Maurice

by E. M. Forster

  So strong was the passion, while it lasted, that he believed the crisis of his life had come. He broke all engagements, as in the old days. After breakfast he saw Dickie to his uncle's, got arm in arm with him, and exacted a promise for tea. It was kept. Maurice abandoned himself to joy. His blood heated. He would not attend to the talk, yet even this advantaged him, for when he said "What?" Dickie came over to the sofa. He passed an arm round him.... The entrance of Aunt Ida may have averted dis­aster, yet he thought he saw response in the candid eyes.

  They met once more—at midnight. Maurice was not happy now, for during the hours of waiting his emotion had become physical.

  "I'd a latch key," said Dickie, surprised at finding his host up.

  "I know."

  There was a pause. Both uneasy, they were glancing at each other and afraid to meet a glance.

  "Is it a cold night out?"

  "No."

  "Can I get you anything before I go up?"

  "No, thanks."

  Maurice went to the switches and turned on the landing light. Then he turned out the lights in the hall and sprang after Dickie, overtaking him noiselessly.

  "This is my room," he whispered. "I mean generally. They've turned me out for you." He added, "I sleep here alone." He was conscious that words were escaping him. Having removed Dickie's overcoat he stood holding it, saying nothing. The house was so quiet that they could hear the women breathing in the other rooms.

  The boy said nothing either. The varieties of development are endless, and it so happened that he understood the situation perfectly. If Hall insisted, he would not kick up a row, but he had rather not: he felt like that about it.

  "I'm above," panted Maurice, not daring. "In the attic over this—if you want anything—all night alone. I always am."

  Dickie's impulse was to bolt the door after him, but he dis­missed it as unsoldierly, and awoke to the ringing of the break­fast bell, with the sun on his face and his mind washed clean.

  30 This episode burst Maurice's life to pieces. Interpret-ing it by the past, he mistook Dickie for a second Clive, but three years are not lived in a day, and the fires died down as quickly as they had risen, leaving some suspicious ashes behind them. Dickie left on the Monday, and by Friday his image had faded. A client then came into the office, a lively and handsome young Frenchman, who implored Monsieur 'All not to swindle him. While they chaffed, a familiar feeling arose, but this time he smelt attendant odours from the abyss. "No, people like me must keep our noses to the grindstone, I'm afraid," he replied, in answer to the Frenchman's prayer to lunch with him, and his voice was so British that it produced shouts of laughter and a pantomime.

  When the fellow had gone he faced the truth. His feeling for Dickie required a very primitive name. He would have senti­mentalized once and called it adoration, but the habit of hon­esty had grown strong. What a stoat he had been! Poor little Dickie! He saw the boy leaping from his embrace, to smash through the window and break his limbs, or yelling like a ma­niac until help came. He saw the police—

  "Lust." He said the word out loud.

  Lust is negligible when absent. In the calm of his office Maurice expected to subdue it, now that he had found its name. His mind, ever practical, wasted no time in theological despair,

  but advanced to the grindstone. He had been forewarned, and therefore forearmed, and had only to keep away from boys and young men to ensure success. Yes, from other young men. Cer­tain obscurities of the last six months became clear. For exam­ple, a pupil at the Settlement—He wrinkled his nose, as one who needs no further proof. The feeling that can impel a gentleman towards a person of lower class stands self-condemned.

  He did not know what lay ahead. He was entering into a state that would only end with impotence or death. Clive had post­poned it. Clive had influenced him, as always. It had been un­derstood between them that their love, though including the body, should not gratify it, and the understanding had pro­ceeded—no words were used—from Clive. He had been nearest to words on the first evening at Penge, when he refused Mau­rice's kiss, or on the last afternoon there, when they lay amid deep fern. Then had been framed the rule that brought the golden age, and would have sufficed till death. But to Maurice, despite his content, there had been something hypnotic about it. It had expressed Clive, not him, but now that he was alone he cracked hideously, as once at school. And it was not Clive who would heal him. That influence, even if exerted, would have failed, for a relation such as theirs cannot break without trans­forming both men for ever.

