insignificance. It was with no feeling of treason that he locked his door, and gazed for five minutes into the suburban night. He heard owls, the ring of a distant tram and his heart sounding louder than either. The letter was beastly long. The blood began pounding over his body as he unfolded it, but his head kept cool, and he managed to read it as a whole, not merely sentence by sentence.

  Mr Hall, Mr Borenius has just spoke to me. Sir, you do not treat me fairly. I am sailing next week, per s.s. Normannia. I wrote you I am going, it is not fair you never write to me. I come of a respectable family, I don't think it fair to treat me like a dog. My father is a respectable tradesman. I am going to be on my own in the Argentine. You say, "Alec, you are a dear fellow"; but you do not write. I know about you and Mr Durham. Why do you say "call me Maurice", and then treat me so unfairly? Mr Hall, I am coming to London Tuesday. If you do not want me at your home say where in London, you had better see me—I would make you sorry for it. Sir, nothing of note has occurred since you left Penge. Cricket seems over, some of the great trees as lost some of their leaves, which is very early. Has Mr Borenius spoken to you about certain girls? I can't help being rather rough, it is some men's nature, but you should not treat me like a dog. It was before you came. It is natural to want a girl, you cannot go against human nature. Mr Borenius found out about the girls through the new communion class. He has just spoken to me. I have never come like that to a gentleman before. Were you annoyed at being disturbed so early? Sir, it was your fault, your head was on me. I had my work, I was Mr Durham's servant, not yours. I am not your servant, I will not be treated as your servant, and I don't care if the world knows it. I will show respect where it's due only, that is to say to gentleman who are gentleman. Simcox says, "Mr Hall says to put him in about eighth." I put you in fifth, but I was captain, and you have no right to treat me unfairly on that account.

  Yours respectfully, A. Scudder.

  P.S. I know something.

  This last was the outstanding point, yet Maurice could brood over the letter as a whole. There was evidently some unsavoury gossip in the under-world about himself and Clive, but what did it matter now? What did it matter if they had been spied on in the Blue Room, or among the ferns, and been misinterpreted? He was concerned with the present. Why should Scudder have mentioned such gossip? What was he up to? Why had he flung out these words, some foul, many stupid, some gracious? While actually reading the letter, Maurice might feel it carrion he must toss on to his solicitor, but when he laid it down and took up his pipe, it seemed the sort of letter he might have written himself. Muddle-headed? How about muddle-headed? If so, it was in his own line! He didn't want such a letter, he didn't know what it wanted—half a dozen things possibly—but he couldn't well be cold and hard over it as Clive had been to him over the original Symposium business, and argue, "Here's a certain statement, I shall keep you to it." He replied, "A.S. Yes. Meet me Tuesday 5.0 p.m. entrance of British Museum. B.M. a large building. Anyone will tell you which. M.C.H." That struck him as best. Both were outcasts, and if it came to a scrap must have it with­out benefit of society. As for the rendezvous, he chose it because they were unlikely to be disturbed there by anyone whom he knew. Poor B.M., solemn and chaste! The young man smiled, and his face became mischievous and happy. He smiled also at the thought that Clive hadn't quite kept out of the mud after all, and though the face now hardened into lines less pleasing, it proved him an athlete, who had emerged from a year of suf­fering uninjured.

  His new vigour persisted next morning, when he returned to work. Before his failure with Lasker Jones he had looked for­ward to work as a privilege of which he was almost unworthy. It was to have rehabilitated him, so that he could hold up his head at home. But now it too crumbled, and again he wanted

  to laugh, and wondered why he had been taken in so long. The clientele of Messrs Hill and Hall was drawn from the middle-middle classes, whose highest desire seemed shelter—continu­ous shelter—not a lair in the darkness to be reached against fear, but shelter everywhere and always, until the existence of earth and sky is forgotten, shelter from poverty and disease and violence and impoliteness; and consequently from joy; God slipped this retribution in. He saw from their faces, as from the faces of his clerks and his partners, that they had never known real joy. Society had catered for them too completely. They had never struggled, and only a struggle twists sentimentality and lust together into love. Maurice would have been a good lover. He could have given and taken serious pleasure. But in these men the strands were untwisted; they were either fatuous or ob­scene, and in his present mood he despised the latter least. They would come to him and ask for a safe six per cent security. He would reply, "You can't combine high interest with safety—it isn't to be done"; and in the end they would say, "How would it be if I invested most of my money at four per cent, and play about with an odd hundred?" Even so did they speculate in a little vice—not in too much, lest it disorganized domesticity, but in enough to show that their virtue was sham. And until yester­day he had cringed to them.

