No More Learning

Ravelston made
various attempts to get in touch with him. It was a curious fact — rather a shameful fact
from a Socialist’s point of view — that the thought of Gordon, who had brains and was of
gentle birth, lurking in that vile place and that almost menial job, worried him more than
the thought of ten thousand unemployed in Middlesbrough. Several times, in hope of
cheering Gordon up, he wrote asking him to send contributions to Antichrist. Gordon
never answered. The friendship was at an end, it seemed to him. The evil time when he
had lived on Ravelston had spoiled everything. Charity kills friendship.

And then there were Julia and Rosemary. They differed from Ravelston in this, that they
had no shyness about speaking their minds. They did not say euphemistically that Gordon
was ‘right in principle’; they knew that to refuse a ‘good’ job can never be right. Over
and over again they besought him to go back to the New Albion. The worst was that he
had both of them in pursuit of him together. Before this business they had never met, but
now Rosemary had got to know Julia somehow. They were in feminine league against
him. They used to get together and talk about the ‘maddening’ way in which Gordon was



behaving. It was the only thing they had in common, their feminine rage against his
‘maddening’ behaviour. Simultaneously and one after the other, by letter and by word of
mouth, they harried him. It was unbearable.

Thank God, neither of them had seen his room at Mother Meakin’s yet. Rosemary might
have endured it, but the sight of that filthy attic would have been almost the death of
Julia. They had been round to see him at the library, Rosemary a number of times, Julia
once, when she could make a pretext to get away from the teashop. Even that was bad
enough. It dismayed them to see what a mean, dreary little place the library was. The job
at McKechnie’s, though wretchedly paid, had not been the kind of job that you need
actually be ashamed of. It brought Gordon into touch with cultivated people; seeing that
he was a ‘writer’ himself, it might conceivably ‘lead to something’. But here, in a street
that was almost a slum, serving out yellow-jacketed trash at thirty bob a week — what
hope was there in a job like that? It was just a derelict’s job, a blind-alley job. Evening
after evening, walking up and down the dreary misty street after the library was shut,
Gordon and Rosemary argued about it. She kept on and on at him. WOULD he go back
to the New Albion? WHY wouldn’t he go back to the New Albion? He always told her
that the New Albion wouldn’t take him back. After all, he hadn’t applied for the job and
there was no knowing whether he could get it; he preferred to keep it uncertain. There
was something about him now that dismayed and frightened her. He seemed to have
changed and deteriorated so suddenly. She divined, though he did not speak to her about
it, that desire of his to escape from all effort and all decency, to sink down, down into the
ultimate mud. It was not only from money but from life itself that he was turning away.
They did not argue now as they had argued in the old days before Gordon had lost his
job. In those days she had not paid much attention to his preposterous theories. His
tirades against the money-morality had been a kind of joke between them. And it had
hardly seemed to matter that time was passing and that Gordon’s chance of earning a
decent living was infinitely remote. She had still thought of herself as a young girl and of
the future as limitless. She had watched him fling away two years of his life — two years
of HER life, for that matter; and she would have felt it ungenerous to protest.

But now she was growing frightened. Time’s winged chariot was hurrying near. When
Gordon lost his job she had suddenly realized, with the sense of making a startling
discovery, that after all she was no longer very young. Gordon’s thirtieth birthday was



past; her own was not far distant. And what lay ahead of them? Gordon was sinking
effortless into grey, deadly failure. He seemed to WANT to sink. What hope was there
that they could ever get married now? Gordon knew that she was right. The situation was
impossible. And so the thought, unspoken as yet, grew gradually in both their minds that
they would have to part — for good.

One night they were to meet under the railway arches. It was a horrible January night; no
mist, for once, only a vile wind that screeched round comers and flung dust and tom
paper into your face. He waited for her, a small slouching figure, shabby almost to
raggedness, his hair blown about by the wind. She was punctual, as usual. She ran
towards him, pulled his face down, and kissed his cold cheek.

