PART One

PART

One

1

Once a term the whole school went for a walk—that is to say the three masters took part as well as all the boys. It was usually a pleasant outing, and everyone looked forward to it, forgot old scores, and behaved with freedom. Lest discipline should suffer, it took place just before the holidays, when leniency does no harm, and indeed it seemed more like a treat at home than school, for Mrs Abrahams, the Principal’s wife, would meet them at the tea place with some lady friends, and be hospitable and motherly.

Mr Abrahams was a preparatory schoolmaster of the old- fashioned sort. He cared neither for work nor games, but fed his boys well and saw that they did not misbehave. The rest he left to the parents, and did not speculate how much the parents were leaving to him. Amid mutual compliments the boys passed out into a public school, healthy but backward, to receive upon undefended flesh the first blows of the world.

There is much to be said for apathy in education, and Mr Abrahams’s pupils did not do badly in the long run, became parents in their turn, and in some cases sent him their sons.

Mr Read, the junior assistant, was a master of the same type, only stupider, while Mr Ducie, the senior, acted as a stimulant, and prevented the whole concern from going to sleep. They did not like him much, but knew that he was

necessary. Mr Ducie was an able man, orthodox, but not out of touch with the world, nor incapable of seeing both sides of a question. He was unsuitable for parents and the denser boys, but good for the first form, and had even coached pupils into a scholarship. Nor was he a bad organizer. While affecting to hold the reins and to prefer Mr Read, Mr Abrahams really allowed Mr Ducie a free hand and ended by taking him into partnership.

Mr Ducie always had something on his mind. On this occasion it was Hall, one of the older boys, who was leaving them to go to a public school. He wanted to have a “good talk” with Hall, during the outing. His colleagues objected, since it would leave them more to do, and the Principal remarked that he had already talked to Hall, and that the boy would prefer to take his last walk with his school-fellows.

This was probable, but Mr Ducie was never deterred from doing what is right. He smiled and was silent. Mr Read knew what the “good talk” would be, for early in their acquaintance they had touched on a certain theme professionally. Mr Read had disapproved. “Thin ice,” he had said. The Principal neither knew nor would have wished to know. Parting from his pupils when they were fourteen, he forgot they had developed into men. They seemed to him a race small but complete, like the New Guinea pygmies, “my boys”. And they were even easier to understand than pygmies, because they never married and seldom died. Celibate and immortal, the long procession passed before him, its thickness varying from twenty-five to forty at a time. “I see no use in books on education. Boys began before education was thought of.” Mr Ducie would smile, for he was soaked in evolution.

From this to the boys.

“Sir, may I hold your hand…. Sir, you promised me…. Both Mr Abrahams’s hands were bagged and all Mr Read’s…. Oh sir, did you hear that? He thinks Mr Read has three hands!… I didn’t, I said ‘fingers’. Green eye! Green eye!”

“When you have quite finished—!”

“Sir!”

“I’m going to walk with Hall alone.”

There were cries of disappointment. The other masters, seeing that it was no good, called the pack off, and marshalled them along the cliff towards the downs. Hall, triumphant, sprang to Mr Ducie’s side, and felt too old to take his hand. He was a plump, pretty lad, not in any way remarkable. In this he resembled his father, who had passed in the procession twenty-five years before, vanished into a public school, married, begotten a son and two daughters, and recently died of pneumonia. Mr Hall had been a good citizen, but lethargic. Mr Ducie had informed himself about him

before they began the walk.

“Well, Hall, expecting a pi-jaw, eh?”

“I don’t know, sir—Mr Abrahams’ given me one with ‘Those Holy Fields’. Mrs Abrahams’ given me sleeve links.

The fellows have given me a set of Guatemalas up to two dollars. Look, sir! The ones with the parrot on the pillar on.”

“Splendid, splendid! What did Mr Abrahams say? Told you you were a miserable sinner, I hope.”

The boy laughed. He did not understand Mr Ducie, but knew that he was meaning to be funny. He felt at ease because it was his last day at school, and even if he did wrong he would not get into a row. Besides, Mr Abrahams

had declared him a success. “We are proud of him; he will do us honour at Sunnington”: he had seen the beginning of the letter to his mother. And the boys had showered presents on him, declaring he was brave. A great mistake—he wasn’t brave: he was afraid of the dark. But no one knew this.

“Well, what did Mr Abrahams say?” repeated Mr Ducie, when they reached the sands. A long talk threatened, and the boy wished he was up on the cliff with his friends, but he knew that wishing is useless when boy meets man.

“Mr Abrahams told me to copy my father, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“I am never to do anything I should be ashamed to have mother see me do. No one can go wrong then, and the public school will be very different from this.”

“Did Mr Abrahams say how?”

“All kinds of difficulties—more like the world.”

“Did he tell you what the world is like?”

“No.”

“Did you ask him?”

“No, sir.”

“That wasn’t very sensible of you, Hall. Clear things up.

Mr Abrahams and I are here to answer your questions. What do you suppose the world—the world of grown-up people is like?”

“I can’t tell. I’m a boy,” he said, very sincerely. “Are they very treacherous, sir?”

Mr Ducie was amused and asked him what examples of treachery he had seen. He replied that grown-up people would not be unkind to boys, but were they not always cheating one another? Losing his schoolboy manner, he

began to talk like a child, and became fanciful and amusing.

Mr Ducie lay down on the sand to listen to him, lit his pipe, and looked up to the sky. The little watering-place where they lived was now far behind, the rest of the school away in front.

The day was gray and windless, with little distinction between clouds and sun.

“You live with your mother, don’t you?” he interrupted, seeing that the boy had gained confidence.

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you any elder brothers?”

“No, sir—only Ada and Kitty.”

“Any uncles?”

“No.”

“So you don’t know many men?”

“Mother keeps a coachman and George in the garden, but of course you mean gentlemen. Mother has three maid- servants to look after the house, but they are so idle that they will not mend Ada’s stockings. Ada is my eldest little sister.”

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen and three quarters.”

“Well, you’re an ignorant little beggar.” They laughed.

After a pause he said, “When I was your age, my father told me something that proved very useful and helped me a good deal.” This was untrue: his father had never told him anything. But he needed a prelude to what he was going to

say.

“Did he, sir?”

“Shall I tell you what it was?”

“Please, sir.”

 “I am going to talk to you for a few moments as if I were your father, Maurice! I shall call you by your real name.”

Then, very simply and kindly, he approached the mystery of sex. He spoke of male and female, created by God in the beginning in order that the earth might be peopled, and of the period when the male and female receive their powers. “You are just becoming a man now, Maurice; that is why I am telling you about this. It is not a thing that your mother can tell you, and you should not mention it to her nor to any lady, and if at your next school boys mention it to you, just shut them up; tell them you know. Have you heard about it

before?”

“No, sir.”

“Not a word?”

“No, sir.”

Still smoking his pipe, Mr Ducie got up, and choosing a smooth piece of sand drew diagrams upon it with his walking-stick. “This will make it easier,” he said to the boy, who watched dully: it bore no relation to his experiences. He was attentive, as was natural when he was the only one in the class, and he knew that the subject was serious and related to his own body. But he could not himself relate it; it fell to pieces as soon as Mr Ducie put it together, like an impossible sum. In vain he tried. His torpid brain would not awake.

Puberty was there, but not intelligence, and manhood was stealing on him, as it always must, in a trance. Useless to break in upon that trance. Useless to describe it, however scientifically and sympathetically. The boy assents and is dragged back into sleep, not to be enticed there before his hour.

 Mr Ducie, whatever his science, was sympathetic. Indeed he was too sympathetic; he attributed cultivated feelings to Maurice, and did not realize that he must either understand nothing or be overwhelmed. “All this is rather a bother,” he said, “but one must get it over, one mustn’t make a mystery of it. Then come the great things—Love, Life.” He was fluent, having talked to boys in this way before, and he knew the kind of question they would ask. Maurice would not ask: he only said, “I see, I see, I see,” and at first Mr Ducie feared he did not see. He examined him. The replies were satisfactory. They boy’s memory was good and—so curious a fabric is the human—he even developed a spurious intelligence, a surface flicker to respond to the beaconing glow of the man’s. In the end he did ask one or two questions about sex, and they were to the point. Mr Ducie was much pleased. “That’s right,” he said. “You need never be puzzled or bothered now.”

Love and life still remained, and he touched on them as they strolled forward by the colourless sea. He spoke of the ideal man—chaste with asceticism. He sketched the glory of Woman. Engaged to be married himself, he grew more human, and his eyes coloured up behind the strong spectacles; his cheek flushed. To love a noble woman, to protect and serve her—this, he told the little boy, was the crown of life. “You can’t understand now, you will some day, and when you do understand it, remember the poor old pedagogue who put you on the track. It all hangs together— all—and God’s in his heaven, All’s right with the world.

Male and female! Ah wonderful!”

“I think I shall not marry,” remarked Maurice.

 “This day ten years hence—I invite you and your wife to dinner with my wife and me. Will you accept?”

“Oh sir!” He smiled with pleasure.

“It’s a bargain, then!” It was at all events a good joke to end with. Maurice was flattered and began to contemplate marriage. But while they were easing off Mr Ducie stopped, and held his cheek as though every tooth ached. He turned and looked at the long expanse of sand behind.

