PART Two

PART

Two

12

Clive had suffered little from bewilderment as a boy. His sincere mind, with its keen sense of right and wrong, had brought him the belief that he was damned instead. Deeply religious, with a living desire to reach God and to please Him, he found himself crossed at an early age by this other desire, obviously from Sodom. He had no doubt as to what it was: his emotion, more compact than Maurice’s, was not split into the brutal and the ideal, nor did he waste years in bridging the gulf. He had in him the impulse that destroyed the City of the Plain. It should not ever become carnal, but why had he out of all Christians been punished with it?

At first he thought God must be trying him, and if he did not blaspheme would recompense him like Job. He therefore bowed his head, fasted, and kept away from anyone whom he found himself inclined to like. His sixteenth year was ceaseless torture. He told no one, and finally broke down and had to be removed from school. During the convalescence he found himself falling in love with a cousin who walked by his bath chair, a young married man. It was hopeless, he was damned.

 These terrors had visited Maurice, but dimly: to Clive they were definite, continuous, and not more insistent at the Eucharist than elsewhere. He never mistook them, in spite of the rein he kept on grossness. He could control the body; it was the tainted soul that mocked his prayers.

The boy had always been a scholar, awake to the printed word, and the horrors the Bible had evoked for him were to be laid by Plato. Never could he forget his emotion at first reading the Phaedrus. He saw there his malady described exquisitely, calmly, as a passion which we can direct, like any other, towards good or bad. Here was no invitation to licence.

He could not believe his good fortune at first—thought there must be some misunderstanding and that he and Plato were thinking of different things. Then he saw that the temperate pagan really did comprehend him, and, slipping past the Bible rather than opposing it, was offering a new guide for life. “To make the most of what I have.” Not to crush it down, not vainly to wish that it was something else, but to cultivate it in such ways as will not vex either God or Man.

He was obliged however to throw over Christianity. Those who base their conduct upon what they are rather than upon what they ought to be, always must throw it over in the end, and besides, between Clive’s temperament and that religion there is a secular feud. No clear-headed man can combine them. The temperament, to quote the legal formula, is “not to be mentioned among Christians”, and a legend tells that all who shared it died on the morning of the Nativity. Clive regretted this. He came of a family of lawyers and squires, good and able men for the most part, and he did not wish to depart from their tradition. He wished Christianity would compromise with him a little and searched the Scriptures for

support. There was David and Jonathan; there was even the “disciple that Jesus loved.” But the Church’s interpretation was against him; he could not find any rest for his soul in her without crippling it, and withdrew higher into the classics yearly.

By eighteen he was unusually mature, and so well under control that he could allow himself to be friendly with anyone who attracted him. Harmony had succeeded asceticism. At Cambridge he cultivated tender emotions for other undergraduates, and his life, hitherto gray, became slightly tinged with delicate hues. Cautious and sane, he advanced, nor was there anything petty in his caution. He was ready to go further should he consider it right.

In his second year he met Risley, himself “that way.” Clive did not return the confidence which was given rather freely, nor did he like Risley and his set. But he was stimulated. He was glad to know that there were more of his sort about, and their frankness braced him into telling his mother about his agnosticism; it was all he could tell her. Mrs Durham, a worldly woman, made little protest. It was at Christmas the trouble came. Being the only gentry in the parish, the Durhams communicated separately, and to have the whole village looking on while she and her daughters knelt without Clive in the middle of that long foot-stool, cut her with shame and stung her into anger. They quarrelled. He saw her for what she really was—withered, unsympathetic, empty—and in his disillusion found himself thinking vividly of Hall.

Hall: he was only one of several men whom he rather liked. True he, also, had a mother and two sisters, but Clive was too level-headed to pretend this was the only bond between them. He must like Hall more than he realized—

must be a little in love with him. And as soon as they met he had a rush of emotion that carried him into intimacy.

The man was bourgeois, unfinished and stupid—the worst of confidants. Yet he told about his home troubles, touched out of all proportion by his dismissal of Chapman. When Hall started teasing he was charmed. Others held off, regarding him as sedate, and he liked being thrown about by a powerful and handsome boy. It was delightful too when Hall stroked his hair: the faces of the two people in the room would fade: he leant back till his cheek brushed the flannel of the trousers and felt the warmth strike through. He was under no illusion on these occasions. He knew what kind of pleasure he was receiving, and received it honestly, certain that it brought no harm to either of them. Hall was a man who only liked women—one could tell that at a glance.

Towards the end of the term he noticed that Hall had acquired a peculiar and beautiful expression. It came only now and then, was subtle and lay far down; he noticed it first when they were squabbling about theology. It was affectionate, kindly, and to that extent a natural expression, but there was mixed in it something that he had not observed in the man, a touch of—impudence? He was not sure, but liked it. It recurred when they met suddenly or had been silent. It beckoned to him across intellect, saying, “This is all very well, you’re clever, we know—but come!” It haunted him so that he watched for it while his brain and tongue were busy, and when it came he felt himself replying, “I’ll come— I didn’t know.”

“You can’t help yourself now. You must come.”

“I don’t want to help myself.”

“Come then.”

 He did come. He flung down all the barriers—not at once, for he did not live in a house that can be destroyed in a day.

All that term and through letters afterwards he made the path clear. Once certain that Hall loved him, he unloosed his own love. Hitherto it had been dalliance, a passing pleasure for body and mind. How he despised that now. Love was harmonious, immense. He poured into it the dignity as well as the richness of his being, and indeed in that well-tempered soul the two were one. There was nothing humble about Clive. He knew his own worth, and, when he had expected to go through life without love, he had blamed circumstances rather than himself. Hall, though attractive and beautiful, had not condescended. They would meet on an equality next term.

But books meant so much for him he forgot that they were a bewilderment to others. Had he trusted the body there would have been no disaster, but by linking their love to the past he linked it to the present, and roused in his friend’s mind the conventions and the fear of the law. He realized nothing of this. What Hall said he must mean. Otherwise why should he say it? Hall loathed him—had said so, “Oh, rot”— the words hurt more than any abuse, and rang in his ears for days. Hall was the healthy normal Englishman, who had never had a glimmer of what was up.

Great was the pain, great the mortification, but worse followed. So deeply had Clive become one with the beloved that he began to loathe himself. His whole philosophy of life broke down, and the sense of sin was reborn in its ruins, and crawled along corridors. Hall had said he was a criminal, and must know. He was damned. He dare never be friends with a young man again, for fear of corrupting him. Had he not lost

Hall his faith in Christianity and attempted his purity besides?

During those three weeks Clive altered immensely, and was beyond the reach of argument when Hall—good, blundering creature—came to his room to comfort him, tried this and that without success, and vanished in a gust of temper. “Oh, go to Hell, it’s all you’re fit for.” Never a truer word but hard to accept from the beloved. Clive’s defeat increased: his life had been blown to pieces, and he felt no inward strength to rebuild it and clear out evil. His conclusion was “Ridiculous boy! I never loved him. I only had an image I made up in my polluted mind, and may God help me to get rid of it.”

But it was this image that visited his sleep, and caused him

to whisper its name.

“Maurice….”

“Clive….”

“Hall!” he gasped, fully awake. Warmth was upon him.

“Maurice, Maurice, Maurice…. Oh Maurice—”

“I know.”

“Maurice, I love you.”

“I you.”

They kissed, scarcely wishing it. Then Maurice vanished as he had come, through the window.

13

“I’ve missed two lectures already,” remarked Maurice,

who was breakfasting in his pyjamas.

“Cut them all—he’ll only gate you.”

 “Will you come out in the side-car?”

“Yes, but a long way,” said Clive, lighting a cigarette. “I can’t stick Cambridge in this weather. Let’s get right outside it ever so far and bathe. I can work as we go along—Oh damnation!”—for there were steps on the stairs. Joey Fetherstonhaugh looked in and asked one or other of them to play tennis with him that afternoon. Maurice accepted.

“Maurice! What did you do that for, you fool?”

“Cleared him out quickest. Clive, meet me at the garage in twenty minutes, bring your putrid books, and borrow Joey’s goggles. I must dress. Bring some lunch too.”

“What about horses instead?”

“Too slow.”

They met as arranged. Joey’s goggles had offered no difficulty, as he had been out. But as they threaded Jesus

Lane they were hailed by the Dean.

“Hall, haven’t you a lecture?”

“I overslept,” called Maurice contemptuously.

“Hall! Hall! Stop when I speak.”

Maurice went on. “No good arguing,” he observed.

“Not the least.”

They swirled across the bridge and into the Ely road.

Maurice said, “Now we’ll go to Hell.” The machine was powerful, he reckless naturally. It leapt forward into the fens and the receding dome of the sky. They became a cloud of dust, a stench, and a roar to the world, but the air they breathed was pure, and all the noise they heard was the long drawn cheer of the wind. They cared for no one, they were outside humanity, and death, had it come, would only have continued their pursuit of a retreating horizon. A tower, a

town—it had been Ely—were behind them, in front the same sky, paling at last as though heralding the sea. “Right turn,” again, then “left,” “right,” until all sense of direction was gone. There was a rip, a grate. Maurice took no notice. A noise arose as of a thousand pebbles being shaken together between his legs. No accident occurred, but the machine came to a standstill among the dark black fields. The song of the lark was heard, the trail of dust began to settle behind

them. They were alone.

“Let’s eat,” said Clive.

They ate on a grassy embankment. Above them the waters of a dyke moved imperceptibly, and reflected interminable willow trees. Man, who had created the whole landscape, was nowhere to be seen. After lunch Clive thought he ought to work. He spread out his books and was asleep in ten minutes.

Maurice lay up by the water, smoking. A farmer’s cart appeared, and it did occur to him to ask which county they were in. But he said nothing, nor did the farmer appear to notice him. When Clive awoke it was past three. “We shall want some tea soon,” was his contribution.

