A Symposium Of Our Own | Maurice

1. Escape

There was never a night of restlessness for Maurice Hall until the night he met Clive Durham. Confident yet calculated in his words, a feat Maurice has yet to perfect. Had he known about Risley going to debate the Union, he wouldn't have been introduced to Durham. For once, he was almost thankful for that. He tosses and turns in his single bed in the dorm provided to all the students at Cambridge. He thinks back to what happened just earlier.

The pianola is playing Tchaikovsky's Pathetique Symphony, also known as Symphony No. 6, the final one. He thought it was catchy; Durham thought it was entrancing.

It was his last work, Hall. What part of that isn't beautiful? Durham says over the music, holding an apple. Maurice grabs the apple and takes the first bite. Durham shoots him a look and takes it back, also taking a bite. Maybe it wasn't just catchy. 

He can't sleep. How does one sleep when pulled down to the earth with such an awareness of his own confusion? He won't sleep, then, not tonight. He faces the dormitory window, wide open for the wind to come in. The moon is ever so bright and round tonight. After a good minute of staring relentlessly at the moon who now hides behind strays of clouds, he falls asleep.

The next morning went by quick for Maurice. He attended all his lectures as usual. He also met Risley.

"How come you didn't say you were not going to be at your room last night?" Maurice mentions after a lecture on Plato's The Republic. They'll be covering The Symposium next week. The group walks down the steps and leaves Maurice and Risley alone.

Risley turns around and smiles, papers clutched in arms. "I forgot. Maybe next time? How about tonight?"

A hand rests on Maurice's shoulder. "Actually, I'm with him for the night. Tomorrow maybe, Risley?" Durham appears in a box-shaped jacket with a fitted high waist, contrary to the draped uniform given to the students.

"Clive! And what are you dressed for?" Risley addresses the fit.

"Well, Hall and I are going out of campus for the afternoon. We'll be back in time for dinner, don't worry." He lets go of his hand on Maurice's shoulder.

"Then you'll have to bother me some other time then, Hall," Risley stares at Maurice before saying goodbye to both of them.

Clive Durham shoves his hands into the pockets of his jackets. "Do you think...I could become an actor?" He says softly with a grave look before looking at Maurice and bursting into a laugh of modest pride at his own humor. Pride was never modest, but somehow Durham made it happen.

Maurice hits him on the chest teasingly with The Republic, but Durham grabs hold of the book. "The Republic, I see. You'll be reading The Symposium very soon if I recall my second year correctly?"

"We will. What about?" Maurice asks, taking back the book.

"The likes. I won't spoil it for you, but I think it's worth noting that some ideas there wouldn't survive in our time now." Durham has a change of tone, sullen yet still thinking deeply. Maurice catches onto this and doesn't want to bother him.

"To where now?"

Durham fixes his hair and latches to Maurice by the arm once more. "Of course, out!"

They manage to leave campus without the dean seeing them. Maurice feels a sense of liberation the moment they start seeing the lush green hills and the faint fragrance of dirt and flowing water and wildflowers get more prominent. He could feel the wind blowing against his face. Kitty and Ada would look down at this sort of living -- sneaking out and letting secrets go by.

They reach a spot under a willow tree. There were only the green hills that rolled endlessly as their eyes could see. They sit down on the soft grass, the blades bending down flat. Clive Durham was first to lay down in the grass, accidentally bumping his head against Maurice's elbow gently.

"Lie down, would you, Hall? It's awfully lonely here in the grass." Durham invites jokingly, unbuttoning his jacket and loosening his tie before using his arm to rest himself on it. 

Maurice was uncertain now. What was he doing? Sneaking past school gates. And for what? To sit and lay down in a meadow and listen to the birds chirping and the grass hit each other as the winds of spring breeze past them. He loved it still, but he knew it was wrong. So, so wrong.