“I never scratched out those infernal diagrams,” he said slowly.

At the further end of the bay some people were following them, also by the edge of the sea. Their course would take them by the very spot where Mr Ducie had illustrated sex, and one of them was a lady. He ran back sweating with fear.

“Sir, won’t it be all right?” Maurice cried. “The tide’ll have covered them by now.”

“Good Heavens … thank God … the tide’s rising.”

And suddenly for an instant of time, the boy despised him.

“Liar,” he thought. “Liar, coward, he’s told me nothing.” …

Then darkness rolled up again, the darkness that is primeval but not eternal, and yields to its own painful dawn.

2

Maurice’s mother lived near London, in a comfortable villa among some pines. There he and his sisters had been born, and thence his father had gone up to business every day, thither returning. They nearly left when the church was built, but they became accustomed to it, as to everything, and even found it a convenience. Church was the only place Mrs Hall had to go to—the shops delivered. The station was not far

either, nor was a tolerable day school for the girls. It was a land of facilities, where nothing had to be striven for, and success was indistinguishable from failure.

Maurice liked his home, and recognized his mother as its presiding genius. Without her there would be no soft chairs or food or easy games, and he was grateful to her for providing so much, and loved her. He liked his sisters also. When he arrived they ran out with cries of joy, took off his greatcoat, and dropped it for the servants on the floor of the hall. It was nice to be the centre of attraction and show off about school.

His Guatemala stamps were admired—so were “Those Holy Fields” and a Holbein photograph that Mr Ducie had given him. After tea the weather cleared, and Mrs Hall put on her goloshes and walked with him round the grounds. They went kissing one another and conversing aimlessly.

“Morrie….”

“Mummie….”

“Now I must give my Morrie a lovely time.”

“Where’s George?”

“Such a splendid report from Mr Abrahams. He says you remind him of your poor father…. Now what shall we do

these holidays?”

“I like here best.”

“Darling boy …” She embraced him, more affectionately than ever.

“There is nothing like home, as everyone finds. Yes, tomatoes—” she liked reciting the names of vegetables.

“Tomatoes, radishes, broccoli, onions—”

“Tomatoes, broccoli, onions, purple potatoes, white

potatoes,” droned the little boy.

 “Turnip tops—”

“Mother, where’s George?”

“He left last week.”

“Why did George leave?” he asked.

“He was getting too old. Howell always changes the boy

every two years.”

“Oh.”

“Turnip tops,” she continued, “potatoes again, beetroot— Morrie, how would you like to pay a little visit to grandpapa and Aunt Ida if they ask us? I want you to have a very nice time this holiday, dear—you have been so good, but then Mr Abrahams is such a good man; you see, your father was at his school too, and we are sending you to your father’s old public school too—Sunnington—in order that you may grow up like

your dear father in every way.”

A sob interrupted her.

“Morrie, darling—”

The little boy was in tears.

“My pet, what is it?”

“I don’t know … I don’t know….”

“Why, Maurice….”

He shook his head. She was grieved at her failure to make him happy, and began to cry too. The girls ran out, exclaiming, “Mother, what’s wrong with Maurice?”

“Oh, don’t,” he wailed. “Kitty, get out—”

“He’s overtired,” said Mrs Hall—her explanation for

everything.

“I’m overtired.”

 “Come to your room, Morrie—Oh my sweet, this is really too dreadful.”

“No—I’m all right.” He clenched his teeth, and a great mass of sorrow that had overwhelmed him by rising to the surface began to sink. He could feel it going down into his heart until he was conscious of it no longer. “I’m all right.”

He looked around him fiercely and dried his eyes. “I’ll play Halma, I think.” Before the pieces were set, he was talking as before; the childish collapse was over.

He beat Ada, who worshipped him, and Kitty, who did not, and then ran into the garden again to see the coachman.

“How d’ye do, Howell. How’s Mrs Howell? How d’ye do, Mrs Howell,” and so on, speaking in a patronizing voice, different from that he used to gentlefolks. Then altering back,

“Isn’t it a new garden boy?”

“Yes, Master Maurice.”

“Was George too old?”

“No, Master Maurice. He wanted to better himself.”

“Oh, you mean he gave notice.”

“That’s right.”

“Mother said he was too old and you gave him notice.”

“No, Master Maurice.”

“My poor woodstacks’ll be glad,” said Mrs Howell.

Maurice and the late garden boy had been used to play about in them.

“They are Mother’s woodstacks, not yours,” said Maurice and went indoors. The Howells were not offended, though they pretended to be so to one another. They had been servants all their lives, and liked a gentleman to be a snob.

“He has quite a way with him already,” they told the cook.

“More like his father.”

The Barrys, who came to dinner, were of the same opinion.

Dr Barry was an old friend, or rather neighbour, of the family, and took a moderate interest in them. No one could be deeply interested in the Halls. Kitty he liked—she had hints of grit in her—but the girls were in bed, and he told his wife afterwards that Maurice ought to have been there too. “And stop there all his life. As he will. Like his father. What is the use of such people?”

When Maurice did go to bed, it was reluctantly. That room always frightened him. He had been such a man all the evening, but the old feeling came over him as soon as his mother had kissed him good night. The trouble was the looking-glass. He did not mind seeing his face in it, nor casting a shadow on the ceiling, but he did mind seeing his shadow on the ceiling reflected in the glass. He would arrange the candle so as to avoid the combination, and then dare himself to put it back and be gripped with fear. He knew what it was, it reminded him of nothing horrible. But he was afraid. In the end he would dash out the candle and leap into bed. Total darkness he could bear, but this room had the further defect of being opposite a street lamp. On good nights the light would penetrate the curtains unalarmingly, but sometimes blots like skulls fell over the furniture. His heart beat violently, and he lay in terror, with all his household close at hand.

As he opened his eyes to look whether the blots had grown smaller, he remembered George. Something stirred in the unfathomable depths of his heart. He whispered, “George, George.” Who was George? Nobody—just a common

servant. Mother and Ada and Kitty were far more important.

But he was too little to argue this. He did not even know that when he yielded to this sorrow he overcame the spectral and fell asleep.

3

Sunnington was the next stage in Maurice’s career. He traversed it without attracting attention. He was not good at work, though better than he pretended, nor colossally good at games. If people noticed him they liked him, for he had a bright friendly face and responded to attention; but there were so many boys of his type—they formed the backbone of the school and we cannot notice each vertebra. He did the usual things—was kept in, once caned, rose from form to form on the classical side till he clung precariously to the sixth, and he became a house prefect, and later a school prefect and member of the first fifteen. Though clumsy, he had strength and physical pluck: at cricket he did not do so well. Having been bullied as a new boy, he bullied others when they seemed unhappy or weak, not because he was cruel but because it was the proper thing to do. In a word, he was a mediocre member of a mediocre school, and left a faint and favourable impression behind. “Hall? Wait a minute, which was Hall? Oh yes, I remember; clean run enough.”

Beneath it all, he was bewildered. He had lost the precocious clearness of the child which transfigures and explains the universe, offering answers of miraculous insight and beauty. “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings …”

But not out of the mouth of the boy of sixteen. Maurice forgot he had ever been sexless, and only realized in maturity how just and clear the sensations of his earliest days must

have been. He sank far below them now, for he was descending the Valley of the Shadow of Life. It lies between the lesser mountains and the greater, and without breathing its fogs no one can come through. He groped about in it longer than most boys.

Where all is obscure and unrealized the best similitude is a dream. Maurice had two dreams at school; they will interpret him.

In the first dream he felt very cross. He was playing football against a nondescript whose existence he resented.

He made an effort and the nondescript turned into George, that garden boy. But he had to be careful or it would reappear.

George headed down the field towards him, naked and jumping over the woodstacks. “I shall go mad if he turns wrong now,” said Maurice, and just as they collared this happened, and a brutal disappointment woke him up. He did not connect it with Mr Ducie’s homily, still less with his second dream, but he thought he was going to be ill, and afterwards that it was somehow a punishment for something.

The second dream is more difficult to convey. Nothing happened. He scarcely saw a face, scarcely heard a voice say, “That is your friend,” and then it was over, having filled him with beauty and taught him tenderness. He could die for such a friend, he would allow such a friend to die for him; they would make any sacrifice for each other, and count the world nothing, neither death nor distance nor crossness could part them, because “this is my friend.” Soon afterwards he was confirmed and tried to persuade himself that the friend must be Christ. But Christ has a mangy beard. Was he a Greek god, such as illustrates the classical dictionary? More probable, but most probably he was just a man. Maurice forbore to

define his dream further. He had dragged it as far into life as it would come. He would never meet that man nor hear that voice again, yet they became more real than anything he knew, and would actually—

“Hall! Dreaming again! A hundred lines!”

“Sir—oh! Dative absolute.”

“Dreaming again. Too late.”

—would actually pull him back to them in broad daylight and drop a curtain. Then he would reimbibe the face and the four words, and would emerge yearning with tenderness and longing to be kind to everyone, because his friend wished it, and to be good that his friend might become more fond of him. Misery was somehow mixed up with all this happiness.