“All right. Can you mend that bloody bike?”

“Oh yes, didn’t something jam?” He yawned and walked down to the machine. “No, I can’t, Maurice, can you?”

“Rather not.”

They laid their cheeks together and began laughing. The smash struck them as extraordinarily funny. Grandpapa’s present too! He had given it to Maurice against his coming of age in August. Clive said, “How if we left it and walked?”

“Yes, who’d do it any harm? Leave the coats and things

inside it. Likewise Joey’s goggles.”

 “What about my books?”

“Leaven ’em too.”

“I shan’t want them after hall?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Tea’s more important than hall. It stands to reason—well what are you giggling at?—that if we follow a dyke long enough we must come to a pub.”

“Why, they use it to water their beer!”

Maurice smote him on the ribs, and for ten minutes they played up amongst the trees, too silly for speech. Pensive again, they stood close together, then hid the bicycle behind dog roses, and started. Clive took his notebook away with him, but it did not survive in any useful form, for the dyke they were following branched.

“We must wade this,” he said. “We can’t go round or we shall never get anywhere. Maurice, look—we must keep in a

bee line south.”

“All right.”

It did not matter which of them suggested what that day; the other always agreed. Clive took off his shoes and socks and rolled his trousers up. Then he stepped upon the brown surface of the dyke and vanished. He reappeared swimming.

“All that deep!” he spluttered, climbing out. “Maurice, no idea! Had you?”

Maurice cried, “I say, I must bathe properly.” He did so, while Clive carried his clothes. The light grew radiant.

Presently they came to a farm.

The farmer’s wife was inhospitable and ungracious, but they spoke of her afterwards as “absolutely ripping.” She did in the end give them tea and allow Clive to dry near her kitchen fire. She “left payment to them,” and, when they

overpaid her, grumbled. Nothing checked their spirits. They transmuted everything.

“Goodbye, we’re greatly obliged,” said Clive. “And if any of your men come across the bike: I wish we could describe where we left it better. Anyhow I’ll give you my friend’s card. Tie it on the bike if they will be so kind, and bring it down to the nearest station. Something of the sort, I don’t know. The station master will wire to us.”

The station was five miles on. When they reached it the sun was low, and they were not back in Cambridge till after hall. All this last part of the day was perfect. The train, for some unknown reason, was full, and they sat close together, talking quietly under the hubbub, and smiling. When they parted it was in the ordinary way: neither had an impulse to say anything special. The whole day had been ordinary. Yet it had never come before to either of them, nor was it to be repeated.

14

The Dean sent Maurice down.

Mr Cornwallis was not a severe official, and the boy had a tolerable record, but he could not overlook so gross a breach of discipline. “And why did you not stop when I called you, Hall?” Hall made no answer, did not even look sorry. He had a smouldering eye, and Mr Cornwallis, though much annoyed, realized that he was confronted with a man. In a dead, bloodless way, he even guessed what had happened.

“Yesterday you cut chapel, four lectures, including my own translation class, and hall. You have done this sort of thing before. It’s unnecessary to add impertinence, don’t you think?

Well? No reply? You will go down and inform your mother

of the reason. I shall inform her too. Until you write me a letter of apology, I shall not recommend your readmission to the college in October. Catch the twelve o’clock.”

“All right.”

Mr Cornwallis motioned him out.

No punishment was inflicted on Durham. He had been let off all lectures in view of his Tripos, and even if he had been remiss the Dean would not have worried him; the best classical scholar of his year, he had won special treatment. A good thing he would no longer be distracted by Hall. Mr Cornwallis always suspected such friendships. It was not natural that men of different characters and tastes should be intimate, and although undergraduates, unlike schoolboys, are officially normal, the dons exercised a certain amount of watchfulness, and felt it right to spoil a love affair when they could.

Clive helped him pack, and saw him off. He said little, lest he depressed his friend, who was still in the heroics, but his heart sank. It was his last term, for his mother would not let him stay up a fourth year, which meant that he and Maurice would never meet in Cambridge again. Their love belonged to it, and particularly to their rooms, so that he could not conceive of their meeting anywhere else. He wished that Maurice had not taken up a strong line with the Dean, but it was too late now, and that the side-car had not been lost. He connected that side-car with intensities—the agony of the tennis court, the joy of yesterday. Bound in a single motion, they seemed there closer to one another than elsewhere; the machine took on a life of its own, in which they met and realized the unity preached by Plato. It had gone, and when Maurice’s train went also, actually tearing hand from hand,

he broke down, and returning to his room wrote passionate sheets of despair.

Maurice received the letter the next morning. It completed what his family had begun, and he had his first explosion of rage against the world.

15

“I can’t apologize, mother—I explained last night there’s nothing to apologize about. They had no right to send me down when everyone cuts lectures. It’s pure spite, and you can ask anyone—Ada, do try turning on the coffee instead of the salt water.”

She sobbed, “Maurice, you’ve upset mother: how can you be so unkind and brutal?”

“I’m sure I don’t mean to be. I don’t see I’ve been unkind.

I shall go straight into the business now, like father did, without taking one of their rotten degrees. I see no harm in that.”

“You might have kept your poor father out, he never had any unpleasantness,” said Mrs Hall. “Oh Morrie, my darling —and we did so look forward to Cambridge.”

“All this crying’s a mistake,” announced Kitty, who aspired to the functions of a tonic. “It only makes Maurice think he’s important, which he isn’t: he’ll write to the Dean as soon as no one wants him to.”

“I shan’t. It’s unsuitable,” replied her brother, hard as iron.

“I don’t see that.”

“Little girls don’t see a good deal.”

“I’m not so sure!”

 He glanced at her. But she only said that she saw a good deal more than some little boys who thought themselves little men. She was merely maundering, and the fear, tinged with respect, that had arisen in him died down. No, he couldn’t apologize. He had done nothing wrong and wouldn’t say he had, it was the first taste of honesty he had known for years, and honesty is like blood. In his unbending mood the boy thought it would be possible to live without compromise, and ignore all that didn’t yield to himself and Clive! Clive’s letter had maddened him. No doubt he is stupid—the sensible lover would apologize and get back to comfort his friend—but it was the stupidity of passion, which would rather have nothing than a little.

They continued talking and weeping. At last he rose, said, “I can’t eat to this accompaniment,” and went into the garden. His mother followed with a tray. Her very softness enraged him, for love develops the athlete. It cost her nothing to muck about with tender words and toast: she only wanted to make him soft too.

She wanted to know whether she had heard rightly, was he refusing to apologize? She wondered what her father would say, and incidentally learnt that the birthday gift was lying beside some East Anglian drove. She grew seriously concerned, for its loss was more intelligible to her than the loss of a degree. The girls minded too. They mourned the bicycle for the rest of the morning, and, though Maurice could always silence them or send them out of earshot, he felt that their pliancy might sap his strength again, as in the Easter vacation.

In the afternoon he had a collapse. He remembered that Clive and he had only been together one day! And they had

spent it careering about like fools—instead of in one another’s arms! Maurice did not know that they had thus spent it perfectly—he was too young to detect the triviality of contact for contact’s sake. Though restrained by his friend, he would have surfeited passion. Later on, when his love took second strength, he realized how well Fate had served him.

The one embrace in the darkness, the one long day in the light and the wind, were twin columns, each useless without the other. And all the agony of separation that he went through now, instead of destroying, was to fulfil.

He tried to answer Clive’s letter. Already he feared to ring false. In the evening he received another, composed of the words “Maurice! I love you.” He answered, “Clive, I love you.” Then they wrote every day and for all their care created new images in each other’s hearts. Letters distort even more quickly than silence. A terror seized Clive that something was going wrong, and just before his exam he got leave to run down to town. Maurice lunched with him. It was horrible.

Both were tired, and they had chosen a restaurant where they could not hear themselves speak. “I haven’t enjoyed it,” said Clive when he wished goodbye. Maurice felt relieved. He had pretended to himself that he had enjoyed it, and thus increased his misery. They agreed that they would confine themselves to facts in their letters, and only write when anything was urgent. The emotional strain relaxed, and Maurice, nearer to brain fever than he supposed, had several dreamless nights that healed him. But daily life remained a poor business.

His position at home was anomalous: Mrs Hall wished that someone would decide it for her. He looked like a man and had turned out the Howells last Easter; but on the other hand

he had been sent down from Cambridge and was not yet twenty-one. What was his place in her house? Instigated by Kitty, she tried to assert herself, but Maurice, after a genuine look of surprise, laid back his ears. Mrs Hall wavered, and, though fond of her son, took the unwise step of appealing to Dr Barry. Maurice was asked to go round one evening to be talked to.

“Well, Maurice, and how goes the career? Not quite as you expected, eh?”

Maurice was still afraid of their neighbour.

“Not quite as your mother expected, which is more to the point.”

“Not quite as anyone expected,” said Maurice, looking at his hands.

Dr Barry then said, “Oh, it’s all for the best. What do you want with a University Degree? It was never intended for the suburban classes. You’re not going to be either a parson or a barrister or a pedagogue. And you are not a county gentleman. Sheer waste of time. Get into harness at once.

Quite right to insult the Dean. The city’s your place. Your mother—” He paused and lit a cigar, the boy had been offered nothing. “Your mother doesn’t understand this.

Worrying because you don’t apologize. For my own part I think these things right themselves. You got into an atmosphere for which you are not suited, and you’ve very properly taken the first opportunity to get out of it.”

“How do you mean, sir?”

“Oh. Not sufficiently clear? I mean that the county gentleman would apologize by instinct if he found he had behaved like a cad. You’ve a different tradition.”

 “I think I must be getting home now,” said Maurice, not without dignity.

“Yes, I think you must. I didn’t invite you to have a pleasant evening, as I hope you have realized.”

