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 mo-ment 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 splut-tered 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 occu-pied 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 man-aged 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 emo-tion 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 mantel-piece, 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 remem-ber 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 hang-ing. "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, "Im-potent, 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 impres-sions, 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 im-pression. 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 tomor-row 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 over-whelming 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 know-ing 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 consulta-tion was over.
r