It seemed as certain that he hadn’t a friend as that he had one, and he would find a lonely place for tears, attributing them to the hundred lines.

Maurice’s secret life can be understood now; it was part brutal, part ideal, like his dreams.

As soon as his body developed he became obscene. He supposed some special curse had descended on him, but he could not help it, for even when receiving the Holy Communion filthy thoughts would arise in his mind. The tone of the school was pure—that is to say, just before his arrival there had been a terrific scandal. The black sheep had been expelled, the remainder were drilled hard all day and policed at night, so it was his fortune or misfortune to have little opportunity of exchanging experiences with his school- fellows. He longed for smut, but heard little and contributed less, and his chief indecencies were solitary. Books: the school library was immaculate, but while at his grandfather’s he came across an unexpurgated Martial, and stumbled about

in it with burning ears. Thoughts: he had a dirty little collection. Acts: he desisted from these after the novelty was over, finding that they brought him more fatigue than pleasure.

All which, if it can be understood, took place in a trance.

Maurice had fallen asleep in the Valley of the Shadow, far beneath the peaks of either range, and knew neither this nor that his school-fellows were sleeping likewise.

The other half of his life seemed infinitely remote from obscenity. As he rose in the school he began to make a religion of some other boy. When this boy, whether older or younger than himself, was present, he would laugh loudly, talk absurdly, and be unable to work. He dared not be kind— it was not the thing—still less to express his admiration in words. And the adored one would shake him off before long, and reduce him to sulks. However, he had his revenges. Other boys sometimes worshipped him, and when he realized this he would shake off them. The adoration was mutual on one occasion, both yearning for they knew not what, but the result was the same. They quarrelled in a few days. All that came out of the chaos were the two feelings of beauty and tenderness that he had first felt in a dream. They grew yearly, flourishing like plants that are all leaves and show no sign of flower. Towards the close of his education at Sunnington the growth stopped. A check, a silence, fell upon the complex processes, and very timidly the youth began to look around him.

4

He was nearly nineteen.

 He stood on the platform on Prize Day, reciting a Greek Oration of his own composition. The hall was full of schoolboys and their parents, but Maurice affected to be addressing the Hague Conference, and to be pointing out to it the folly of its ways. “What stupidity is this, O andres Europenaici, to talk of abolishing war? What? Is not Ares the son of Zeus himself? Moreover, war renders you robust by exercising your limbs, not forsooth like those of my opponent.” The Greek was vile: Maurice had got the prize on account of the Thought, and barely thus. The examining master had stretched a point in his favour since he was leaving and a respectable chap, and moreover leaving for Cambridge, where prize books on his shelves would help to advertise the school. So he received Grote’s History of Greece amid tremendous applause. As he returned to his seat, which was next to his mother, he realized that he had again become popular, and wondered how. The clapping continued —it grew to an ovation; Ada and Kitty were pounding away with scarlet faces on the further side. Some of his friends, also leaving, cried “speech”. This was irregular and quelled by the authorities, but the Headmaster himself rose and said a few words. Hall was one of them, and they would never cease to feel him so. The words were just. The school clapped not because Maurice was eminent but because he was average. It could celebrate itself in his image. People ran up to him afterwards saying “jolly good, old man”, quite sentimentally, and even “it will be bilge in this hole without you.” His relations shared in the triumph. On previous visits he had been hateful to them. “Sorry, mater, but you and the kids will have to walk alone” had been his remark after a football match when they had tried to join on to him in his mud and glory: Ada had cried. Now Ada was chatting quite

ably to the Captain of the School, and Kitty was being handed cakes, and his mother was listening to his housemaster’s wife, on the disappointments of installing hot air. Everyone and everything had suddenly harmonized. Was this the world?

A few yards off he saw Dr Barry, their neighbour from home, who caught his eye and called out in his alarming way, “Congratulations, Maurice, on your triumph. Overwhelming!

I drink to it in this cup”—he drained it—“of extremely nasty tea.”

Maurice laughed and went up to him, rather guiltily; for his conscience was bad. Dr Barry had asked him to befriend a little nephew, who had entered the school that term, but he had done nothing—it was not the thing. He wished that he had had more courage now that it was too late and he felt a man.

“And what’s the next stage in your triumphal career?

Cambridge?”

“So they say.”

“So they say, do they? And what do you say?”

“I don’t know,” said the hero good-temperedly.

“And after Cambridge, what? Stock Exchange?”

“I suppose so—my father’s old partner talks of letting me in if all goes well.”

“And after you’re let in by your father’s old partner, what?

A pretty wife?”

Maurice laughed again.

“Who will present the expectant world with a Maurice the third? After which old age, grandchildren, and finally the daisies. So that’s your notion of a career. Well, it isn’t mine.”

 “What’s your notion, Doctor?” called Kitty.

“To help the weak and right the wrong, my dear,” he replied, looking across at her.

“I’m sure it is all our notions,” said the housemaster’s wife, and Mrs Hall agreed.

“Oh no, it’s not. It isn’t consistently mine, or I should be looking after my Dickie instead of lingering on this scene of splendour.”

“Do bring dear Dickie to say how d’ye do to me,” asked Mrs Hall. “Is his father down here too?”

“Mother!” Kitty whispered.

“Yes. My brother died last year,” said Dr Barry. “The incident slipped your memory. War did not render him robust by exercising his limbs, as Maurice supposes. He got a shell

in the stomach.”

He left them.

“I think Dr Barry gets cynical,” remarked Ada. “I think he’s jealous.” She was right: Dr Barry, who had been a lady killer in his time, did resent the continuance of young men.

Poor Maurice encountered him again. He had been saying goodbye to his housemaster’s wife, who was a handsome woman, very civil to the older boys. They shook hands warmly. On turning away he heard Dr Barry’s “Well, Maurice; a youth irresistible in love as in war,” and caught

his cynical glance.

“I don’t know what you mean, Dr Barry.”

“Oh, you young fellows! Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth these days. Don’t know what I mean! Prudish of a petticoat! Be frank, man, be frank. You don’t take anyone in.

The frank mind’s the pure mind. I’m a medical man and an

old man and I tell you that, Man that is born of woman must go with woman if the human race is to continue.”

Maurice stared after the housemaster’s wife, underwent a violent repulsion from her, and blushed crimson: he had remembered Mr Ducie’s diagrams. A trouble—nothing as beautiful as a sorrow—rose to the surface of his mind, displayed its ungainliness, and sank. Its precise nature he did not ask himself, for his hour was not yet, but the hint was appalling, and, hero though he was, he longed to be a little boy again, and to stroll half awake for ever by the colourless sea. Dr Barry went on lecturing him, and under the cover of a friendly manner said much that gave pain.

5

He chose a college patronized by his chief school friend Chapman and by other old Sunningtonians, and during his first year managed to experience little in University life that was unfamiliar. He belonged to an Old Boys’ Club, and they played games together, tea’d and lunched together, kept up their provincialisms and slang, sat elbow to elbow in hall, and walked arm in arm about the streets. Now and then they got drunk and boasted mysteriously about women, but their outlook remained that of the upper fifth, and some of them kept it through life. There was no feud between them and the other undergraduates, but they were too compact to be popular, too mediocre to lead, and they did not care to risk knowing men who had come from other public schools. All this suited Maurice. He was constitutionally lazy. Though none of his difficulties had been solved, none were added, which is something. The hush continued. He was less troubled by carnal thoughts. He stood still in the darkness

instead of groping about in it, as if this was the end for which body and soul had been so painfully prepared.

During his second year he underwent a change. He had moved into college and it began to digest him. His days he might spend as before, but when the gates closed on him at night a new process began. Even as a freshman he made the important discovery that grown-up men behave politely to one another unless there is a reason for the contrary. Some third-year people had called on him in his digs. He had expected them to break his plates and insult the photograph of his mother, and when they did not he ceased planning how some day he should break theirs, thus saving time. And the manners of the dons were even more remarkable. Maurice was only waiting for such an atmosphere himself to soften.

He did not enjoy being cruel and rude. It was against his nature. But it was necessary at school, or he might have gone under, and he had supposed it would have been even more necessary on the larger battlefield of the University.

Once inside college, his discoveries multiplied. People turned out to be alive. Hitherto he had supposed that they were what he pretended to be—flat pieces of cardboard stamped with a conventional design—but as he strolled about the courts at night and saw through the windows some men singing and others arguing and others at their books, there came by no process of reason a conviction that they were human beings with feelings akin to his own. He had never lived frankly since Mr Abrahams’s school, and despite Dr Barry did not mean to begin; but he saw that while deceiving others he had been deceived, and mistaken them for the empty creatures he wanted them to think he was. No, they too had insides. “But, O Lord, not such an inside as mine.” As

soon as he thought about other people as real, Maurice became modest and conscious of sin: in all creation there could be no one as vile as himself: no wonder he pretended to be a piece of cardboard; if known as he was, he would be hounded out of the world. God, being altogether too large an order, did not worry him: he could not conceive of any censure being more terrific than, say, Joey Fetherstonhaugh’s, who kept in the rooms below, or of any Hell as bitter as Coventry.

Shortly after this discovery he went to lunch with Mr Cornwallis, the Dean.