“You’ve spoken straight—perhaps some day I shall too. I

know I’d like to.”

This set the Doctor off, and he cried:

“How dare you bully your mother, Maurice. You ought to be horsewhipped. You young puppy! Swaggering about instead of asking her to forgive you! I know all about it. She came here with tears in her eyes and asked me to speak. She and your sisters are my respected neighbours, and as long as a woman calls me I’m at her service. Don’t answer me, sir, don’t answer, I want none of your speech, straight or otherwise. You are a disgrace to chivalry, I don’t know what the world is coming to. I don’t know what the world—I’m disappointed and disgusted with you.”

Maurice, outside at last, mopped his forehead. He was ashamed in a way. He knew he had behaved badly to his mother, and all the snob in him had been touched to the raw.

But somehow he could not retract, could not alter. Once out of the rut, he seemed out of it for ever. “A disgrace to chivalry.” He considered the accusation. If a woman had been in that side-car, if then he had refused to stop at the Dean’s bidding, would Dr Barry have required an apology from him?

Surely not. He followed out this train of thought with difficulty. His brain was still feeble. But he was obliged to use it, for so much in current speech and ideas needed translation before he could understand them.

His mother met him, looking ashamed herself; she felt, as he did, that she ought to have done her own scolding.

Maurice had grown up, she complained to Kitty; the children went from one; it was all very sad. Kitty asserted her brother was still nothing but a boy, but all these women had a sense of some change in his mouth and eyes and voice since he had faced Dr Barry.

16

The Durhams lived in a remote part of England on the Wilts and Somerset border. Though not an old family they had held land for four generations, and its influence had passed into them. Clive’s great-great-uncle had been Lord Chief Justice in the reign of George IV, and the nest he had feathered was Penge. The feathers were inclined to blow about now. A hundred years had nibbled into the fortune, which no wealthy bride had replenished, and both house and estate were marked, not indeed with decay, but with the immobility that precedes it.

The house lay among woods. A park, still ridged with the lines of vanished hedges, stretched around, giving light and air and pasture to horses and Alderney cows. Beyond it the trees began, most planted by old Sir Edwin, who had annexed the common lands. There were two entrances to the park, one up by the village, the other on the clayey road that went to the station. There had been no station in the old days, and the approach from it, which was undignified and led by the back premises, typified an afterthought of England’s.

Maurice arrived in the evening. He had travelled straight from his grandfather’s at Birmingham, where, rather tepidly, he had come of age. Though in disgrace, he had not been mulcted of his presents, but they were given and received without enthusiasm. He had looked forward so much to being

twenty-one. Kitty implied that he did not enjoy it because he had gone to the bad. Quite nicely he pinched her ear for this and kissed her, which annoyed her a good deal. “You have no sense of things,” she said crossly. He smiled.

From Alfriston Gardens, with its cousins and meat teas, the change to Penge was immense. County families, even when intelligent, have something alarming about them, and Maurice approached any seat with awe. True, Clive had met him and was with him in the brougham, but then so was a Mrs Sheepshanks, who had arrived by his train. Mrs Sheepshanks had a maid, following behind with her luggage and his in a cab, and he wondered whether he ought to have brought a servant too. The lodge gate was held by a little girl.

Mrs Sheepshanks wished everyone curtsied. Clive trod on his foot when she said this, but he wasn’t sure whether accidentally. He was sure of nothing. When they approached he mistook the back for the front, and prepared to open the door. Mrs Sheepshanks said, “Oh, but that’s complimentary.”

Besides, there was a butler to open the door.

Tea, very bitter, was awaiting them, and Mrs Durham looked one way while she poured out the other. People stood about, all looking distinguished or there for some distinguished reason. They were doing things or causing others to do them: Miss Durham booked him to canvass tomorrow for Tariff Reform. They agreed politically; but the cry with which she greeted his alliance did not please him.

“Mother, Mr Hall is sound.” Major Western, a cousin also stopping in the house, would ask him about Cambridge. Did Army men mind one being sent down?… No, it was worse than the restaurant, for there Clive had been out of his element too.

 “Pippa, does Mr Hall know his room?”

“The Blue Room, mama.”

“The one with no fireplace,” called Clive. “Show him up.”

He was seeing off some callers.

Miss Durham passed Maurice on to the butler. They went up a side staircase. Maurice saw the main flight to the right, and wondered whether he was being slighted. His room was small, furnished cheaply. It had no outlook. As he knelt down to unpack, a feeling of Sunnington came over him, and he determined, while he was at Penge, to work through all his clothes. They shouldn’t suppose he was unfashionable; he was as good as anyone. But he had scarcely reached this conclusion when Clive rushed in with the sunlight behind him. “Maurice, I shall kiss you,” he said, and did so.

“Where—what’s through there?”

“Our study—” He was laughing, his expression wild and

radiant.

“Oh, so that’s why—”

“Maurice! Maurice! you’ve actually come. You’re here.

This place’ll never seem the same again, I shall love it at last.”

“It’s jolly for me coming,” said Maurice chokily: the sudden rush of joy made his head swim.

“Go on unpacking. So I arranged it on purpose. We’re up this staircase by ourselves. It’s as like college as I could

manage.”

“It’s better.”

“I really feel it will be.”

There was a knock on the passage door. Maurice started, but Clive though still sitting on his shoulder said, “Come in!”

indifferently. A housemaid entered with hot water.

“Except for meals we need never be in the other part of the house,” he continued. “Either here or out of doors. Jolly, eh?

I’ve a piano.” He drew him into the study. “Look at the view.

You may shoot rabbits out of this window. By the way, if my mother or Pippa tells you at dinner that they want you to do this or that tomorrow, you needn’t worry. Say ‘yes’ to them if you like. You’re actually going to ride with me, and they know it. It’s only their ritual. On Sunday, when you haven’t been to church they’ll pretend afterwards you were there.”

“But I’ve no proper riding breeches.”

“I can’t associate with you in that case,” said Clive and bounded off.

When Maurice returned to the drawing-room he felt he had a greater right to be there than anyone. He walked up to Mrs Sheepshanks, opened his mouth before she could open hers, and was encouraging to her. He took his place in the absurd octet that was forming to go in—Clive and Mrs Sheepshanks, Major Western and another woman, another man and Pippa, himself and his hostess. She apologized for the smallness of the party.

“Not at all,” said Maurice, and saw Clive glance at him maliciously: he had used the wrong tag. Mrs Durham then put him through his paces, but he did not care a damn whether he satisfied her or not. She had her son’s features and seemed equally able, though not equally sincere. He understood why Clive should have come to despise her.

After dinner the men smoked, then joined the ladies. It was a suburban evening, but with a difference; these people had the air of settling something: they either just had arranged or soon would rearrange England. Yet the gate posts, the roads

—he had noticed them on the way up—were in bad repair, and the timber wasn’t kept properly, the windows stuck, the boards creaked. He was less impressed than he had expected by Penge.

When the ladies retired Clive said, “Maurice, you look sleepy too.” Maurice took the hint, and five minutes afterwards they met again in the study, with all the night to talk into. They lit their pipes. It was the first time they had experienced full tranquillity together, and exquisite words would be spoken. They knew this, yet scarcely wanted to begin.

“I’ll tell you my latest now,” said Clive. “As soon as I got home I had a row with mother and told her I should stop up a

fourth year.”

Maurice gave a cry.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been sent down.”

“But you’re coming back in October.”

“I’m not. Cornwallis said I must apologize, and I wouldn’t —I thought you wouldn’t be up, so I didn’t care.”

“And I settled to stop because I thought you would be up.

Comedy of Errors.”

Maurice stared gloomily before him.

“Comedy of Errors, not Tragedy. You can apologize now.”

“It’s too late.”

Clive laughed. “Why too late? It makes it simpler. You didn’t like to apologize until the term in which your offence was committed had come to an end. ‘Dear Mr Cornwallis: Now that the term is over, I venture to write to you.’ I’ll draft the letter tomorrow.”

 Maurice pondered and finally exclaimed, “Clive, you’re a devil.”

“I’m a bit of an outlaw, I grant, but it serves these people right. As long as they talk of the unspeakable vice of the Greeks they can’t expect fair play. It served my mother right when I slipped up to kiss you before dinner. She would have no mercy if she knew, she wouldn’t attempt, wouldn’t want to attempt to understand that I feel to you as Pippa to her fiancé, only far more nobly, far more deeply, body and soul, no starved medievalism of course, only a—a particular harmony of body and soul that I don’t think women have even

guessed. But you know.”

“Yes. I’ll apologize.”

There was a long interval: they discussed the motor bicycle, which had never been heard of again. Clive made coffee.

“Tell me, what made you wake me that night after the Debating Society. Describe.”

“I kept on thinking of something to say, and couldn’t, so at last I couldn’t even think, so I just came.”

“Sort of thing you would do.”

“Are you ragging?” asked Maurice shyly.

“My God!” There was a silence. “Tell me now about the night I first came up. Why did you make us both so unhappy?”

“I don’t know, I say. I can’t explain anything. Why did you mislead me with that rotten Plato? I was still in a muddle. A lot of things hadn’t joined up in me that since have.”

“But hadn’t you been getting hold of me for months? Since

first you saw me at Risley’s, in fact.”

 “Don’t ask me.”

“It’s a queer business, any way.”

“It’s that.”

Clive laughed delightedly, and wriggled in his chair.

“Maurice, the more I think it over the more certain I am that

it’s you who are the devil.”

“Oh, all right.”

“I should have gone through life half awake if you’d had the decency to leave me alone. Awake intellectually, yes, and emotionally in a way; but here—” He pointed with his pipe stem to his heart; and both smiled. “Perhaps we woke up one

another. I like to think that any way.”

“When did you first care about me?”