  But he could not realize all this. The ethereal past had blinded him, and the highest happiness he could dream was a return to it. As he sat in his office working, he could not see the vast curve of his life, still less the ghost of his father sitting opposite. Mr Hall senior had neither fought nor thought; there had never been any occasion; he had supported society and moved without a crisis from illicit to licit love. Now, looking across at his son, he is touched with envy, the only pain that survives in the world of shades. For he sees the flesh educating the spirit, as his has

  never been educated, and developing the sluggish heart and the slack mind against their will.

  Presently Maurice was called to the telephone. He raised it to his ear, and, after six months' silence, heard the voice of his only friend.

  "Hullo," he began, "hullo, you will have heard my news, Maurice."

  "Yes, but you didn't write, so I didn't."

  "Quite so."

  "Where are you now?"

  "Off to a restaurant. We want you to come round there. Will you?"

  "I'm afraid I can't. I've just refused one invitation to lunch."

  "Are you too busy to talk a little?"

  "Oh no."

  Clive resumed, evidently relieved by the atmosphere. "My young woman's with me. Presently she'll talk too."

  "Oh, all right. Tell me all your plans."

  "The wedding's next month."

  "Best of luck."

  Neither could think of anything to say.

  "Now for Anne."

  "I'm Anne Woods," said a girl's voice.

  "My name's Hall."

  "What?"

  "Maurice Christopher Hall."

  "Mine's Anne Clare Wilbraham Woods, but I can't think of anything to say."

  "No more can I."

  "You're the eighth friend of Clive I've talked to in this way this morning."

  "The eighth?"

  "I can't hear."

  "I said the eighth."

  "Oh yes, now I'll give Clive a turn. Goodbye."

  Clive resumed. "By the way, can you come down to Penge next week? It's short notice, but later all will be chaos."

  "I'm afraid I can't do that very well. Mr Hill's getting married too, so that I'm more or less busy here."

  "What, your old partner?"

  "Yes, and after him Ada to Chapman."

  "So I heard. How about August? Not September, that's almost certainly the by-election. But come in August and see us through that awful Park v. Village cricket match."

  "Thanks, I probably could. You had better write nearer the time."

  "Oh, of course. By the way, Anne has a hundred pounds in her pocket. Will you invest it for her?"

  "Certainly. What does she fancy?"

  "You'd better choose. She's not allowed to fancy more than four per cent."

  Maurice quoted a few securities.

  "I'd like the last one," said Anne's voice. "I didn't catch its name."

  "You'll see it on the Contract Note. What's your address, please?"

  She informed him.

  "All right. Send the cheque when you hear from us. Perhaps I'd better ring off and buy at once."

  He did so. Their intercourse was to run on these lines. How­ever pleasant Clive and his wife were to him, he always felt that they stood at the other end of the telephone wire. After lunch he chose their wedding present. His instinct was to give a thumper, but since he was only eighth on the list of the
bride-

  groom's friends, this would seem out of place. While paying three guineas he caught sight of himself in the glass behind the counter. What a solid young citizen he looked—quiet, honoura­ble, prosperous without vulgarity. On such does England rely. Was it conceivable that on Sunday last he had nearly assaulted a boy?

  31 As the spring wore away, he decided to consult a doc-tor. The decision—most alien to his temperament— was forced on him by a hideous experience in the train. He had been brooding in an ill-conditioned way, and his expression aroused the suspicions and the hopes of the only other person in the carriage. This person, stout and greasy-faced, made a las-civous sign, and, off his guard, Maurice responded. Next mo­ment both rose to their feet. The other man smiled, whereupon Maurice knocked him down. Which was hard on the man, who was elderly and whose nose streamed with blood over the cushions, and the harder because he was now consumed with fear and thought Maurice would pull the alarm cord. He splut­tered apologies, offered money. Maurice stood over him, black-browed, and saw in this disgusting and dishonourable old age his own.