  Why should he serve such men? He began discussing the ethics of his profession, like a clever undergraduate, but the railway carriage did not take him seriously. "Young Hall's all right," remained the verdict. "Hell never lose a single client, not he." And they diagnosed a cynicism not unseemly in a busi­ness man. "All the time he's investing steadily, you bet. Remem­ber that slum talk of his in the spring?"

  43 The rain was coming down in its old fashion, tapping on a million roofs and occasionally effecting an entry. It beat down the smoke, and caused the fumes of petrol and the smell of wet clothes to linger mixed on the streets of London. In the great forecourt of the Museum it could fall uninterrupt­edly, plumb onto the draggled doves and the helmets of the police. So dark was the afternoon that some of the lights had been turned on inside, and the great building suggested a tomb, miraculously illuminated by spirits of the dead.

  Alec arrived first, dressed no longer in corduroys but in a new blue suit and bowler hat—part of his outfit for the Argentine. He sprang, as he had boasted, of a respectable family—publi­cans, small tradesmen—and it was only by accident that he had appeared as an untamed son of the woods. Indeed, he liked the woods and the fresh air and water, he liked them better than anything and he liked to protect or destroy life, but woods con­tain no "openings", and young men who want to get on must leave them. He was determined in a blind way to get on now. Fate had placed a snare in his hands, and he meant to set it. He tramped over the courtyard, then took the steps in a series of springs; having won the shelter of the portico he stood motion­less, except for the flicker of his eyes. These sudden changes of pace were typical of the man, who always advanced as a skir­misher, was always "on the spot" as Clive had phrased it in the

  written testimonial; "during the five months A. Scudder was in my service I found him prompt and assiduous": qualities that he proposed to display now. When the victim drove up he be­came half cruel, half frightened. Gentlemen he knew, mates he knew; what class of creature was Mr Hall who said, "Call me Maurice"? Narrowing his eyes to slits, he stood as though wait­ing for orders outside the front porch at Penge.

  Maurice approached the most dangerous day of his life with­out any plan at all, yet something kept rippling in his mind like muscles beneath a healthy skin. He was not supported by pride but he did feel fit, anxious to play the game, and, as an English­man should, hoped that his opponent felt fit too. He wanted to be decent, he wasn't afraid. W
hen he saw Alec's face glowing through the dirty air his own tingled slightly, and he determined not to strike until he was struck.

  "Here you are," he said, raising a pair of gloves to his hat. "This rain's the limit. Let's have a talk inside."

  "Where you wish."

  Maurice looked at him with some friendliness, and they en­tered the building. As they did so, Alec raised his head and sneezed like a lion.

  "Got a chill? It's the weather."

  "What's all this place?" he asked.

  "Old things belonging to the nation." They paused in the corridor of Roman emperors. "Yes, it's bad weather. There've only been two fine days. And one fine night," he added mis­chievously, surprising himself.

  But Alec didn't catch on. It wasn't the opening he wanted. He was waiting for signs of fear, that the menial in him might strike. He pretended not to understand the allusion, and sneezed again. The roar echoed down vestibules, and his face, convulsed and distorted, took a sudden appearance of hunger.

  "I'm glad you wrote to me the second time. I liked both your letters. I'm not offended—you've never done anything wrong. It's all your mistake about cricket and the rest. I'll tell you straight out I enjoyed being with you, if that's the trouble. Is it? I want you to tell me. I just don't know."

  "What's here? That's no mistake." He touched his breast pocket, meaningly. "Your writing. And you and the squire— that's no mistake—some may wish as it was one."

  "Don't drag in that," said Maurice, but without indignation, and it struck him as odd that he had none, and that even the Clive of Cambridge had lost sanctity.

  "Mr Hall—you reckernize it wouldn't very well suit you if certain things came out, I suppose."

  Maurice found himself trying to get underneath the words.

  He continued, feeling his way to a grip. "What's more, I've always been a respectable young fellow until you called me into your room to amuse yourself. It don't hardly seem fair that a gentleman should drag you down. At least that's how my brother sees it." He faltered as he spoke these last words. "My brother's waiting outside now as a matter of fact. He wanted to come and speak to you hisself, he's been scolding me shocking, but I said, 'No Fred no, Mr Hall's a gentleman and can be trusted to behave like one, so you leave 'im to me,' I said, 'and Mr Durham, he's a gentleman too, always was and always will be.'"