“Don’t ask me,” echoed Clive.

“Oh, be a bit serious—well—what was it in me you first cared about?”

“Like really to know?” asked Clive, who was in the mood Maurice adored—half mischievous, half passionate; a mood

of supreme affection.

“Yes.”

“Well, it was your beauty.”

“My what?”

“Beauty…. I used to admire that man over the bookcase most.”

“I can give points to a picture, I dare say,” said Maurice, having glanced at the Michelangelo. “Clive, you’re a silly little fool, and since you’ve brought it up I think you’re beautiful, the only beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I love your

voice and everything to do with you, down to your clothes or the room you are sitting in. I adore you.”

Clive went crimson. “Sit up straight and let’s change the subject,” he said, all the folly out of him.

“I didn’t mean to annoy you at all—”

“Those things must be said once, or we should never know they were in each other’s hearts. I hadn’t guessed, not so much at least. You’ve done all right, Maurice.” He did not change the subject but developed it into another that had interested him recently, the precise influence of Desire upon our aesthetic judgements. “Look at that picture, for instance. I love it because, like the painter himself, I love the subject. I don’t judge it with eyes of the normal man. There seem two roads for arriving at Beauty—one is in common, and all the world has reached Michelangelo by it, but the other is private to me and a few more. We come to him by both roads. On the other hand Greuze—his subject matter repels me. I can only get to him down one road. The rest of the world finds two.”

Maurice did not interrupt: it was all charming nonsense to him.

“These private roads are perhaps a mistake,” concluded Clive. “But as long as the human figure is painted they will be taken. Landscape is the only safe subject—or perhaps something geometric, rhythmical, inhuman absolutely. I wonder whether that is what the Mohammedans were up to and old Moses—I’ve just thought of this. If you introduce the human figure you at once arouse either disgust or desire.

Very faintly sometimes, but it’s there. ‘Thou shalt not make for thyself any graven image—’ because one couldn’t possibly make it for all other people too. Maurice, shall we rewrite history? ‘The Aesthetic Philosophy of the

Decalogue.’ I’ve always thought it remarkable of God not to have damned you or me in it. I used to put it down to him for righteousness, though now I suspect he was merely ill- informed. Still I might make out a case. Shall I choose it for a Fellowship Dissertation?”

“I can’t follow, you know,” said Maurice, a little ashamed.

And their love scene drew out, having the inestimable gain of a new language. No tradition overawed the boys. No convention settled what was poetic, what absurd. They were concerned with a passion that few English minds have admitted, and so created untrammelled. Something of exquisite beauty arose in the mind of each at last, something unforgettable and eternal, but built of the humblest scraps of speech and from the simplest emotions.

“I say, will you kiss me?” asked Maurice, when the sparrows woke in the eaves above them, and far out in the woods the ring-doves began to coo.

Clive shook his head, and smiling they parted, having established perfection in their lives, at all events for a time.

17

It seems strange that Maurice should have won any respect from the Durham family, but they did not dislike him. They only disliked people who wanted to know them well—it was a positive mania—and the rumour that a man wished to enter county society was a sufficient reason for excluding him from it. Inside (region of high interchange and dignified movements that meant nothing) were to be found several who, like Mr Hall, neither loved their fate nor feared it, and would depart without a sigh if necessary. The Durhams felt they were conferring a favour on him by treating him as one

of themselves, yet were pleased he should take it as a matter of course, gratitude being mysteriously connected in their minds with ill breeding.

Wanting only his food and his friend, Maurice did not observe he was a success, and was surprised when the old lady claimed him for a talk towards the end of his visit. She had questioned him about his family and discovered the nakedness thereof, but this time her manner was deferential: she wanted his opinion of Clive.

“Mr Hall, we wish you to help us: Clive thinks so much of you. Do you consider it wise for him to stop up a fourth year at Cambridge?”

Maurice was wanting to wonder which horse he should ride in the afternoon: he only half attended, which gave an appearance of profundity.

“After the deplorable exhibition he has made of himself in

the Tripos—is it wise?”

“He means to,” said Maurice.

Mrs Durham nodded. “There you have gone to the root of the matter. Clive means to. Well, he is his own master. This

place is his. Did he tell you?”

“No.”

“Oh, Penge is his absolutely, under my husband’s will. I must move to the dower house as soon as he marries—”

Maurice started; she looked at him and saw that he had coloured. “So there is some girl,” she thought. Neglecting the point for a moment, she returned to Cambridge, and observed how little a fourth year would profit a “yokel”—she used the word with gay assurance—and how desirable it was that Clive should take his place in the countryside. There was the

game, there were his tenants, there were finally politics. “His father represented the division, as you doubtless know.”

“No.”

“What does he talk to you about?” she laughed. “Anyhow, my husband was a member for seven years, and though a Lib is in now, one knows that cannot last. All our old friends are looking to him. But he must take his place, he must fit himself, and what on earth is the good of all this—I forget what—advanced work. He ought to spend the year travelling instead. He must go to America and if possible the Colonies.

It has become absolutely indispensable.”

“He speaks of travelling after Cambridge. He wants me to go.”

“I trust you will—but not Greece, Mr Hall. That is travelling for play. Do dissuade him from Italy and Greece.”

“I’d prefer America myself.”

“Naturally—anyone sensible would; but he’s a student—a dreamer—Pippa says he writes verse. Have you seen any?”

Maurice had seen a poem to himself. Conscious that life grew daily more amazing, he said nothing. Was he the same man who eight months back had been puzzled by Risley?

What had deepened his vision? Section after section the armies of humanity were coming alive. Alive, but slightly absurd; they misunderstood him so utterly: they exposed their weakness when they thought themselves most acute. He could not help smiling.

“You evidently have …” Then suddenly: “Mr Hall, is there anyone? Some Newnham girl? Pippa declares there is.”

“Pippa had better ask then,” Maurice replied.

 Mrs Durham was impressed. He had met one impertinence with another. Who would have expected such skill in a young man? He seemed even indifferent to his victory, and was smiling to one of the other guests, who approached over the lawn to tea. In the tones that she reserved for an equal she said, “Impress on him about America anyhow. He needs reality. I noticed that last year.”

Maurice duly impressed, when they were riding through the glades alone.

“I thought you were going down,” was Clive’s comment.

“Like them. They wouldn’t look at Joey.” Clive was in full reaction against his family, he hated the worldliness that they combined with complete ignorance of the World. “These children will be a nuisance,” he remarked during a canter.

“What children?”

“Mine! The need of an heir for Penge. My mother calls it marriage, but that was all she was thinking of.”

Maurice was silent. It had not occurred to him before that neither he nor his friend would leave life behind them.

“I shall be worried eternally. They’ve always some girl

staying in the house as it is.”

“Just go on growing old—”

“Eh, boy?”

“Nothing,” said Maurice, and reined up. An immense sadness—he believed himself beyond such irritants—had risen up in his soul. He and the beloved would vanish utterly —would continue neither in Heaven nor on Earth. They had won past the conventions, but Nature still faced them, saying with even voice, “Very well, you are thus; I blame none of my children. But you must go the way of all sterility.” The

thought that he was sterile weighed on the young man with a sudden shame. His mother or Mrs Durham might lack mind or heart, but they had done visible work; they had handed on the torch their sons would tread out.

He had meant not to trouble Clive, but out it all came as soon as they lay down in the fern. Clive did not agree. “Why children?” he asked. “Why always children? For love to end where it begins is far more beautiful, and Nature knows it.”

“Yes, but if everyone—”

Clive pulled him back into themselves. He murmured something about Eternity in an hour: Maurice did not understand, but the voice soothed him.

18

During the next two years Maurice and Clive had as much happiness as men under that star can expect. They were affectionate and consistent by nature, and, thanks to Clive, extremely sensible. Clive knew that ecstasy cannot last, but can carve a channel for something lasting, and he contrived a relation that proved permanent. If Maurice made love it was Clive who preserved it, and caused its rivers to water the garden. He could not bear that one drop should be wasted, either in bitterness or in sentimentality, and as time went on they abstained from avowals (“we have said everything”) and almost from caresses. Their happiness was to be together; they radiated something of their calm amongst others, and could take their place in society.

Clive had expanded in this direction ever since he had understood Greek. The love that Socrates bore Phaedo now lay within his reach, love passionate but temperate, such as only finer natures can understand, and he found in Maurice a

nature that was not indeed fine, but charmingly willing. He led the beloved up a narrow and beautiful path, high above either abyss. It went on until the final darkness—he could see no other terror—and when that descended they would at all events have lived more fully than either saint or sensualist, and would have extracted to their utmost the nobility and sweetness of the world. He educated Maurice, or rather his spirit educated Maurice’s spirit, for they themselves became equal. Neither thought “Am I led; am I leading?” Love had caught him out of triviality and Maurice out of bewilderment in order that two imperfect souls might touch perfection.

So they proceeded outwardly like other men. Society received them, as she receives thousands like them. Behind Society slumbered the Law. They had their last year at Cambridge together, they travelled in Italy. Then the prison house closed, but on both of them. Clive was working for the bar, Maurice harnessed to an office. They were together still.

19

By this time their families had become acquainted.

“They will never get on,” they had agreed. “They belong to different sections of society.” But, perhaps out of perversity, the families did get on, and Clive and Maurice found amusement in seeing them together. Both were misogynists, Clive especially. In the grip of their temperaments, they had not developed the imagination to do duty instead, and during their love women had become as remote as horses or cats; all that the creatures did seemed silly. When Kitty asked to hold Pippa’s baby, when Mrs Durham and Mrs Hall visited the Royal Academy in unison, they saw a misfit in nature rather than in society, and gave wild explanations. There was

nothing strange really: they themselves were sufficient cause.