There were two other guests, Chapman and a B.A. from Trinity, a relative of the Dean’s, by name Risley. Risley was dark, tall and affected. He made an exaggerated gesture when introduced, and when he spoke, which was continually, he used strong yet unmanly superlatives. Chapman caught Maurice’s eye and distended his nostrils, inviting him to side against the newcomer. Maurice thought he would wait a bit first. His disinclination to give pain was increasing, and besides he was not sure that he loathed Risley, though no doubt he ought to, and in a minute should. So Chapman ventured alone. Finding Risley adored music, he began to run it down, saying, “I don’t go in for being superior,” and so on.

“I do!”

“Oh, do you! In that case I beg your pardon.”

“Come along, Chapman, you are in need of food,” called Mr Cornwallis, and promised himself some amusement at lunch.

“ ’Spect Mr Risley isn’t. I’ve put him off with my low talk.”

 They sat down, and Risley turned with a titter to Maurice and said, “I simply can’t think of any reply to that”; in each of his sentences he accented one word violently. “It is so humiliating. ‘No’ won’t do. ‘Yes’ won’t do. What is to be done?”

“What about saying nothing?” said the Dean.

“To say nothing? Horrible. You must be mad.”

“Are you always talking, may one ask?” inquired

Chapman.

Risley said he was.

“Never get tired of it?”

“Never.”

“Ever tire other people?”

“Never.”

“Odd that.”

“Do not suggest I’ve tired you. Untrue, untrue, you’re beaming.”

“It’s not at you if I am,” said Chapman, who was hot-

tempered.

Maurice and the Dean laughed.

“I come to a standstill again. How amazing are the difficulties of conversation.”

“You seem to carry on better than most of us can,” remarked Maurice. He had not spoken before, and his voice, which was low but very gruff, made Risley shiver.

“Naturally. It is my forte. It is the only thing I care about,

conversation.”

“Is that serious?”

 “Everything I say is serious.” And somehow Maurice knew this was true. It had struck him at once that Risley was

serious. “And are you serious?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“Then talk until you become so.”

“Rubbish,” growled the Dean.

Chapman laughed tempestuously.

“Rubbish?” He questioned Maurice, who, when he grasped the point, was understood to reply that deeds are more important than words.

“What is the difference? Words are deeds. Do you mean to say that these five minutes in Cornwallis’s rooms have done nothing for you? Will you ever forget you have met me, for

instance?”

Chapman grunted.

“But he will not, nor will you. And then I am told we ought to be doing something.”

The Dean came to the rescue of the two Sunningtonians.

He said to his young cousin, “You’re unsound about memory.

You confuse what’s important with what’s impressive. No doubt Chapman and Hall always will remember they’ve met you—”

“And forget this is a cutlet. Quite so.”

“But the cutlet does some good to them, and you none.”

“Obscurantist!”

“This is just like a book,” said Chapman. “Eh, Hall?”

“I mean,” said Risley, “oh how clearly I mean that the cutlet influences your subconscious lives, and I your conscious, and so I am not only more impressive than the

cutlet but more important. Your Dean here, who dwells in Medieval Darkness and wishes you to do the same, pretends that only the subconscious, only the part of you that can be touched without your knowledge is important, and daily he

drops soporific—”

“Oh, shut up,” said the Dean.

“But I am a child of light—”

“Oh, shut up.” And he turned the conversation on to normal lines. Risley was not egotistic, though he always talked about himself. He did not interrupt. Nor did he feign indifference. Gambolling like a dolphin, he accompanied them whithersoever they went, without hindering their course. He was at play, but seriously. It was as important to him to go to and fro as to them to go forward, and he loved keeping near them. A few months earlier Maurice would have agreed with Chapman, but now he was sure the man had an inside, and he wondered whether he should see more of him. He was pleased when, after lunch was over, Risley waited for him at the bottom of the stairs and said, “You didn’t see. My cousin wasn’t being human.”

“He’s good enough for us; that’s all I know,” exploded Chapman. “He’s absolutely delightful.”

“Exactly. Eunuchs are.” And he was gone.

“Well, I’m—” exclaimed the other, but with British self- control suppressed the verb. He was deeply shocked. He didn’t mind hot stuff in moderation, he told Maurice, but this was too much, it was bad form, ungentlemanly, the fellow could not have been through a public school. Maurice agreed.

You could call your cousin a shit if you liked, but not a eunuch. Rotten style! All the same he was amused, and

whenever he was hauled in in the future, mischievous and incongruous thoughts would occur to him about the Dean.

6

All that day and the next Maurice was planning how he could see this queer fish again. The chances were bad. He did not like to call on a senior-year man, and they were at different colleges. Risley, he gathered, was well known at the Union, and he went to the Tuesday debate in the hope of hearing him: perhaps he would be easier to understand in public. He was not attracted to the man in the sense that he wanted him for a friend, but he did feel he might help him— how, he didn’t formulate. It was all very obscure, for the mountains still overshadowed Maurice. Risley, surely capering on the summit, might stretch him a helping hand.

Having failed at the Union, he had a reaction. He didn’t want anyone’s help; he was all right. Besides, none of his friends would stand Risley, and he must stick to his friends.

But the reaction soon passed, and he longed to see him more than ever. Since Risley was so odd, might he not be odd too, and break all the undergraduate conventions by calling? One “ought to be human”, and it was a human sort of thing to call.

Much struck by the discovery, Maurice decided to be Bohemian also, and to enter the room making a witty speech in Risley’s own style. “You’ve bargained for more than you’ve gained” occurred to him. It didn’t sound very good, but Risley had been clever at not letting him feel a fool, so he would fire it off if inspired to nothing better, and leave the rest to luck.

For it had become an adventure. This man who said one ought to “talk, talk” had stirred Maurice incomprehensibly.

One night, just before ten o’clock, he slipped into Trinity and waited in the Great Court until the gates were shut behind him. Looking up, he noticed the night. He was indifferent to beauty as a rule, but “what a show of stars!” he thought. And how the fountain splashed when the chimes died away, and the gates and doors all over Cambridge had been fastened up.

Trinity men were around him—all of enormous intellect and culture. Maurice’s set had laughed at Trinity, but they could not ignore its disdainful radiance, or deny the superiority it scarcely troubles to affirm. He had come to it without their knowledge, humbly, to ask its help. His witty speech faded in its atmosphere; and his heart beat violently. He was ashamed and afraid.

Risley’s rooms were at the end of a short passage; which since it contained no obstacle was unlighted, and visitors slid along the wall until they hit the door. Maurice hit it sooner than he expected—a most awful whack—and exclaimed “Oh damnation” loudly, while the panels quivered.

“Come in,” said a voice. Disappointment awaited him. The speaker was a man of his own college, by name Durham.

Risley was out.

“Do you want Mr Risley? Hullo, Hall!”

“Hullo! Where’s Risley?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’ll go.”

“Are you going back into college?” asked Durham without looking up: he was kneeling over a castle of pianola records on the floor.

“I suppose so, as he isn’t here. It wasn’t anything particular.”

 “Wait a sec, and I’ll come too. I’m sorting out the Pathetic Symphony.”

Maurice examined Risley’s room and wondered what would have been said in it, and then sat on the table and looked at Durham. He was a small man—very small—with simple manners and a fair face, which had flushed when Maurice blundered in. In the college he had a reputation for brains and also for exclusiveness. Almost the only thing Maurice had heard about him was that he “went out too much”, and this meeting in Trinity confirmed it.

“I can’t find the March,” he said. “Sorry.”

“All right.”

“I’m borrowing them to play on Fetherstonhaugh’s

pianola.”

“Under me.”

“Have you come into college, Hall?”

“Yes, I’m beginning my second year.”

“Oh yes, of course, I’m third.”

He spoke without arrogance, and Maurice, forgetting due honour to seniority, said, “You look more like a fresher than a

third-year man, I must say.”

“I may do, but I feel like an M.A.”

Maurice regarded him attentively.

“Risley’s an amazing chap,” he continued.

Maurice did not reply.

“But all the same a little of him goes a long way.”

“Still you don’t mind borrowing his things.”

He looked up again. “Oughtn’t I to?” he asked.

 “I’m only ragging, of course,” said Maurice, slipping off the table. “Have you found that music yet?”

“No.”

“Because I must be going”; he was in no hurry, but his heart, which had never stopped beating quickly, impelled him

to say this.

“Oh. All right.”

This was not what Maurice had intended. “What is it you

want?” he asked, advancing.

“The March out of the Pathétique—”

“That means nothing to me. So you like this style of

music.”

“I do.”

“A good waltz is more my style.”

“Mine too,” said Durham, meeting his eye. As a rule Maurice shifted, but he held firm on this occasion. Then Durham said, “The other movement may be in that pile over by the window. I must look. I shan’t be long.” Maurice said

resolutely, “I must go now.”

“All right, I’ll stop.”

Beaten and lonely, Maurice went. The stars blurred, the night had turned towards rain. But while the porter was getting the keys at the gate he heard quick footsteps behind

him.

“Got your March?”

“No, I thought I’d come along with you instead.”

Maurice walked a few steps in silence, then said, “Here,

give me some of those things to carry.”

“I’ve got them safe.”