‘Gordon, dear, how cold you are! Why did you come out without an overcoat? ’

‘My overcoat’s up the spout. I thought you knew. ’

‘Oh, dear! Yes. ’

She looked up at him, a small frown between her black brows. He looked so haggard, so
despondent, there in the ill-lit archway, his face full of shadows. She wound her arm
through his and pulled him out into the light.

‘Let’s keep walking. It’s too cold to stand about. I’ve got something serious I want to say
to you. ’

‘What? ’

‘I expect you’ll be very angry with me. ’


‘What is it? ’


‘This afternoon I went and saw Mr Erskine. I asked leave to speak to him for a few
minutes. ’

He knew what was coming. He tried to free his arm from hers, but she held on to it.


‘Well? ’ he said sulkily.



‘I spoke to him about you. I asked him if he’d take you back. Of course he said trade was
bad and they couldn’t afford to take on new staff and all that. But I reminded him of what
he’d said to you, and he said, Yes, he’d always thought you were very promising. And in
the end he said he’d be quite ready to find a job for you if you’d come back. So you see I
WAS right. They WILL give you the job. ’

He did not answer. She squeezed his arm. ‘So NOW what do you think about it? ’ she
said.

‘You know what I think,’ he said coldly.

Secretly he was alarmed and angry. This was what he had been fearing. He had known all
along that she would do it sooner or later. It made the issue more definite and his own
blame clearer. He slouched on, his hands still in his coat pockets, letting her cling to his
ann but not looking towards her.

‘You’re angry with me? ’ she said.

‘No, I’m not. But I don’t see why you had to do it — behind my back. ’

That wounded her. She had had to plead very hard before she had managed to extort that
promise from Mr Erskine. And it had needed all her courage to beard the managing
director in his den. She had been in deadly fear that she might be sacked for doing it. But
she wasn’t going to tell Gordon anything of that.

‘I don’t think you ought to say BEHIND YOUR BACK. After all, I was only trying to
help you. ’

‘How does it help me to get the offer of a job I wouldn’t touch with a stick? ’

‘You mean you won’t go back, even now? ’

‘Never. ’

‘Why? ’


‘MUST we go into it again? ’ he said wearily.



She squeezed his arm with all her strength and pulled him round, making him face her.
There was a kind of desperation in the way she clung to him. She had made her last effort
and it had failed. It was as though she could feel him receding, fading away from her like
a ghost.

‘You’ll break my heart if you go on like this,’ she said.

‘I wish you wouldn’t trouble about me. It would be so much simpler if you didn’t. ’

‘But why do you have to throw your life away? ’

‘I tell you I can’t help it. I’ve got to stick to my guns. ’

‘You know what this will mean? ’

With a chill at his heart, and yet with a feeling of resignation, even of relief, he said:
‘You mean we shall have to part — not see each other again? ’

They had walked on, and now they emerged into the Westminster Bridge Road. The wind
met them with a scream, whirling at them a cloud of dust that made both of them duck
their heads. They halted again. Her small face was full of lines, and the cold wind and the
cold lamplight did not improve it.

‘You want to get rid of me,’ he said.

‘No. No. It’s not exactly that. ’

‘But you feel we ought to part. ’

‘How can we go on like this? ’ she said desolately.

‘It’s difficult, I admit. ’

‘It’s all so miserable, so hopeless! What can it ever lead to? ’


‘So you don’t love me after all? ’ he said.



‘I do, I do! You know I do. ’


‘In a way, perhaps. But not enough to go on loving me when it’s certain I’ll never have
the money to keep you. You’ll have me as a husband, but not as a lover. It’s still a
question of money, you see. ’

‘It is NOT money, Gordon! It’s NOT that. ’

‘Yes, it’s just money. There’s been money between us from the start. Money, always
money! ’

The scene continued, but not for very much longer. Both of them were shivering with
cold. There is no emotion that matters greatly when one is standing at a street corner in a
biting wind. When finally they parted it was with no irrevocable farewell. She simply
said, ‘I must get back,’ kissed him, and ran across the road to the tram-stop. Mainly with
relief he watched her go. He could not stop now to ask himself whether he loved her.
Simply he wanted to get away — away from the windy street, away from scenes and
emotional demands, back in the frowzy solitude of his attic. If there were tears in his eyes
it was only from the cold of the wind.