Their passion for each other was the strongest force in either family, and drew everything after it as a hidden current draws a boat. Mrs Hall and Mrs Durham came together because their sons were friends; “and now,” said Mrs Hall, “we are friends too.”

Maurice was present the day their “friendship” began. The matrons met in Pippa’s London house. Pippa had married a Mr London, a coincidence that made a great impression on Kitty, who hoped she would not think of it and laugh during tea. Ada, as too silly for a first visit, had been left at home by Maurice’s advice. Nothing happened. Then Pippa and her mother motored out to return the civility. He was in town but again nothing seemed to have happened, except that Pippa had praised Kitty’s brains to Ada and Ada’s beauty to Kitty, thus offending both girls, and Mrs Hall had warned Mrs Durham against installing hot air at Penge. Then they met again, and as far as he could see it was always like this; nothing, nothing, and still nothing.

Mrs Durham had of course her motives. She was looking out wives for Clive, and put down the Hall girls on her list.

She had a theory one ought to cross breeds a bit, and Ada, though suburban, was healthy. No doubt the girl was a fool, but Mrs Durham did not propose to retire to the dower house in practice, whatever she might do in theory, and believed she could best manage Clive through his wife. Kitty had fewer qualifications. She was less foolish, less beautiful, and less rich. Ada would inherit the whole of her grandfather’s fortune, which was considerable, and had always inherited his good humour. Mrs Durham met old Mr Grace once, and rather liked him.

 Had she supposed the Halls were also planning she would have drawn back. Like Maurice they held her by their indifference. Mrs Hall was too idle to scheme, the girls too innocent. Mrs Durham regarded Ada as a favourable line and invited her to Penge. Only Pippa, into whose mind a breath of modernity had blown, began to think her brother’s coldness odd. “Clive, are you going to marry?” she asked suddenly.

But his reply, “No, do tell mother,” dispelled her suspicions: it is the sort of reply a man who is going to marry would make.

No one worried Maurice. He had established his power at home, and his mother began to speak of him in the tones she had reserved for her husband. He was not only the son of the house, but more of a personage than had been expected. He kept the servants in order, understood the car, subscribed to this and not to that, tabooed certain of the girls’ acquaintances, By twenty-three he was a promising suburban tyrant, whose rule was the stronger because it was fairly just and mild. Kitty protested, but she had no backing and no experience. In the end she had to say she was sorry and to receive a kiss. She was no match for this good-humoured and slightly hostile young man, and she failed to establish the advantage that his escapade at Cambridge had given her.

Maurice’s habits became regular. He ate a large breakfast and caught the 8.36 to town. In the train he read the Daily Telegraph. He worked till 1.0, lunched lightly, and worked again through the afternoon. Returning home, he had some exercise and a large dinner, and in the evening he read the evening paper, or laid down the law, or played billiards or bridge.

 But every Wednesday he slept at Clive’s little flat in town.

Weekends were also inviolable. They said at home, “You must never interfere with Maurice’s Wednesdays or with his weekends. He would be most annoyed.”

20

Clive got through his bar exams successfully, but just before he was called he had a slight touch of influenza with fever. Maurice came to see him as he was recovering, caught it, and went to bed himself. Thus they saw little of one another for several weeks, and when they did meet Clive was still white and nervy. He came down to the Halls’, preferring their house to Pippa’s, and hoping that the good food and quiet would set him up. He ate little, and when he spoke his theme was the futility of all things.

“I’m a barrister because I may enter public life,” he said in reply to a question of Ada’s. “But why should I enter public

life? Who wants me?”

“Your mother says the county does.”

“If the county wants anyone it wants a Radical. But I’ve talked to more people than my mother, and they’re weary of us leisured classes coasting round in motor-cars and asking for something to do. All this solemn to and fro between great houses—it’s a game without gaiety. You don’t find it played outside England. (Maurice, I’m going to Greece.) No one wants us, or anything except a comfortable home.”

“But to give a comfortable home’s what public life is,”

shrilled Kitty.

“Is, or ought to be?”

“Well, it’s all the same.”

 “Is and ought to be are not the same,” said her mother, proud of grasping the distinction. “You ought to be not interrupting Mr Durham, whereas you—”

“—is,” supplied Ada, and the family laugh made Clive jump.

“We are and we ought to be,” concluded Mrs Hall. “Very

different.”

“Not always,” contradicted Clive.

“Not always, remember that, Kitty,” she echoed, vaguely admonitory: on other occasions he had not minded her. Kitty cried back to her first assertion. Ada was saying anything, Maurice nothing. He was eating away placidly, too used to such table talk to see that it worried his friend. Between the courses he told an anecdote. All were silent to listen to him.

He spoke slowly, stupidly, without attending to his words or taking the trouble to be interesting. Suddenly Clive cut in with “I say—I’m going to faint,” and fell off his chair.

“Get a pillow, Kitty: Ada, eau de cologne,” said their brother. He loosened Clive’s collar. “Mother, fan him; no; fan

him….”

“Silly it is,” murmured Clive.

As he spoke, Maurice kissed him.

“I’m all right now.”

The girls and a servant came running in.

“I can walk,” he said, the colour returning to his face.

“Certainly not,” cried Mrs Hall. “Maurice’ll carry you— Mr Durham, put your arms round Maurice.”

“Come along, old man. The doctor: somebody telephone.”

He picked up his friend, who was so weak that he began to

cry.

 “Maurice—I’m a fool.”

“Be a fool,” said Maurice, and carried him upstairs, undressed him, and put him to bed. Mrs Hall knocked, and going out to her he said quickly, “Mother, you needn’t tell the

others I kissed Durham.”

“Oh, certainly not.”

“He wouldn’t like it. I was rather upset and did it without thinking. As you know, we are great friends, relations almost.”

It sufficed. She liked to have little secrets with her son; it reminded her of the time when she had been so much to him.

Ada joined them with a hot water bottle, which he took in to the patient.

“The doctor’ll see me like this,” Clive sobbed.

“I hope he will.”

“Why?”

Maurice lit a cigarette, and sat on the edge of the bed. “We want him to see you at your worst. Why did Pippa let you

travel?”

“I was supposed to be well.”

“Hell take you.”

“Can we come in?” called Ada through the door.

“No. Send the doctor alone.”

“He’s here,” cried Kitty in the distance. A man, little older than themselves, was announced.

“Hullo, Jowitt,” said Maurice, rising. “Just cure me this chap. He’s had influenza, and is supposed to be well. Result he’s fainted, and can’t stop crying.”

 “We know all about that,” remarked Mr Jowitt, and stuck a thermometer into Clive’s mouth. “Been working hard?”

“Yes, and now wants to go to Greece.”

“So he shall. You clear out now. I’ll see you downstairs.”

Maurice obeyed, convinced that Clive was seriously ill.

Jowitt followed in about ten minutes, and told Mrs Hall it was nothing much—a bad relapse. He wrote prescriptions, and said he would send in a nurse. Maurice followed him into the garden, and, laying a hand on his arm, said, “Now tell me how ill he is. This isn’t a relapse. It’s something more. Please tell me the truth.”

“He’s all right,” said the other; somewhat annoyed, for he piqued himself on telling the truth. “I thought you realized that. He’s stopped the hysteria and is getting off to sleep. It’s just an ordinary relapse. He will have to be more careful this time than the other, that’s all.”

“And how long will these ordinary relapses, as you call them, go on? At any moment may he have this appalling pain?”

“He’s only a bit uncomfortable—caught a chill in the car, he thinks.”

“Jowitt, you don’t tell me. A grown man doesn’t cry,

unless he’s gone pretty far.”

“That is only the weakness.”

“Oh, give it your own name,” said Maurice, removing his hand. “Besides, I’m keeping you.”

“Not a bit, my young friend, I’m here to answer any difficulties.”

“Well, if it’s so slight, why are you sending in a nurse?”

“To amuse him. I understand he’s well off.”

 “And can’t we amuse him?”

“No, because of the infection. You were there when I told your mother none of you ought to go into the room.”

“I thought you meant my sisters.”

“You equally—more, for you’ve already caught it from

him once.”

“I won’t have a nurse.”

“Mrs Hall has telephoned to the Institute.”

“Why is everything done in such a damned hurry?” said Maurice, raising his voice. “I shall nurse him myself.”

“Have you wheeling the baby next.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Jowitt went off laughing.

In tones that admitted no argument Maurice told his mother he should sleep in the patient’s room. He would not have a bed taken in, lest Clive woke up, but lay down on the floor with his head on a foot-stool, and read by the rays of a candle lamp. Before long Clive stirred and said feebly, “Oh

damnation, oh damnation.”

“Want anything?” Maurice called.

“My inside’s all wrong.”

Maurice lifted him out of bed and put him on the night stool. When relief had come he lifted him back.

“I can walk: you mustn’t do this sort of thing.”

“You’d do it for me.”

He carried the stool down the passage and cleaned it. Now that Clive was undignified and weak, he loved him as never before.

 “You mustn’t,” repeated Clive, when he came back. “It’s too filthy.”

“Doesn’t worry me,” said Maurice, lying down. “Get off to

sleep again.”

“The doctor told me he’d send a nurse.”

“What do you want with a nurse? It’s only a touch of diarrhoea. You can keep on all night as far as I’m concerned.

Honestly it doesn’t worry me—I don’t say this to please you.

It just doesn’t.”

“I can’t possibly—your office—’

“Look here, Clive, would you rather have a trained nurse or me? One’s coming tonight, but I left word she was to be sent away again, because I’d rather chuck the office and look after you myself, and thought you’d rather.”

Clive was silent so long that Maurice thought him asleep.

At last he sighed, “I suppose I’d better have the nurse.”

“Right: she will make you more comfortable than I can.

Perhaps you’re right.”

Clive made no reply.