 “Give,” he said roughly, and jerked the records from under Durham’s arm. No other conversation passed. On reaching their own college they went straight to Fetherstonhaugh’s room, for there was time to try a little music over before eleven o’clock, Durham sat down at the pianola. Maurice knelt beside him.

“Didn’t know you were in the aesthetic push, Hall,” said the host.

“I’m not—I want to hear what they’re up to.”

Durham began, then desisted, saying he would start with

the 5/4 instead.

“Why?”

“It’s nearer waltzes.”

“Oh, never mind that. Play what you like. Don’t go shifting —it wastes time.”

But he could not get his way this time. When he put his hand on the roller Durham said, “You’ll tear it, let go,” and fixed the 5/4 instead.

Maurice listened carefully to the music. He rather liked it.

“You ought to be this end,” said Fetherstonhaugh, who was working by the fire. “You should get away from the machine as far as you can.”

“I think so—Would you mind playing it again if

Fetherstonhaugh doesn’t mind?”

“Yes, do, Durham. It is a jolly thing.”

Durham refused. Maurice saw that he was not pliable. He said, “A movement isn’t like a separate piece—you can’t repeat it”—an unintelligible excuse, but apparently valid. He played the Largo, which was far from jolly, and then eleven struck and Fetherstonhaugh made them tea. He and Durham

were in for the same Tripos, and talked shop, while Maurice listened. His excitement had never ceased. He saw that Durham was not only clever, but had a tranquil and orderly brain. He knew what he wanted to read, where he was weak, and how far the officials could help him. He had neither the blind faith in tutors and lectures that was held by Maurice and his set nor the contempt professed by Fetherstonhaugh.

“You can always learn something from an older man, even if he hasn’t read the latest Germans.” They argued a little about Sophocles, then in low water Durham said it was a pose in “us undergraduates” to ignore him and advised Fetherstonhaugh to re-read the Ajax with his eye on the characters rather than the author; he would learn more that way, both about Greek grammar and life.

Maurice regretted all this. He had somehow hoped to find the man unbalanced. Fetherstonhaugh was a great person, both in brain and brawn, and had a trenchant and copious manner. But Durham listened unmoved, shook out the falsities and approved the rest. What hope for Maurice who was nothing but falsities? A stab of anger went through him.

Jumping up, he said good night, to regret his haste as soon as he was outside the door. He settled to wait, not on the staircase itself, for this struck him as absurd, but somewhere between its foot and Durham’s own room. Going out into the court, he located the latter, even knocking at the door, though he knew the owner was absent, and looking in he studied furniture and pictures in the firelight. Then he took his stand on a sort of bridge in the courtyard. Unfortunately it was not a real bridge: it only spanned a slight depression in the ground, which the architect had tried to utilize in his effect.

To stand on it was to feel in a photographic studio, and the parapet was too low to lean upon. Still, with a pipe in his

mouth, Maurice looked fairly natural, and hoped it wouldn’t rain.

The lights were out, except in Fetherstonhaugh’s room.

Twelve struck, then a quarter past. For a whole hour he might have been watching for Durham. Presently there was a noise on the staircase and the neat little figure ran out with a gown round its throat and books in its hand. It was the moment for which he had waited, but he found himself strolling away.

Durham went to his rooms behind him. The opportunity was passing.

“Good night,” he screamed; his voice was going out of gear, and startling them both.

“Who’s that? Good night, Hall. Taking a stroll before bed?”

“I generally do. You don’t want any more tea, I suppose?”

“Do I? No, perhaps it’s a bit late for tea.” Rather tepidly he

added, “Like some whisky though?”

“Have you a drop?” leaped from Maurice.

“Yes—come in. Here I keep: ground floor.”

“Oh, here!” Durham turned on the light. The fire was nearly out now. He told Maurice to sit down and brought up a

table with glasses.

“Say when?”

“Thanks—most awfully, most awfully.”

“Soda or plain?” he asked, yawning.

“Soda,” said Maurice. But it was impossible to stop, for the man was tired and had only invited him out of civility. He drank and returned to his own room, where he provided himself with plenty of tobacco and went into the court again.

 It was absolutely quiet now, and absolutely dark. Maurice walked to and fro on the hallowed grass, himself noiseless, his heart glowing. The rest of him fell asleep, bit by bit, and first of all his brain, his weakest organ. His body followed, then his feet carried him upstairs to escape the dawn. But his heart had lit never to be quenched again, and one thing in him at last was real.

Next morning he was calmer. He had a cold for one thing, the rain having soaked him unnoticed, and for another he had overslept to the extent of missing a chapel and two lectures. It was impossible to get his life straight. After lunch he changed for football, and being in good time flung himself on his sofa to sleep till tea. But he was not hungry. Refusing an invitation, he strolled out into the town and, meeting a Turkish bath, had one. It cured his cold, but made him late for another lecture. When hall came, he felt he could not face the mass of Old Sunningtonians, and, though he had not signed off, absented himself, and dined alone at the Union. He saw Risley there, but with indifference. Then the evening began again, and he found to his surprise that he was very clear- headed, and could do six hours’ work in three. He went to bed at his usual time, and woke up healthy and very happy.

Some instinct, deep below his consciousness, had advised him to let Durham and his thoughts about Durham have a twenty-four-hours’ rest.

They began to see a little of one another. Durham asked him to lunch, and Maurice asked him back, but not too soon.

A caution alien to his nature was at work. He had always been cautious pettily, but this was on a large scale. He became alert, and all his actions that October term might be described in the language of battle. He would not venture on

to difficult ground. He spied out Durham’s weaknesses as well as his strength. And above all he exercised and cleaned his powers.

If obliged to ask himself, “What’s all this?” he would have replied, “Durham is another of those boys in whom I was interested at school,” but he was obliged to ask nothing, and merely went ahead with his mouth and his mind shut. Each day with its contradictions slipped into the abyss, and he knew that he was gaining ground. Nothing else mattered. If he worked well and was nice socially, it was only a by- product, to which he had devoted no care. To ascend, to stretch a hand up the mountainside until a hand catches it, was the end for which he had been born. He forgot the hysteria of his first night and his stranger recovery. They were steps which he kicked behind him. He never even thought of tenderness and emotion; his considerations about Durham remained cold. Durham didn’t dislike him, he was sure. That was all he wanted. One thing at a time. He didn’t so much as have hopes, for hope distracts, and he had a great deal to see to.

7

Next term they were intimate at once.

“Hall, I nearly wrote a letter to you in the vac,” said

Durham, plunging into a conversation.

“That so?”

“But an awful screed. I’d been having a rotten time.”

His voice was not very serious, and Maurice said, “What went wrong? Couldn’t you keep down the Christmas pudding?”

 It presently appeared that the pudding was allegorical; there had been a big family row.

“I don’t know what you’ll say—I’d rather like your opinion on what happened if it doesn’t bore you.”

“Not a bit,” said Maurice.

“We’ve had a bust up on the religious question.”

At that moment they were interrupted by Chapman.

“I’m sorry, we’re fixing something,” Maurice told him.

Chapman withdrew.

“You needn’t have done that, any time would do for my rot,” Durham protested. He went on more earnestly.

“Hall, I don’t want to worry you with my beliefs, or rather with their absence, but to explain the situation I must just tell you that I’m unorthodox. I’m not a Christian.”

Maurice held unorthodoxy to be bad form and had remarked last term in a college debate that if a man had doubts he might have the grace to keep them to himself. But he only said to Durham that it was a difficult question and a wide one.

“I know—it isn’t about that. Leave it aside.” He looked for a little into the fire. “It is about the way my mother took it. I told her six months ago—in the summer—and she didn’t mind. She made some foolish joke, as she does, but that was all. It just passed over. I was thankful, for it had been on my mind for years. I had never believed since I found something that did me better, quite as a kid, and when I came to know Risley and his crew it seemed imperative to speak out. You know what a point they make of that—it’s really their main point. So I spoke out. She said, ‘Oh yes, you’ll be wiser when you are as old as me’: the mildest form of the thing

conceivable, and I went away rejoicing. Now it’s all come up

again.”

“Why?”

“Why? On account of Christmas. I didn’t want to communicate. You’re supposed to receive it three times a

year—”

“Yes, I know. Holy Communion.”

“—and at Christmas it came round. I said I wouldn’t.

Mother wheedled me in a way quite unlike her, asked me to do it this once to please her—then got cross, said I would damage her reputation as well as my own—we’re the local squires and the neighbourhood’s uncivilized. But what I couldn’t stand was the end. She said I was wicked. I could have honoured her if she had said that six months before, but now! now to drag in holy words like wickedness and goodness in order to make me do what I disbelieved. I told her I have my own communions. ‘If I went to them as you and the girls are doing to yours my gods would kill me!’ I suppose that was too strong.”

Maurice, not well understanding, said, “So did you go?”

“Where?”

“To the church.”

Durham sprang up. His face was disgusted. Then he bit his lip and began to smile.

“No, I didn’t go to church, Hall. I thought that was plain.”

“I’m sorry—I wish you’d sit down. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m rather slow at catching.”

Durham squatted on the rug close to Maurice’s chair.

“Have you known Chapman long?” he asked after a pause.

“Here and at school, five years.”