With Julia it was almost worse. She asked him to go and see her one evening. This was
after she had heard, from Rosemary, of Mr Erksine’s offer of a job. The dreadful thing
with Julia was that she understood nothing, absolutely nothing, of his motives. All she
understood was that a ‘good’ job had been offered him and that he had refused it. She
implored him almost on her knees not to throw this chance away. And when he told her
that his mind was made up, she wept, actually wept. That was dreadful. The poor goose-
like girl, with streaks of grey in her hair, weeping without grace or dignity in her little
Drage-furnished bed-sitting room! This was the death of all her hopes. She had watched
the family go down and down, moneyless and childless, into grey obscurity. Gordon
alone had had it in him to succeed; and he, from mad perverseness, would not. He knew
what she was thinking; he had to induce in himself a kind of brutality to stand firm. It
was only because of Rosemary and Julia that he cared. Ravelston did not matter, because
Ravelston understood. Aunt Angela and Uncle Walter, of course, were bleating weakly at
him in long, fatuous letters. But them he disregarded.



In desperation Julia asked him, what did he mean to DO now that he had flung away his
last chance of succeeding in life. He answered simply, ‘My poems. ’ He had said the same
to Rosemary and to Ravelston. With Ravelston the answer had sufficed. Rosemary had
no longer any belief in his poems, but she would not say so. As for Julia, his poems had
never at any time meant anything to her. ‘I don’t see much sense in writing if you can’t
make money out of it,’ was what she had always said. And he himself did not believe in
his poems any longer. But he still struggled to ‘write’, at least at times. Soon after he
changed his lodgings he had copied out on to clean sheets the completed portions of
London Pleasures — not quite four hundred lines, he discovered. Even the labour of
copying it out was a deadly bore. Yet he still worked on it occasionally; cutting out a line
here, altering another there, not making or even expecting to make any progress. Before
long the pages were as they had been before, a scrawled, grimy labyrinth of words. He
used to carry the wad of grimy manuscript about with him in his pocket. The feeling of it
there upheld him a little; after all it was a kind of achievement, demonstrable to himself
though to nobody else. There it was, sole product of two years — of a thousand hours’
work, it might be. He had no feeling for it any longer as a poem. The whole concept of
poetry was meaningless to him now. It was only that if London Pleasures were ever
finished it would be something snatched from fate, a thing created OUTSIDE the money-
world. But he knew, far more clearly than before, that it never would be finished. How
was it possible that any creative impulse should remain to him, in the life he was living
now?
As time went on, even the desire to finish London Pleasures vanished. He still
carried the manuscript about in his pocket; but it was only a gesture, a symbol of his
private war. He had finished for ever with that futile dream of being a ‘writer’. After all,
was not that too a species of ambition? He wanted to get away from all that, BELOW all
that. Down, down! Into the ghost-kingdom, out of the reach of hope, out of the reach of
fear! Under ground, under ground! That was where he wished to be.

Yet in a way it was not so easy. One night about nine he was lying on his bed, with the
ragged counterpane over his feet, his hands under his head to keep them wann. The fire
was out. The dust was thick on everything. The aspidistra had died a week ago and was
withering upright in its pot. He slid a shoeless foot from under the counterpane, held it
up, and looked at it. His sock was full of holes — there were more holes than sock. So here
he lay, Gordon Comstock, in a slum attic on a ragged bed, with his feet sticking out of his
socks, with one and fourpence in the world, with three decades behind him and nothing,



nothing accomplished! Surely NOW he was past redemption? Surely, try as they would,
they couldn’t prise him out of a hole like this? He had wanted to reach the mud — well,
this was the mud, wasn’t it?

Yet he knew that it was not so. That other world, the world of money and success, is
always so strangely near. You don’t escape it merely by taking refuge in dirt and misery.
He had been frightened as well as angry when Rosemary told him about Mr Erskine’s
offer. It brought the danger so close to him. A letter, a telephone message, and from this
squalor he could step straight back into the money-world — back to four quid a week,
back to effort and decency and slavery. Going to the devil isn’t so easy as it sounds.
Sometimes your salvation hunts you down like the Hound of Heaven.