Ada had volunteered to sit up in the room below, and, according to arrangement, Maurice tapped three times, and while waiting for her studied Clive’s blurred and sweaty face.

It was useless the doctor talking: his friend was in agony. He longed to embrace him, but remembered this had brought on the hysteria, and besides, Clive was restrained, fastidious almost. As Ada did not come he went downstairs, and found that she had fallen asleep. She lay, the picture of health, in a big leather chair, with her hands dropped on either side and her feet stretched out. Her bosom rose and fell, her heavy black hair served as a cushion to her face, and between her

lips he saw teeth and a scarlet tongue. “Wake up,” he cried

irritably.

Ada woke.

“How do you expect to hear the front door when the nurse

comes?”

“How is poor Mr Durham?”

“Very ill; dangerously ill.”

“Oh Maurice! Maurice!”

“The nurse is to stop. I called you, but you never came. Go off to bed now, as you can’t even help that much.”

“Mother said I must sit up, because the nurse mustn’t be let in by a man—it wouldn’t look well.”

“I can’t think how you have time to think of such rubbish,”

said Maurice.

“We must keep the house a good name.”

He was silent, then laughed in the way the girls disliked.

At the bottom of their hearts they disliked him entirely, but were too confused mentally to know this. His laugh was the only grievance they avowed.

“Nurses are not nice. No nice girl would be a nurse. If they are you may be sure they do not come from nice homes, or they would stop at home.”

“Ada, how long were you at school?” asked her brother, as he helped himself to a drink.

“I call going to school stopping at home.”

He set down his glass with a clank, and left her. Clive’s eyes were open, but he did not speak or seem to know that Maurice had returned, nor did the coming of the nurse arouse

him.

 21

It was plain in a few days that nothing serious was amiss with the visitor. The attack, despite its dramatic start, was less serious than its predecessor, and soon allowed his removal to Penge. His appearance and spirits remained poor, but that must be expected after influenza, and no one except Maurice felt the least uneasiness.

Maurice thought seldom about disease and death, but when he did it was with strong disapproval. They could not be allowed to spoil his life or his friend’s, and he brought all his youth and health to bear on Clive. He was with him constantly, going down uninvited to Penge for weekends or for a few days’ holiday, and trying by example rather than precept to cheer him up. Clive did not respond. He could rouse himself in company, and even affect interest in a right of way question that had arisen between the Durhams and the British Public, but when they were alone he relapsed into gloom, would not speak, or spoke in a half serious, half joking way that tells of mental exhaustion. He determined to go to Greece. That was the only point on which he held firm.

He would go, though the month would be September, and he alone. “It must be done,” he said. “It is a vow. Every barbarian must give the Acropolis its chance once.”

Maurice had no use for Greece. His interest in the classics had been slight and obscene, and had vanished when he loved Clive. The stories of Harmodius and Aristogeiton, of Phaedrus, of the Theban Band were well enough for those whose hearts were empty, but no substitute for life. That Clive should occasionally prefer them puzzled him. In Italy, which he liked well enough in spite of the food and the frescoes, he had refused to cross to the yet holier land beyond

the Adriatic. “It sounds out of repair” was his argument. “A heap of old stones without any paint on. At all events this”— he indicated the library of Siena Cathedral—“you may say what you like, but it is in working order.” Clive, in his amusement, jumped up and down upon the Piccolomini tiles, and the custodian laughed too instead of scolding them. Italy had been very jolly—as much as one wants in the way of sight-seeing surely—but in these latter days Greece had cropped up again. Maurice hated the very word, and by a curious inversion connected it with morbidity and death.

Whenever he wanted to plan, to play tennis, to talk nonsense, Greece intervened. Clive saw his antipathy, and took to teasing him about it, not very kindly.

For Clive wasn’t kind: it was to Maurice the most serious of all the symptoms. He would make slightly malicious remarks, and use his intimate knowledge to wound. He failed: i.e., his knowledge was incomplete, or he would have known the impossibility of vexing athletic love. If Maurice sometimes parried outwardly it was because he felt it human to respond: he always had been put off Christ turning the other cheek. Inwardly nothing vexed him. The desire for union was too strong to admit resentment. And sometimes, quite cheerfully, he would conduct a parallel conversation, hitting out at Clive at times in acknowledgement of his presence, but going his own way towards light, in hope that the beloved would follow.

Their last conversation took place on these lines. It was the evening before Clive’s departure, and he had the whole of the Hall family to dine with him at the Savoy, as a return for their kindness to him, and had sandwiched them out between some other friends. “We shall know what it is if you fall this time,”

cried Ada, nodding at the champagne. “Your health!” he replied. “And the health of all ladies. Come, Maurice!” It pleased him to be slightly old-fashioned. Healths were drunk, and only Maurice detected the underlying bitterness.

After the banquet he said to Maurice, “Are you sleeping at

home?”

“No.”

“I thought you might want to see your people home.”

“Not he, Mr Durham,” said his mother. “Nothing I can do or say can make him miss a Wednesday. Maurice is a regular old bachelor.”

“My flat’s upside down with packing,” remarked Clive. “I leave by the morning train, and go straight through to Marseilles.”

Maurice took no notice, and came. They stood yawning at each other, while the lift descended for them, then sped upwards, climbed another stage on their feet, and went down a passage that recalled the approach to Risley’s rooms at Trinity. The flat, small, dark, and silent, lay at the end. It was, as Clive said, littered with rubbish, but his housekeeper, who slept out, had made up Maurice’s bed as usual, and had

arranged drinks.

“Yet again,” remarked Clive.

Maurice liked alcohol, and had a good head.

“I’m going to bed. I see you’ve found what you wanted.”

“Take care of yourself. Don’t overdo the ruins. By the way —” He took a phial out of his pocket. “I knew you’d forget

this. Chlorodyne.”

“Chlorodyne! Your contribution!”

He nodded.

 “Chlorodyne for Greece…. Ada has been telling me that you thought I was going to die. Why on earth do you worry about my health? There’s no fear. I shan’t ever have so clean and clear an experience as death.”

“I know I shall die some time and I don’t want to, nor you to. If either of us goes, nothing’s left for both. I don’t know if

you call that clean and clear?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I’d rather be dirty,” said Maurice, after a pause.

Clive shivered.

“Don’t you agree?”

“Oh, you’re getting like everyone else. You will have a theory. We can’t go quietly ahead, we must always be formulating, though every formula breaks down. ‘Dirt at all costs’ is to be yours. I say there are cases when one gets too dirty. Then Lethe, if there is such a river, will wash it away.

But there may not be such a river. The Greeks assumed little enough, yet too much perhaps. There may be no forgetfulness beyond the grave. This wretched equipment may continue. In other words, beyond the grave there may be Hell.”

“Oh, balls.”

Clive generally enjoyed his metaphysics. But this time he went on. “To forget everything—even happiness. Happiness!

A casual tickling of someone or something against oneself— that’s all. Would that we had never been lovers! For then, Maurice, you and I should have lain still and been quiet. We should have slept, then had we been at rest with kings and counsellors of the earth, which built desolate places for

themselves—”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

 “—or as an hidden untimely birth, we had not been: as infants which never saw light. But as it is—Well, don’t look so serious.”

“Don’t try to be funny then,” said Maurice. “I never did

think anything of your speeches.”

“Words conceal thought. That theory?”

“They make a silly noise. I don’t care about your thoughts

either.”

“Then what do you care about in me?”

Maurice smiled: as soon as this question was asked, he felt happy, and refused to answer it.

“My beauty?” said Clive cynically. “These somewhat faded charms. My hair is falling out. Are you aware?”

“Bald as an egg by thirty.”

“As an addled egg. Perhaps you like me for my mind.

During and after my illness I must have been a delightful companion.”

Maurice looked at him with tenderness. He was studying him, as in the earliest days of their acquaintance. Only then it was to find out what he was like, now what had gone wrong with him. Something was wrong. The diseases still simmered, vexing the brain, and causing it to be gloomy and perverse, and Maurice did not resent this: he hoped to succeed where the doctor had failed. He knew his own strength. Presently he would put it forth as love, and heal his friend, but for the moment he investigated.

“I expect you do like me for my mind—for its feebleness.

You always knew I was inferior. You’re wonderfully considerate—give me plenty of rope and never snub me as you did your family at dinner.”

 It was as if he wanted to pick a quarrel.

“Now and then you call me to heel—” He pinched him, pretending to be playful. Maurice started. “What is wrong

now? Tired?”

“I’m off to bed.”

“I.e., you’re tired. Why can’t you answer a question? I didn’t say ‘tired of me’, though I might have.”

“Have you ordered your taxi for the nine o’clock?”

“No, nor got my ticket. I shan’t go to Greece at all. Perhaps it’ll be as intolerable as England.”

“Well, good night, old man.” He went, deeply concerned, to his room. Why would everyone declare Clive was fit to travel? Clive even knew he wasn’t himself. So methodical as a rule, he had put off taking his ticket till the last moment. He might still not go, but to express the hope was to defeat it.

Maurice undressed, and catching sight of himself in the glass, thought, “A mercy I’m fit.” He saw a well-trained serviceable body and a face that contradicted it no longer. Virility had harmonized them and shaded either with dark hair. Slipping on his pyjamas, he sprang into bed, concerned, yet profoundly happy, because he was strong enough to live for two. Clive had helped him. Clive would help him again when the pendulum swung, meanwhile he must help Clive, and all through life they would alternate thus: as he dozed off he had a further vision of love, that was not far from the ultimate.

There was a knock at the wall that divided their rooms.

“What is it?” he called; then, “Come in!” for Clive was

now at the door.

“Can I come into your bed?”

“Come along,” said Maurice, making room.

 “I’m cold and miserable generally. I can’t sleep. I don’t know why.”