 “Oh.” He seemed to reflect. “Give me a cigarette. Put it in my mouth. Thanks.” Maurice supposed the talk was over, but after the swirl he went on. “You see—you mentioned you had a mother and two sisters, which is exactly my own allowance, and all through the row I was wondering what you would have done in my position.”

“Your mother must be very different to mine.”

“What is yours like?”

“She never makes a row about anything.”

“Because you’ve never yet done anything she wouldn’t

approve, I expect—and never will.”

“Oh no, she wouldn’t fag herself.”

“You can’t tell, Hall, especially with women. I’m sick with her. That’s my real trouble that I want your help about.”

“She’ll come round.”

“Exactly, my dear chap, but shall I? I must have been pretending to like her. This row has shattered my lie. I did think I had stopped building lies. I despise her character, I am disgusted with her. There, I have told you what no one else in the world knows.”

Maurice clenched his fist and hit Durham lightly on the

head with it. “Hard luck,” he breathed.

“Tell me about your home life.”

“There’s nothing to tell. We just go on.”

“Lucky devils.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Are you ragging, or was your vac really

beastly, Durham?”

“Absolute Hell, misery and Hell.”

 Maurice’s fist unclenched to reform with a handful of hair in its grasp.

“Waou, that hurts!” cried the other joyously.

“What did your sisters say about Holy Communion?”

“One’s married a clerg—No, that hurts.”

“Absolute Hell, eh?”

“Hall, I never knew you were a fool—” he possessed himself of Maurice’s hand—“and the other’s engaged to Archibald London, Esquire, of the—Waou! Ee! Shut up, I’m going.” He fell between Maurice’s knees.

“Well, why don’t you go if you’re going?”

“Because I can’t go.”

It was the first time he had dared to play with Durham.

Religion and relatives faded into the background, as he rolled him up in the hearth rug and fitted his head into the waste- paper basket. Hearing the noise, Fetherstonhaugh ran up and helped. There was nothing but ragging for many days after that, Durham becoming quite as silly as himself. Wherever they met, which was everywhere, they would butt and spar and embroil their friends. At last Durham got tired. Being the weaker he was hurt sometimes, and his chairs had been broken. Maurice felt the change at once. His coltishness passed, but they had become demonstrative during it. They walked arm in arm or arm around shoulder now. When they sat it was nearly always in the same position—Maurice in a chair, and Durham at his feet, leaning against him. In the world of their friends this attracted no notice. Maurice would stroke Durham’s hair.

And their range increased elsewhere. During this Lent term Maurice came out as a theologian. It was not humbug

entirely. He believed that he believed, and felt genuine pain when anything he was accustomed to met criticism—the pain that masquerades among the middle classes as Faith. It was not Faith, being inactive. It gave him no support, no wider outlook. It didn’t exist till opposition touched it, when it ached like a useless nerve. They all had these nerves at home, and regarded them as divine, though neither the Bible nor the Prayer Book nor the Sacraments nor Christian ethics nor anything spiritual were alive to them. “But how can people?” they exclaimed, when anything was attacked, and subscribed to Defence Societies. Maurice’s father was becoming a pillar of Church and Society when he died, and other things being alike Maurice would have stiffened too.

But other things were not to be alike. He had this overwhelming desire to impress Durham. He wanted to show his friend that he had something besides brute strength, and where his father would have kept canny silence he began to talk, talk. “You think I don’t think, but I can tell you I do.”

Very often Durham made no reply and Maurice would be terrified lest he was losing him. He had heard it said, “Durham’s all right as long as you amuse him, then he drops you,” and feared lest by exhibiting his orthodoxy he was bringing on what he tried to avoid. But he could not stop. The craving for notice grew overwhelming, so he talked, talked.

One day Durham said, “Hall, why this thusness?”

“Religion means a lot to me,” bluffed Maurice. “Because I say so little you think I don’t feel. I care a lot.”

“In that case come to coffee after hall.”

They were just going in. Durham, being a scholar, had to read grace, and there was cynicism in his accent. During the meal they looked at each other. They sat at different tables,

but Maurice had contrived to move his seat so that he could glance at his friend. The phase of bread pellets was over.

Durham looked severe this evening and was not speaking to his neighbours. Maurice knew that he was thoughtful and wondered what about.

“You wanted to get it and you’re going to,” said Durham, sporting the door.

Maurice went cold and then crimson. But Durham’s voice, when he next heard it, was attacking his opinions on the Trinity. He thought he minded about the Trinity, yet it seemed unimportant beside the fires of his terror. He sprawled in an armchair, all the strength out of him, with sweat on his forehead and hands. Durham moved about getting the coffee ready and saying, “I knew you wouldn’t like this, but you have brought it on yourself. You can’t expect me to bottle myself up indefinitely. I must let out sometimes.”

“Go on,” said Maurice, clearing his throat.

“I never meant to talk, for I respect people’s opinions too much to laugh at them, but it doesn’t seem to me that you have any opinions to respect. They’re all second-hand tags— no, tenth-hand.”

Maurice, who was recovering, remarked that this was pretty strong.

“You’re always saying, ‘I care a lot.’ ”

“And what right have you to assume that I don’t?”

“You do care a lot about something, Hall, but it obviously

isn’t the Trinity.”

“What is it then?”

“Rugger.”

 Maurice had another attack. His hand shook and he spilt the coffee on the arm of the chair. “You’re a bit unfair,” he heard himself saying. “You might at least have the grace to suggest that I care about people.”

Durham looked surprised, but said, “You care nothing

about the Trinity, any way.”

“Oh, damn the Trinity.”

He burst with laughter. “Exactly, exactly. We will now pass on to my next point.”

“I don’t see the use, and I’ve a rotten head any way—I mean a headache. Nothing’s gained by—all this. No doubt I can’t prove the thing—I mean the arrangement of Three Gods in One and One in Three. But it means a lot to millions of people, whatever you may say, and we aren’t going to give it up. We feel about it very deeply. God is good. That is the main point. Why go off on a side track?”

“Why feel so deeply about a side track?”

“What?”

Durham tidied up his remarks for him.

“Well, the whole show all hangs together.”

“So that if the Trinity went wrong it would invalidate the

whole show?”

“I don’t see that. Not at all.”

He was doing badly, but his head really did ache, and when he wiped the sweat off it re-formed.

“No doubt I can’t explain well, as I care for nothing but rugger.”

Durham came and sat humorously on the edge of his chair.

“Look out—you’ve gone into the coffee now.”

 “Blast—so I have.”

While he cleaned himself, Maurice unsported and looked out into the court. It seemed years since he had left it. He felt disinclined to be longer alone with Durham and called to some men to join them. A coffee of the usual type ensued, but when they left Maurice felt equally disinclined to leave with them. He flourished the Trinity again. “It’s a mystery,” he argued.

“It isn’t a mystery to me. But I honour anyone to whom it really is.”

Maurice felt uncomfortable and looked at his own thick brown hands. Was the Trinity really a mystery to him?

Except at his confirmation had he given the institution five minutes’ thought? The arrival of the other men had cleared his head, and, no longer emotional, he glanced at his mind. It appeared like his hands—serviceable, no doubt, and healthy, and capable of development. But it lacked refinement, it had never touched mysteries, nor a good deal else. It was thick and brown.

“My position’s this,” he announced after a pause. “I don’t believe in the Trinity, I give in there, but on the other hand I was wrong when I said everything hangs together. It doesn’t, and because I don’t believe in the Trinity it doesn’t mean I am not a Christian.”

“What do you believe in?” said Durham, unchecked.

“The—the essentials.”

“As?”

In a low voice Maurice said, “The Redemption.” He had never spoken the words out of church before and thrilled with emotion. But he did not believe in them any more than in the

Trinity, and knew that Durham would detect this. The Redemption was the highest card in the suit, but that suit wasn’t trumps, and his friend could capture it with some miserable two.

All that Durham said at the time was, “Dante did believe in the Trinity,” and going to the shelf found the concluding passage of the Paradiso. He read to Maurice about the three rainbow circles that intersect, and between their junctions is enshadowed a human face. Poetry bored Maurice, but towards the close he cried, “Whose face was it?”

“God’s, don’t you see?”

“But isn’t that poem supposed to be a dream?”

Hall was a muddle-headed fellow, and Durham did not try to make sense of this, nor knew that Maurice was thinking of a dream of his own at school, and of the voice that had said, “That is your friend.”

“Dante would have called it an awakening, not a dream.”

“Then you think that sort of stuff’s all right?”

“Belief’s always right,” replied Durham, putting back the book. “It’s all right and it’s also unmistakable. Every man has somewhere about him some belief for which he’d die. Only isn’t it improbable that your parents and guardians told it to you? If there is one won’t it be part of your own flesh and spirit? Show me that. Don’t go hawking out tags like ‘The

Redemption’ or ‘The Trinity’.”

“I’ve given up the Trinity.”

“The Redemption, then.”

“You’re beastly hard,” said Maurice. “I always knew I was stupid, it’s no news. The Risley set are more your sort and you had better talk to them.”

 Durham looked awkward. He was nonplussed for a reply at last, and let Maurice slouch off without protest. Next day they met as usual. It had not been a tiff but a sudden gradient, and they travelled all the quicker after the rise. They talked theology again, Maurice defending the Redemption. He lost.