  He loathed the idea of a doctor, but he had failed to kill lust single-handed. As crude as in his boyhood, it was many times as strong, and raged in his empty soul. He might "keep away from young men", as he had naively resolved, but he could not keep away from their images, and hourly committed sin in his heart. Any punishment was preferable, for he assumed a doctor would punish him. He could undergo any course of treatment on the chance of being cured, and even if he wasn't he would be occu­pied and have fewer minutes for brooding.

  Whom should he consult? Young Jowitt was the only doctor he knew well, and the day after that railway journey he man­aged to remark to him in casual tones, "I say, in your rounds here, do you come across unspeakables of the Oscar Wilde sort?" But Jowitt replied. "No, that's in the asylum work, thank God," which was discouraging, and perhaps it might be better to consult someone whom he should never see again. He thought of specialists, but did not know whether there were any for his disease, nor whether they would keep faith if he confided in them. On all other subjects he could command advice, but on this, which touched him daily, civilization was silent.

  In the end he braved a visit to Dr Barry. He knew he should have a bad time, but the old man, though a bully and a tease, was absolutely trustworthy, and had been better disposed to him since his civilities to Dickie. They were in no sense friends, which made it easier, and he went so seldom to the house that it would make little difference were he forbidden it for ever.

  He went on a cold evening in May. Spring had turned into a mockery, and a wretched summer was expected also. It was exactly three years since he had come here under balmy skies, to receive his lecture about Cambridge, and his heart beat quicker, remembering how severe the old man had been then. He found him in an agreeable mood, playing bridge with his daughter and wife, and urgent that Maurice should make a fourth in their party.

  "I'm afraid I want to speak to you, sir," he said with an emo­tion so intense that he felt he should never accomplish the real words at all.

  "Well, speak away."

  "I mean professionally."

  "Lord, man, I've retired from practice for the last six years. You go to Jericho or Jowitt. Sit down, Maurice. Glad to see you,

  shouldn't have guessed you were dying. Polly! Whisky for this fading flower."

  Maurice remained standing, then turned away so oddly that Dr Barry followed him into the hall and said, "Hi, Maurice, can I seriously do anything for you?"

  "I should think you can!"

  "I've not even a consulting-room."

  "It's an illness too awfully intimate for Jowitt—I'd rather come to you—you're the only doctor alive I dare tell. Once before I said to you I hoped I'd learn to speak out. It's about that"

  "A secret trouble, eh? Well, come along."

  They went into the dining-room, which was still strewn with dessert. The Venus de Medici in bronze stood on the mantel­piece, copies of Greuze hung on the walls. Maurice tried to speak and failed, poured out some water, failed again, and broke into a fit of sobbing.

  "Take your time," said the old man quite kindly, "and remem­ber of course that this is professional. Nothing you say will ever reach your mother's ears."

  The ugliness of the interview overcame him. It was like being back in the train. He wept at the hideousness into which he had been forced, he who had meant to tell no one but Clive. Unable to say the right words, he muttered, "It's about women—"

  Dr Barry leapt to a conclusion—indeed he had been there ever since they spoke in the hall. He had had a touch of trouble himself when young, which made him sympathetic about it. "We'll soon fix that up," he said.

  Maurice stopped his tears before more than a few had issued, and felt the rest piled in an agonizing bar across his brain. "Oh, fix me for God's sake," he said, and sank into a chair, arms hang­ing. "I'm close on done for."

  "Ah, women! How well I remember when you spouted on the platform at school. . . the year my poor brother died it was . . . you gaped at some master's wife . . . he's a lot to learn and life's a hard school, I remember thinking. Only women can teach us and there bad women as well as good. Dear, dear!" He cleared his throat. "Well, boy, don't be afraid of me. Only tell me the truth, and I'll get you well. When did you catch the beastly thing? At the Varsity?"