For a while he lay in an almost mindless state, gazing at the ceiling. The utter futility of
just lying there, dirty and cold, comforted him a little. But presently he was roused by a
light tap at the door. He did not stir. It was Mother Meakin, presumably, though it did not
sound like her knock.

‘Come in,’ he said.

The door opened. It was Rosemary.

She stepped in, and then stopped as the dusty sweetish smell of the room caught her.
Even in the bad light of the lamp she could see the state of filth the room was in — the
litter of food and papers on the table, the grate full of cold ashes, the foul crocks in the
fender, the dead aspidistra. As she came slowly towards the bed she pulled her hat off and
threw it on to the chair.

‘WHAT a place for you to live in! ’ she said.

‘So you’ve come back? ’ he said.

‘Yes. ’

He turned a little away from her, his arm over his face. ‘Come back to lecture me some
more, I suppose? ’



‘No. ’


‘Then why? ’

‘Because — ’

She had knelt down beside the bed. She pulled his arm away, put her face forward to kiss
him, then drew back, surprised, and began to stroke the hair over his temple with the tips
of her fingers.

‘Oh, Gordon! ’

‘What? ’

‘You’ve got grey in your hair! ’

‘Have I? Where? ’

‘Here — over the temple. There’s quite a little patch of it. It must have happened all of a
sudden. ’

“‘My golden locks time hath to silver turned,”’ he said indifferently.

‘So we’re both going grey,’ she said.

She bent her head to show him the three white hairs on her crown. Then she wriggled
herself on to the bed beside him, put an arm under him, pulled him towards her, covered
his face with kisses. He let her do it. He did not want this to happen — it was the very
thing that he least wanted. But she had wriggled herself beneath him; they were breast to
breast. Her body seemed to melt into his. By the expression of her face he knew what had
brought her here. After all, she was virgin. She did not know what she was doing. It was
magnanimity, pure magnanimity, that moved her. His wretchedness had drawn her back
to him. Simply because he was penniless and a failure she had got to yield to him, even if
it was only once.


‘I had to come back,’ she said.



‘Why? ’


‘I couldn’t bear to think of you here alone. It seemed so awful, leaving you like that. ’

‘You did quite right to leave me. You’d much better not have come back. You know we
can’t ever get married. ’

‘I don’t care. That isn’t how one behaves to people one loves. I don’t care whether you
marry me or not. I love you. ’

‘This isn’t wise,’ he said.

‘I don’t care. I wish I’d done it years ago. ’

‘We’d much better not. ’

‘Yes. ’

‘No. ’


‘Yes! ’


After all, she was too much for him. He had wanted her so long, and he could not stop to
weigh the consequences. So it was done at last, without much pleasure, on Mother
Meakin’s dingy bed. Presently Rosemary got up and rearranged her clothes. The room,
though stuffy, was dreadfully cold. They were both shivering a little. She pulled the
coverlet further over Gordon. He lay without stirring, his back turned to her, his face
hidden against his arm. She knelt down beside the bed, took his other hand, and laid it for
a moment against her cheek. He scarcely noticed her. Then she shut the door quietly
behind her and tiptoed down the bare, evil-smelling stairs. She felt dismayed,
disappointed, and very cold.



Chapter 11

Spring, spring! Bytuene Mershe ant Averil, when spray biginneth to spring! When shaws
be sheene and swards full fayre, and leaves both large and longe! When the hounds of
spring are on winter’s traces, in the spring time, the only pretty ring time, when the birds
do sing, hey-ding-a-ding ding, cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-wee, ta-witta-woo! And so on and so
on and so on. See almost any poet between the Bronze Age and 1805.