He realized that he had no sense of Christ’s existence or of his goodness, and should be positively sorry if there was such a person. His dislike of Christianity grew and became profound. In ten days he gave up communicating, in three weeks he cut out all the chapels he dared. Durham was puzzled by the rapidity. They were both puzzled, and Maurice, although he had lost and yielded all his opinions, had a queer feeling that he was really winning and carrying on a campaign that he had begun last term.

For Durham wasn’t bored with him now. Durham couldn’t do without him, and would be found at all hours curled up in his room and spoiling to argue. It was so unlike the man, who was reserved and no great dialectician. He gave as his reason for attacking Maurice’s opinions that “They are so rotten, Hall, everyone else up here believes respectably.” Was this the whole truth? Was there not something else behind his new manner and furious iconoclasm? Maurice thought there was.

Outwardly in retreat, he thought that his Faith was a pawn well lost; for in capturing it Durham had exposed his heart.

Towards the end of term they touched upon a yet more delicate subject. They attended the Dean’s translation class, and when one of the men was forging quietly ahead Mr Cornwallis observed in a flat toneless voice: “Omit: a reference to the unspeakable vice of the Greeks.” Durham observed afterwards that he ought to lose his fellowship for

such hypocrisy.

 Maurice laughed.

“I regard it as a point of pure scholarship. The Greeks, or most of them, were that way inclined, and to omit it is to omit

the mainstay of Athenian society.”

“Is that so?”

“You’ve read the Symposium?”

Maurice had not, and did not add that he had explored Martial.

“It’s all in there—not meat for babes, of course, but you ought to read it. Read it this vac.”

No more was said at the time, but he was free of another subject, and one that he had never mentioned to any living soul. He hadn’t known it could be mentioned, and when Durham did so in the middle of the sunlit court a breath of liberty touched him.

8

On reaching home he talked about Durham until the fact that he had a friend penetrated into the minds of his family.

Ada wondered whether it was brother to a certain Miss Durham—not but what she was an only child—while Mrs Hall confused it with a don named Cumberland. Maurice was deeply wounded. One strong feeling arouses another, and a profound irritation against his womenkind set in. His relations with them hitherto had been trivial but stable, but it seemed iniquitous that anyone should mispronounce the name of the man who was more to him than all the world.

Home emasculated everything.

It was the same with his atheism. No one felt as deeply as he expected. With the crudity of youth he drew his mother

apart and said that he should always respect her religious prejudices and those of the girls, but that his own conscience permitted him to attend church no longer. She said it was a great misfortune.

“I knew you would be upset. I cannot help it, mother dearest. I am made that way and it is no good arguing.”

“Your poor father always went to church.”

“I’m not my father.”

“Morrie, Morrie, what a thing to say.”

“Well, he isn’t,” said Kitty in her perky way. “Really, mother, come.”

“Kitty, dear, you here,” cried Mrs Hall, feeling that disapproval was due and unwilling to bestow it on her son.

“We were talking about things not suited, and you are perfectly wrong besides, for Maurice is the image of his father—Dr Barry said so.”

“Well, Dr Barry doesn’t go to church himself,” said Maurice, falling into the family habit of talking all over the shop.

“He is a most clever man,” said Mrs Hall with finality, “and Mrs Barry’s the same.”

This slip of their mother’s convulsed Ada and Kitty. They would not stop laughing at the idea of Mrs Barry’s being a man, and Maurice’s atheism was forgotten. He did not communicate on Easter Sunday, and supposed the row would come then, as in Durham’s case. But no one took any notice, for the suburbs no longer exact Christianity. This disgusted him; it made him look at society with new eyes. Did society, while professing to be so moral and sensitive, really mind anything?

 He wrote often to Durham—long letters trying carefully to express shades of feeling. Durham made little of them and said so. His replies were equally long. Maurice never let them out of his pocket, changing them from suit to suit and even pinning them in his pyjamas when he went to bed. He would wake up and touch them and, watching the reflections from the street lamp, remember how he used to feel afraid as a little boy.

Episode of Gladys Olcott.

Miss Olcott was one of their infrequent guests. She had been good to Mrs Hall and Ada in some hydro, and, receiving an invitation, had followed it up. She was charming—at least the women said so, and male callers told the son of the house he was a lucky dog. He laughed, they laughed, and having ignored her at first he took to paying her attentions.

Now Maurice, though he did not know it, had become an attractive young man. Much exercise had tamed his clumsiness. He was heavy but alert, and his face seemed following the example of his body. Mrs Hall put it down to his moustache—“Maurice’s moustache will be the making of him”—a remark more profound than she realized. Certainly the little black line of it did pull his face together, and show up his teeth when he smiled, and his clothes suited him also: by Durham’s advice he kept to flannel trousers, even on Sunday.

He turned his smile on Miss Olcott—it seemed the proper thing to do. She responded. He put his muscles at her service by taking her out in his new side-car. He sprawled at her feet.

Finding she smoked, he persuaded her to stop behind with him in the dining-room and to look between his eyes. Blue

vapour quivered and shredded and built dissolving walls, and Maurice’s thoughts voyaged with it, to vanish as soon as a window was opened for fresh air. He saw that she was pleased, and his family, servants and all, intrigued; he determined to go further.

Something went wrong at once. Maurice paid her compliments, said that her hair etc. was ripping. She tried to stop him, but he was insensitive, and did not know that he had annoyed her. He had read that girls always pretended to stop men who complimented them. He haunted her. When she excused herself from riding with him on the last day he played the domineering male. She was his guest, she came, and having taken her to some scenery that he considered romantic he pressed her little hand between his own.

It was not that Miss Olcott objected to having her hand pressed. Others had done it and Maurice could have done it had he guessed how. But she knew something was wrong.

His touch revolted her. It was a corpse’s. Springing up she cried, “Mr Hall, don’t be silly. I mean don’t be silly. I am not saying it to make you sillier.”

“Miss Olcott—Gladys—I’d rather die than offend—” growled the boy, trying to keep it up.

“I must go back by train,” she said, crying a little. “I must, I’m awfully sorry.” She arrived home before him with a sensible little story about a headache and dust in her eyes, but his family also knew that something had gone wrong.

Except for this episode the vac passed pleasantly. Maurice did some reading, following his friend’s advice rather than his tutor’s, and he asserted in one or two ways his belief that he was grown up. At his instigation his mother dismissed the Howells who had long paralyzed the outdoor department, and

set up a motor-car instead of a carriage. Everyone was impressed, including the Howells. He also called upon his father’s old partner. He had inherited some business aptitude and some money, and it was settled that when he left Cambridge he should enter the firm as an unauthorized clerk; Hill and Hall, Stock Brokers. Maurice was stepping into the niche that England had prepared for him.

9

During the previous term he had reached an unusual level mentally, but the vac pulled him back towards public- schoolishness. He was less alert, he again behaved as he supposed he was supposed to behave—a perilous feat for one who is not dowered with imagination. His mind, not obscured totally, was often crossed by clouds, and though Miss Olcott had passed, the insincerity that led him to her remained. His family were the main cause of this. He had yet to realize that they were stronger than he and influenced him incalculably.

Three weeks in their company left him untidy, sloppy, victorious in every item, yet defeated on the whole. He came back thinking, and even speaking, like his mother or Ada.

Till Durham arrived he had not noticed the deterioration.

Durham had not been well, and came up a few days late.

When his face, paler than usual, peered round the door, Maurice had a spasm of despair, and tried to recollect where they stood last term, and to gather up the threads of the campaign. He felt himself slack, and afraid of action. The worst part of him rose to the surface, and urged him to prefer

comfort to joy.

“Hullo, old man,” he said awkwardly.

Durham slipped in without speaking.

 “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing”; and Maurice knew that he had lost touch. Last term he would have understood this silent entrance.

“Anyhow, take a pew.”

Durham sat upon the floor beyond his reach. It was late afternoon. The sounds of the May term, the scents of the Cambridge year in flower, floated in through the window and said to Maurice, “You are unworthy of us.” He knew that he was three parts dead, an alien, a yokel in Athens. He had no

business here, nor with such a friend.

“I say, Durham—”

Durham came nearer. Maurice stretched out a hand and felt the head nestle against it. He forgot what he was going to say.

The sounds and scents whispered, “You are we, we are youth.” Very gently he stroked the hair and ran his fingers down into it as if to caress the brain.

“I say, Durham, have you been all right?”

“Have you?”

“No.”

“You wrote you were.”

“I wasn’t.”

The truth in his own voice made him tremble, “A rotten vac and I never knew it,” and wondered how long he should know it. The mist would lower again, he felt sure, and with an unhappy sigh he pulled Durham’s head against his knee, as though it was a talisman for clear living. It lay there, and he had accomplished a new tenderness—stroked it steadily from temple to throat. Then, removing both hands, he dropped them on either side of him and sat sighing.

“Hall.”

 Maurice looked.

“Is there some trouble?”

He caressed 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, turning 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 Durham 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 conversation, and scarcely noticed his friend’s departure. It had been an ordinary talk, he told himself, but too sentimental, and he cultivated 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 the Symposium 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 nonsense. 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.