Maurice did not misunderstand him. He knew and shared his opinions on this point. They lay side by side without touching. Presently Clive said, “It’s no better here. I shall go.” Maurice was not sorry, for he could not get to sleep either, though for a different reason, and he was afraid Clive might hear the drumming of his heart, and guess what it was.

22

Clive sat in the theatre of Dionysus. The stage was empty, as it had been for many centuries, the auditorium empty; the sun had set though the Acropolis behind still radiated heat.

He saw barren plains running down to the sea, Salamis, Aegina, mountains, all blended in a violet evening. Here dwelt his gods—Pallas Athene in the first place: he might if he chose imagine her shrine untouched, and her statue catching the last of the glow. She understood all men, though motherless and a virgin. He had been coming to thank her for years because she had lifted him out of the mire.

But he saw only dying light and a dead land. He uttered no prayer, believed in no deity, and knew that the past was devoid of meaning like the present, and a refuge for cowards.

Well, he had written to Maurice at last. His letter was journeying down to the sea. Where one sterility touched another, it would embark and voyage past Sunium and Cythera, would land and embark, would land again. Maurice would get it as he was starting for his work. “Against my will I have become normal. I cannot help it.” The words had been written.

 He descended the theatre wearily. Who could help anything? Not only in sex, but in all things men have moved blindly, have evolved out of slime to dissolve into it when this accident of consequences is over. μὴ φὓναι τὸν ἅπαντα νικᾁ λόγον, sighed the actors in this very place two thousand years before. Even that remark, though further from vanity than most, was vain.

23 Dear Clive,

Please come back on receiving this. I have looked out your connections, and you can reach England on Tuesday week if you start at once. I am very anxious about you on account of your letter, as it shows how ill you are. I have waited to hear from you for a fortnight and now come two sentences, which I suppose mean that you cannot love anyone of your own sex any longer. We will see whether this is so as soon as you arrive!

I called upon Pippa yesterday. She was full of the lawsuit, and thinks your mother made a mistake in closing the path.

Your mother has told the village she is not closing it against them. I called to get news of you, but Pippa had not heard either. You will be amused to hear that I have been learning some classical music lately—also golf. I get on as well as can be expected at Hill and Hall’s. My mother has gone to Birmingham after changing backwards and forwards for a week. Now you have all the news. Wire on getting this, and

again on reaching Dover.

Maurice.

 Clive received this letter and shook his head. He was going with some hotel acquaintances up Pentelicus, and tore it to pieces on the top of the mountain. He had stopped loving Maurice and should have to say so plainly.

24

He stopped a week more at Athens, lest by any possibility he was wrong. The change had been so shocking that sometimes he thought Maurice was right, and that it was the finish of his illness. It humiliated him, for he had understood his soul, or, as he said, himself, ever since he was fifteen. But the body is deeper than the soul and its secrets inscrutable.

There had been no warning—just a blind alteration of the life spirit, just an announcement, “You who loved men, will henceforward love women. Understand or not, it’s the same to me.” Whereupon he collapsed. He tried to clothe the change with reason, and understand it, in order that he might feel less humiliated: but it was of the nature of death or birth, and he failed.

It came during illness—possibly through illness. During the first attack, when he was severed from ordinary life and feverish, it seized an opportunity that it would have taken some time or other. He noticed how charming his nurse was and enjoyed obeying her. When he went for a drive his eye rested on women. Little details, a hat, the way a skirt is held, scent, laughter, the delicate walk across mud—blended into a charming whole, and it pleased him to find that the women often answered his eye with equal pleasure. Men had never responded—they did not assume he admired them, and were either unconscious or puzzled. But women took admiration for granted. They might be offended or coy, but they

understood, and welcomed him into a world of delicious interchange. All through the drive Clive was radiant. How happy normal people made their lives! On how little had he existed for twenty-four years! He chatted to his nurse, and felt her his for ever. He noticed the statues, the advertisements, the daily papers. Passing a cinema palace, he went in. The film was unbearable artistically, but the man who made it, the men and the women who looked on—they knew, and he was one of the them.

In no case could the exaltation have lasted. He was like one whose ears have been syringed; for the first few hours he hears super-normal sounds, which vanish when he adjusts himself to the human tradition. He had not gained a sense, but rearranged one, and life would not have appeared as a holiday for long. It saddened at once, for on his return Maurice was waiting for him, and a seizure resulted: like a fit, it struck at him from behind the brain. He murmured that he was too tired to talk, and escaped, and Maurice’s illness gave him a further reprieve, during which he persuaded himself that their relations had not altered, and that he might without disloyalty contemplate women. He wrote affectionately and accepted the invitation to recruit, without misgivings.

He said he caught cold in the car; but in his heart he believed that the cause of his relapse was spiritual: to be with Maurice or anyone connected with him was suddenly revolting. The heat at dinner! The voices of the Halls! Their laughter! Maurice’s anecdote! It mixed with the food—was the food. Unable to distinguish matter from spirit, he fainted.

But when he opened his eyes it was to the knowledge that love had died, so that he wept when his friend kissed him.

Each kindness increased his suffering, until he asked the nurse to forbid Mr Hall to enter the room. Then he recovered and could fly to Penge, where he loved him as much as ever until he turned up. He noticed the devotion, the heroism even, but his friend bored him. He longed for him to go back to town, and actually said so, so near the surface had the rock risen. Maurice shook his head and stopped.

Clive did not give in to the life spirit without a struggle. He believed in the intellect and tried to think himself back into the old state. He averted his eyes from women, and when that failed adopted childish and violent expedients. The one was this visit to Greece, the other—he could not recall it without disgust. Not until all emotion had ebbed would it have been possible. He regretted it deeply, for Maurice now inspired him with a physical dislike that made the future more difficult, and he wished to keep friends with his old lover, and to help him through the approaching catastrophe. It was all so complicated. When love flies it is remembered not as love but as something else. Blessed are the uneducated, who forget it entirely, and are never conscious of folly or pruriency in the past, of long aimless conversations.

25

Clive did not wire, nor start at once. Though desirous to be kind and training himself to think reasonably of Maurice, he refused to obey orders as of old. He returned to England at his leisure. He did wire from Folkestone to Maurice’s office, and expected to be met at Charing Cross, and when he was not he took a train on to the suburbs, in order to explain as quickly as possible. His attitude was sympathetic and calm.

 It was an October evening; the falling leaves, the mist, the hoot of an owl, filled him with pleasing melancholy. Greece had been clear but dead. He liked the atmosphere of the North, whose gospel is not truth, but compromise. He and his friend would arrange something that should include women.

Sadder and older, but without a crisis, they would slip into a relation, as evening into night. He liked the night also. It had graciousness and repose. It was not absolutely dark. Just as he was about to lose his way up from the station, he saw another street lamp, and then past that another. There were chains in every direction, one of which he followed to his goal.

Kitty heard his voice, and came from the drawing-room to welcome him. He had always cared for Kitty least of the family—she was not a true woman, as he called it now—and she brought the news that Maurice was away for the night on business. “Mother and Ada are in church,” she added. “They have had to walk because Maurice would take the car.”

“Where has he gone?”

“Don’t ask me. He leaves his address with the servants. We know even less about Maurice than when you were last here, if you think that possible. He has become a most mysterious person.” She gave him tea, humming a tune.

Her lack of sense and of charm produced a not unwelcome reaction in her brother’s favour. She continued to complain of him in the cowed fashion that she had inherited from Mrs Hall.

“It’s only five minutes to church,” remarked Clive.

“Yes, they would have been in to receive you if he had let us know. He keeps everything so secret, and then laughs at girls.”

 “It was I who did not let him know.”

“What’s Greece like?”

He told her. She was as bored as her brother would have been, and had not his gift of listening beneath words. Clive remembered how often he had held forth to Maurice and felt at the end an access of intimacy. There was a good deal to be saved out of the wreck of that passion. Maurice was big, and so sensible when once he understood.

Kitty proceeded, sketching her own affairs in a slightly clever way. She had asked to go to an Institute to acquire Domestic Economy, and her mother would have allowed her, but Maurice had put his foot down when he heard that the fees were three guineas a week. Kitty’s grievances were mainly financial: she wanted an allowance. Ada had one.

Ada, as heiress-apparent, had to “learn the value of money.

But I am not to learn anything.” Clive decided that he would tell his friend to treat the girl better; once before he had interfered, and Maurice, charming to the core, had made him feel he could say anything.

A deep voice interrupted them; the churchgoers were back.

Ada came in, dressed in a jersey, tam o’shanter, and gray skirt; the autumn mist had left a delicate bloom upon her hair.

Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright; she greeted him with obvious pleasure, and though her exclamations were the same as Kitty’s they produced a different effect. “Why didn’t you let us know?” she cried. “There will be nothing but the pie.

We would have given you a real English dinner.”

He said he must return to town in a few minutes but Mrs Hall insisted he should sleep. He was glad to do this. The house now filled with tender memories, especially when Ada spoke. He had forgotten she was so different from Kitty.

 “I thought you were Maurice,” he said to her. “Your voices are wonderfully alike.”

“It’s because I have a cold,” she said, laughing.

“No, they are alike,” said Mrs Hall. “Ada has Maurice’s voice, his nose, by which of course I mean the mouth too, and his good spirits and good health. Three things, I often think of it. Kitty on the other hand has his brain.”

All laughed. The three women were evidently fond of one another. Clive saw relations that he had not guessed, for they were expanding in the absence of their man. Plants live by the sun, yet a few of them flower at night-fall, and the Halls reminded him of the evening primroses that starred a deserted alley at Penge. When talking to her mother and sister, even Kitty had beauty, and he determined to rebuke Maurice about her; not unkindly, for Maurice was beautiful too, and bulked largely in this new vision.