  Maurice did not understand. Then his brow went damp. "It's nothing as filthy as that," he said explosively. "In my own rotten way I've kept clean."

  Dr Barry seemed offended. He locked the door, saying, "Im­potent, eh? Let's have a look," rather contemptuously.

  Maurice stripped, throwing the garments from him in a rage. He had been insulted as he had insulted Ada.

  "You're all right," was the verdict.

  "What d'ye mean, sir, by all right?"

  "What I say. You're a clean man. Nothing to worry about here."

  He sat down by the fire, and, dulled though he was to impres­sions, Dr Barry noted the pose. It wasn't artistic, yet it could have been called superb. He sat in his usual position, and his body as well as his face seemed gazing indomitably at the flames. He wasn't going to knuckle under—somehow he gave that im­pression. He might be slow and clumsy, but if once he got what he wanted he would hold to it till Heaven and Earth blushed crimson.

  "You're all right," repeated the other. "You can marry tomor­row if you like, and if you take an old man's advice you will. Cover up now, it's so draughty. What put all this into your head?"

  "So you've never guessed," he said, with a touch of scorn in

  his terror. "I'm an unspeakable of the Oscar Wilde sort." His eyes closed, and driving clenched fists against them he sat motionless, having appealed to Caesar.

  At last judgement came. He could scarcely believe his ears. It was "Rubbish, rubbish!" He had expected many things, but not this; for if his words were rubbish his life was a dream.

  "Dr Barry, I can't have explained—"

  "Now listen to me, Maurice, never let that evil hallucination, that temptation from the devil, occur to you again."

  The voice impressed him, and was not Science speaking?

  "Who put that he into your head? You whom I see and know to be a decent fellow! We'll never mention it again. No-^-ril not discuss. I'll not discuss. The worst thing I could do for you is to discuss it."

  "I want advice," said Maurice, struggling against the over­whelming manner. "It's not rubbish to me, but my life."

  "Rubbish," came the voice authoritatively.

  "I've been like this ever since I can remember without know­ing why. What is it? Am I diseased? If I am, I want to be cured, I can't put up with the loneliness any more, the last six months specially. Anything you tell me, I'll do. That's all. You must help me."

  He fell back into his original position, gazing body and soul into the fire.

  "Come! Dress yourself."

  "I'm sorry," he murmured, and obeyed. Then Dr Barry unlocked the door and called, "Polly!
Whisky!" The consulta­tion was over.

  32 Dr Barry had given the best advice he could. He had read no scientific works on Maurice's subject. None had existed when he walked the hospitals, and any published since were in German, and therefore suspect. Averse to it by temperament, he endorsed the verdict of society gladly; that is to say, his verdict was theological. He held that only the most depraved could glance at Sodom, and so, when a man of good antecedents and physique confessed the tendency, "Rubbish, rubbish!" was his natural reply. He was quite sincere. He be­lieved that Maurice had heard some remark by chance, which had generated morbid thoughts, and that the contemptuous silence of a medical man would at once dispel them.

  And Maurice went away not unimpressed. Dr Barry was a great name at home. He had twice saved Kitty and had attended Mr Hall through his last illness, and he was so honest and in­dependent and never said what he did not feel. He had been their ultimate authority for nearly twenty years—seldom ap­pealed to, but known to exist and to judge righteousness, and now that he pronounced "rubbish", Maurice wondered whether it might not be rubbish, though every fibre in him protested. He hated Dr Barry's mind; to tolerate prostitution struck him as beastly. Yet he respected it and went away inclined for another argument with destiny.

  He was the more inclined for a reason that he could not tell

  to the doctor. Clive had turned towards women soon after he reached the age of twenty-four. He himself would be twenty-four in August. Was it possible that he would turn also . . . and now that he came to think, few men married before twenty-four. Maurice had the Englishman's inability to conceive variety. His troubles had taught him that other people are alive, but not yet that they are different, and he attempted to regard Clive's devel­opment as a forerunner of his own.