10

A slow nature such as Maurice’s appears insensitive, for it needs time even to feel. Its instinct is to assume that nothing either for good or evil has happened, and to resist the invader.

Once gripped, it feels acutely, and its sensations in love are particularly profound. Given time, it can know and impart ecstasy; given time, it can sink to the heart of Hell. Thus it was that his agony began as a slight regret; sleepless nights and lonely days must intensify it into a frenzy that consumed

him. It worked inwards, till it touched the root whence body and soul both spring, the “I” that he had been trained to obscure, and, realized at last, doubled its power and grew superhuman. For it might have been joy. New worlds broke loose in him at this, and he saw from the vastness of the ruin what ecstasy he had lost, what a communion.

They did not speak again for two days. Durham would have made it longer, but most of their friends were now in common, and they were bound to meet. Realizing this, he wrote Maurice an icy note suggesting that it would be a public convenience if they behaved as if nothing had happened. He added, “I shall be obliged if you will not mention my criminal morbidity to anyone, I am sure you will do this from the sensible way in which you took the news.”

Maurice did not reply, but first put the note with the letters he had received during the vac and afterwards burnt them all.

He supposed the climax of agony had come. But he was fresh to real suffering as to reality of any kind. They had yet to meet. On the second afternoon they found themselves in the same four at tennis and the pain grew excruciating. He could scarcely stand or see; if he returned Durham’s service the ball sent a throb up his arm. Then they were made to be partners; once they jostled, Durham winced, but managed to laugh in the old fashion.

Moreover, it proved convenient that he should come back to college in Maurice’s side-car. He got in without demur.

Maurice, who had not been to bed for two nights, went light- headed, turned the machine into a by-lane, and travelled top speed. There was a wagon in front, full of women. He drove straight at them, but when they screamed stuck on his brakes, and just avoided disaster. Durham made no comment. As he

indicated in his note, he only spoke when others were present. All other intercourse was to end.

That evening Maurice went to bed as usual. But as he laid his head on the pillows a flood of tears oozed from it. He was horrified. A man crying! Fetherstonhaugh might hear him. He wept stifled in the sheets, he sprang about kicking, then struck his head against the wall and smashed the crockery.

Someone did come up the stairs. He grew quiet at once and did not recommence when the footsteps died away. Lighting a candle, he looked with surprise at his torn pyjamas and trembling limbs. He continued to cry, for he could not stop, but the suicidal point had been passed, and, remaking the bed, he lay down. His gyp was clearing away the ruins when he opened his eyes. It seemed queer to Maurice that a gyp should have been dragged in. He wondered whether the man suspected anything, then slept again. On waking the second time he found letters on the floor—one from old Mr Grace, his grandfather, about the party that was to be given when he came of age, another from a don’s wife asking him to lunch (“Mr Durham is coming too, so you won’t be shy”), another from Ada with mention of Gladys Olcott. Yet again he fell asleep.

Madness is not for everyone, but Maurice’s proved the thunderbolt that dispels the clouds. The storm had been working up not for three days as he supposed, but for six years. It had brewed in the obscurities of being where no eye pierces, his surroundings had thickened it. It had burst and he had not died. The brilliancy of day was around him, he stood upon the mountain range that overshadows youth, he saw.

Most of the day he sat with open eyes, as if looking into the Valley he had left. It was all so plain now. He had lied. He

phrased it “been fed upon lies,” but lies are the natural food of boyhood, and he had eaten greedily. His first resolve was to be more careful in the future. He would live straight, not because it mattered to anyone now, but for the sake of the game. He would not deceive himself so much. He would not —and this was the test—pretend to care about women when the only sex that attracted him was his own. He loved men and always had loved them. He longed to embrace them and mingle his being with theirs. Now that the man who returned his love had been lost, he admitted this.

11

After this crisis Maurice became a man. Hitherto—if human beings can be estimated—he had not been worth anyone’s affection, but conventional, petty, treacherous to others, because to himself. Now he had the highest gift to offer. The idealism and the brutality that ran through boyhood had joined at last, and twined into love. No one might want such love, but he could not feel ashamed of it, because it was “he,” neither body or soul, nor body and soul, but “he” working through both. He still suffered, yet a sense of triumph had come elsewhere. Pain had shown him a niche behind the world’s judgements, whither he could withdraw.

There was still much to learn, and years passed before he explored certain abysses in his being—horrible enough they were. But he discovered the method and looked no more at scratches in the sand. He had awoken too late for happiness, but not for strength, and could feel an austere joy, as of a warrior who is homeless but stands fully armed.

As the term went on he decided to speak to Durham. He valued words highly, having so lately discovered them. Why

should he suffer and cause his friend suffering, when words might put all right? He heard himself saying, “I really love you as you love me,” and Durham replying, “Is that so? Then I forgive you,” and to the ardour of youth such a conversation seemed possible, though somehow he did not conceive it as leading to joy. He made several attempts, but partly through his own shyness, partly through Durham’s, they failed. If he went round, the door was sported, or else there were people inside; should he enter, Durham left when the other guests did. He invited him to meals—he could never come; he offered to lift him again for tennis, but an excuse was made.

Even if they met in the court, Durham would affect to have forgotten something and run past him or away. He was surprised their friends did not notice the change, but few undergraduates are observant—they have too much to discover within themselves and it was a don who remarked that Durham had stopped honeymooning with that Hall person.

He found his opportunity after a debating society to which both belonged. Durham—pleading his Tripos—had sent in his resignation, but had begged that the society might meet in his rooms first, as he wished to take his share of hospitality.

This was like him; he hated to be under an obligation to anyone. Maurice went and sat through a tedious evening.

When everyone, including the host, surged out into the fresh air, he remained, thinking of the first night he had visited that room, and wondering whether the past cannot return.

Durham entered, and did not at once see who it was.

Ignoring him utterly, he proceeded to tidy up for the night.

“You’re beastly hard,” blurted Maurice, “you don’t know what it is to have a mind in a mess, and it makes you very

hard.”

Durham shook his head as one who refuses to listen. He looked so ill that Maurice had a wild desire to catch hold of him.

“You might give me a chance instead of avoiding me—I

only want to discuss.”

“We’ve discussed the whole evening.”

“I mean the Symposium, like the ancient Greeks.”

“Oh Hall, don’t be so stupid—you ought to know that to be alone with you hurts me. No, please don’t reopen. It’s over.

It’s over.” He went into the other room and began to undress.

“Forgive this discourtesy, but I simply can’t—my nerves are

all no-how after three weeks of this.”

“So are mine,” cried Maurice.

“Poor, poor chap!”

“Durham, I’m in Hell.”

“Oh, you’ll get out. It’s only the Hell of disgust. You’ve never done anything to be ashamed of, so you don’t know what’s really Hell.”

Maurice gave a cry of pain. It was so unmistakable that Durham, who was about to close the door between them, said, “Very well, I’ll discuss if you like. What’s the matter?

You appear to want to apologize about something. Why? You behave as if I’m annoyed with you. What have you done wrong? You’ve been thoroughly decent from first to last.”

In vain he protested.

“So decent that I mistook your ordinary friendliness. When you were so good to me, above all the afternoon I came up— I thought it was something else. I am more sorry than I can ever say. I had no right to move out of my books and music,

which was what I did when I met you. You won’t want my apology any more than anything else I could give, but, Hall, I do make it most sincerely. It is a lasting grief to have insulted you.”

His voice was feeble but clear, and his face like a sword.

Maurice flung useless words about love.

“That’s all, I think. Get married quickly and forget.”

“Durham, I love you.”

He laughed bitterly.

“I do—I have always—”

“Good night, good night.”

“I tell you, I do—I came to say it—in your very own way —I have always been like the Greeks and didn’t know.”

“Expand the statement.”

Words deserted him immediately. He could only speak when he was not asked to.

“Hall, don’t be grotesque.” He raised his hand, for Maurice had exclaimed. “It’s like the very decent fellow you are to comfort me, but there are limits; one or two things I can’t

swallow.”

“I’m not grotesque—”

“I shouldn’t have said that. So do leave me. I’m thankful it’s into your hands I fell. Most men would have reported me to the Dean or the Police.”

“Oh, go to Hell, it’s all you’re fit for,” cried Maurice, rushed into the court and heard once more the bang of the outer door. Furious he stood on the bridge in a night that resembled the first—drizzly with faint stars. He made no allowance for three weeks of torture unlike his own or for the poison which, secreted by one man, acts differently on

another. He was enraged not to find his friend as he had left him. Twelve o’clock struck, one, two, and he was still planning what to say when there is nothing to say and the resources of speech are ended.

Then savage, reckless, drenched with the rain, he saw in the first glimmer of dawn the window of Durham’s room, and his heart leapt alive and shook him to pieces. It cried “You love and are loved.” He looked round the court. It cried “You are strong, he weak and alone,” won over his will. Terrified at what he must do, he caught hold of the mullion and sprang.

“Maurice—”

As he alighted his name had been called out of dreams.

The violence went out of his heart, and a purity that he had never imagined dwelt there instead. His friend had called him. He stood for a moment entranced, then the new emotion found him words, and laying his hand very gently upon the pillows he answered, “Clive!”