The girls had been incited by Dr Barry to join an ambulance class, and after dinner Clive submitted his body to be bound. Ada tied up his scalp, Kitty his ankle, while Mrs Hall, happy and careless, repeated “Well, Mr Durham, this is a better illness than the last anyhow.”

“Mrs Hall, I wish you would call me by my Christian name.”

“Indeed I will. But Ada and Kitty—not you.”

“I wish Ada and Kitty would too.”

“Clive, then!” said Kitty.

“Kitty, then!”

“Clive.”

“Ada—that’s better.” But he was blushing. “I hate formalities.”

 “So do I,” came the chorus. “I care nothing for anyone’s opinion—never did,” and fixed him with candid eyes.

“Maurice on the other hand,” from Mrs Hall, “is very particular.”

“Maurice is a rip really—Waow, you’re hurting my head.”

“Waow, waow,” Ada imitated.

There was a ring at the telephone.

“He has had your wire from the office,” announced Kitty.

“He wants to know whether you’re here.”

“Say I am.”

“He’s coming back tonight, then. Now he wants to talk to you.”

Clive took the receiver, but only a burr arrived. They had been disconnected. They could not ring Maurice up as they did not know where he was, and Clive felt relieved, for the approach of reality alarmed him. He was so happy being bandaged: his friend would arrive soon enough. Now Ada bent over him. He saw features that he knew, with a light behind that glorified them. He turned from the dark hair and eyes to the unshadowed mouth or to the curves of the body, and found in her the exact need of his transition. He had seen more seductive women, but none that promised such peace.

She was the compromise between memory and desire, she was the quiet evening that Greece had never known. No argument touched her, because she was tenderness, who reconciles present with past. He had not supposed there was such a creature except in Heaven, and he did not believe in Heaven. Now much had become possible suddenly. He lay looking into her eyes, where some of his hope lay reflected.

He knew that he might make her love him, and the

knowledge lit him with temperate fire. It was charming—he desired no more yet, and his only anxiety was lest Maurice should arrive, for a memory should remain a memory.

Whenever the others ran out of the room to see whether that noise was the car, he kept her with him, and soon she understood that he wished this, and stopped without his command.

“If you knew what it is to be in England!” he said

suddenly.

“Is Greece not nice?”

“Horrible.”

She was distressed and Clive also sighed. Their eyes met.

“I’m so sorry, Clive.”

“Oh, it’s all over.”

“What exactly was it—”

“Ada, it was this. While in Greece I had to reconstruct my life from the bottom. Not an easy task, but I think I’ve done it.”

“We often talked of you. Maurice said you would like Greece.”

“Maurice doesn’t know—no one knows as much as you!

I’ve told you more than anyone. Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course.”

Clive was nonplussed. The conversation had become impossible. But Ada never expected continuity. To be alone with Clive, whom she innocently admired, was enough. She told him how thankful she was he had returned. He agreed, with vehemence. “Especially to return here.”

“The car!” Kitty shrieked.

 “Don’t go!” he repeated, catching her hand.

“I must—Maurice—”

“Bother Maurice.” He held her. There was a tumult in the hall. “Where’s he gone?” his friend was roaring. “Where’ve you put him?”

“Ada, take me a walk tomorrow. See more of me…. That’s settled.”

Her brother burst in. Seeing the bandages, he thought there had been an accident, then laughed at his mistake. “Come out of that, Clive. Why did you let them? I say, he looks well.

You look well. Good man. Come and have a drink. I’ll unpick you. No, girls, not you.” Clive followed him, but, turning, had an imperceptible nod from Ada.

Maurice looked like an immense animal in his fur coat. He slipped it off as soon as they were alone, and came up smiling. “So you don’t love me?” he challenged.

“All that must be tomorrow,” said Clive, averting his eyes.

“Quite so. Have a drink.”

“Maurice, I don’t want a row.”

“I do.”

He waved the glass aside. The storm must burst. “But you mustn’t talk to me like this,” he continued. “It increases my difficulties.”

“I want a row and I’ll have it.” He came in his oldest manner and thrust a hand into Clive’s hair. “Sit down. Now why did you write me that letter?”

Clive did not reply. He was looking with growing dismay into the face he had once loved. The horror of masculinity had returned, and he wondered what would happen if Maurice tried to embrace him.

 “Why? Eh? Now you’re fit again, tell me.”

“Go off my chair, and I will.” Then he began one of the speeches he had prepared. It was scientific and impersonal, as this would wound Maurice least. “I have become normal— like other men, I don’t know how, any more than I know how I was born. It is outside reason, it is against my wish. Ask any questions you like. I have come down here to answer them, for I couldn’t go into details in my letter. But I wrote the

letter because it was true.”

“True, you say?”

“Was and is the truth.”

“You say that you care for women only, not men?”

“I care for men, in the real sense, Maurice, and always

shall.”

“All that presently.”

He too was impersonal, but he had not got off the chair.

His fingers remained on Clive’s head, touching the bandages, his mood had changed from gaiety to quiet concern. He was neither angry nor afraid, he only wanted to heal, and Clive, in the midst of repulsion, realized what a triumph of love was ruining, and how feeble or how ironical must be the power

that governs Man.

“Who made you change?”

He disliked the form of the question. “No one. It was a change in me merely physical.” He began to relate his experiences.

“Evidently the nurse,” said Maurice thoughtfully. “I wish you had told me before…. I knew something had gone wrong and thought of several things, but not this. One oughtn’t to keep secrets, or they get worse. One ought to talk, talk, talk—

provided one has someone to talk to, as you and I have. If you’d have told me, you would have been right by now.”

“Why?”

“Because I should have made you right.”

“How?”

“You’ll see,” he said smiling.

“It’s not the least good—I’ve changed.”

“Can the leopard change his spots? Clive, you’re in a muddle. It’s part of your general health. I’m not anxious now, because you’re well otherwise, you even look happy, and the rest must follow. I see you were afraid to tell me, lest it gave me pain, but we’ve got past sparing each other. You ought to have told me. What else am I here for? You can’t trust anyone else. You and I are outlaws. All this”—he pointed to the middle-class comfort of the room—“would be taken from us if people knew.”

He groaned. “But I’ve changed, I’ve changed.”

We can only interpret by our experiences. Maurice could understand muddle, not change. “You only think you’ve changed,” he said, smiling. “I used to think I had when Miss Olcott was here, but it all went when I returned to you.”

“I know my own mind,” said Clive, getting warm and freeing himself from the chair. “I was never like you.”

“You are now. Do you remember how I pretended—”

“Of course I remember. Don’t be childish.”

“We love each other, and know it. Then what else—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Maurice, hold your tongue. If I love anyone it’s Ada.” He added, “I take her at random as an example.”

 But an example was the one thing Maurice could realize.

“Ada?” he said, with a change of tone.

“Only to prove to you the sort of thing.”

“You scarcely know Ada.”

“Nor did I know my nurse or the other women I’ve mentioned. As I said before, it’s no special person, only a

tendency.”

“Who was in when you arrived?”

“Kitty.”

“But it’s Ada, not Kitty.”

“Yes, but I don’t mean—Oh, don’t be stupid!”

“What do you mean?”

“Anyhow, you understand, now,” said Clive, trying to keep impersonal, and turning to the comforting words with which his discourse should have concluded. “I’ve changed. Now I want you to understand too that the change won’t spoil anything in our friendship that is real. I like you enormously —more than any man I’ve ever met” (he did not feel this as he said it) “I most enormously respect and admire you. It’s character, not passion, that is the real bond.”

“Did you say something to Ada just before I came in?

Didn’t you hear my car come up? Why did Kitty and my mother come out and not you? You must have heard my noise. You knew I flung up my work for you. You never talked to me down the telephone. You didn’t write or come back from Greece. How much did you see of her when you were here before?”

“Look here, old man, I can’t be cross-questioned.”

“You said you could.”

“Not about your sister.”

 “Why not?”

“You must shut up, I say. Come back to what I was saying about character—the real tie between human beings. You can’t build a house on the sand, and passion’s sand. We want

bed rock….”

“Ada!” he called, suddenly deliberate.

Clive shouted in horror. “What for?”

“Ada! Ada!”

He rushed at the door and locked it. “Maurice, it mustn’t end like this—not a row,” he implored. But as Maurice approached he pulled out the key and clenched it, for chivalry had awoken at last. “You can’t drag in a woman,” he

breathed; “I won’t have it.”

“Give that up.”

“I mustn’t. Don’t make it worse. No—no.”

Maurice bore down on him. He escaped: they dodged round the big chair, arguing for the key in whispers.

They touched with hostility, then parted for ever, the key

falling between them.

“Clive, did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“My darling, I didn’t mean to.”

“I’m all right.”

They looked at one another for a moment before beginning new lives. “What an ending,” he sobbed, “what an ending.”

“I do rather love her,” said Clive, very pale.

“What’s going to happen?” said Maurice, sitting down and wiping his mouth. “Arrange … I’m done for.”

 Since Ada was in the passage Clive went out to her: to Woman was his first duty. Having appeased her with vague words, he returned to the smoking-room, but the door was now locked between them. He heard Maurice turn out the electric light and sit down with a thud.

“Don’t be an ass anyway,” he called nervously. There was no reply. Clive scarcely knew what to do. At any rate he could not stop in the house. Asserting a man’s prerogative, he announced that he must sleep in town after all, in which the women acquiesced. He left the darkness within for that without: the leaves fell as he went to the station, the owls hooted, the mist enveloped him. It was so late that the lamps had been extinguished in the suburban roads, and total night without compromise weighed on him, as on his friend. He too suffered and exclaimed, “What an ending!” but he was promised a dawn. The love of women would rise as certainly as the sun, scorching up immaturity and ushering the full human day, and even in his pain he knew this. He would not marry Ada—she had been transitional—but some goddess of the new universe that had opened to him in London, someone utterly unlike Maurice Hall.