But how absurd that even now, in the era of central heating and tinned peaches, a
thousand so-called poets are still writing in the same strain! For what difference does
spring or winter or any other time of year make to the average civilized person
nowadays? In a town like London the most striking seasonal change, apart from the mere
change of temperature, is in the things you see lying about on the pavement. In late
winter it is mainly cabbage leaves. In July you tread on cherry stones, in November on
bumt-out fireworks. Towards Christmas the orange peel grows thicker. It was a different
matter in the Middle Ages. There was some sense in writing poems about spring when
spring meant fresh meat and green vegetables after months of frowsting in some
windowless hut on a diet of salt fish and mouldy bread.

If it was spring Gordon failed to notice it. March in Lambeth did not remind you of
Persephone. The days grew longer, there were vile dusty winds and sometimes in the sky
patches of harsh blue appeared. Probably there were a few sooty buds on the trees if you
cared to look for them. The aspidistra, it turned out, had not died after all; the withered
leaves had dropped off it, but it was putting forth a couple of dull green shoots near its
base.

Gordon had been three months at the library now. The stupid slovenly routine did not irk
him. The library had swelled to a thousand ‘assorted titles’ and was bringing Mr
Cheeseman a pound a week clear profit, so Mr Cheeseman was happy after his fashion.
He was, nevertheless, nurturing a secret grudge against Gordon. Gordon had been sold to
him, so to speak, as a drunkard. He had expected Gordon to get drunk and miss a day’s
work at least once, thus giving a sufficient pretext for docking his wages; but Gordon had
failed to get drunk. Queerly enough, he had no impulse to drink nowadays. He would
have gone without beer even if he could have afforded it. Tea seemed a better poison. All
his desires and discontents had dwindled. He was better off on thirty bob a week than he



had been previously on two pounds. The thirty bob covered, without too much stretching,
his rent, cigarettes, a washing bill of about a shilling a week, a little fuel, and his meals,
which consisted almost entirely of bacon, bread-and-marg, and tea, and cost about two
bob a day, gas included. Sometimes he even had sixpence over for a seat at a cheap but
lousy picture-house near the Westminster Bridge Road. He still carried the grimy
manuscript of London Pleasures to and fro in his pocket, but it was from mere force of
habit; he had dropped even the pretence of working. All his evenings were spent in the
same way. There in the remote frowzy attic, by the fire if there was any coal left, in bed if
there wasn’t, with teapot and cigarettes handy, reading, always reading. He read nothing
nowadays except twopenny weekly papers. Tit Bits, Answers, Peg’s Paper, The Gem,
The Magnet, Home Notes, The Girl’s Own Paper — they were all the same. He used to get
them a dozen at a time from the shop. Mr Cheeseman had great dusty stacks of them, left
over from his uncle’s day and used for wrapping paper. Some of them were as much as
twenty years old.

He had not seen Rosemary for weeks past. She had written a number of times and then,
for some reason, abruptly stopped writing. Ravelston had written once, asking him to
contribute an article on twopenny libraries to Antichrist. Julia had sent a desolate little
letter, giving family news. Aunt Angela had had bad colds all the winter, and Uncle
Walter was complaining of bladder trouble. Gordon did not answer any of their letters.
He would have forgotten their existence if he could. They and their affection were only
an encumbrance. He would not be free, free to sink down into the ultimate mud, till he
had cut his li nk s with all of them, even with Rosemary.

One afternoon he was choosing a book for a tow-headed factory girl, when someone he
only saw out of the corner of his eye came into the library and hesitated just inside the
door.

‘What kind of book did you want? ’ he asked the factory girl.

‘Oo — jest a kind of a ROmance, please. ’

Gordon selected a ROmance. As he turned, his heart bounded violently. The person who
had just come in was Rosemary. She did not make any sign, but stood waiting, pale, and
worried-looking, with something ominous in her appearance.



He sat down to enter the book on the girl’s ticket, but his hands had begun trembling so
that he could hardly do it. He pressed the rubber stamp in the wrong place. The girl
trailed out, peeping into the book as she went. Rosemary was watching Gordon’s face. It
was a long time since she had seen him by daylight, and she was struck by the change in
him. He was shabby to the point of raggedness, his face had grown much thinner and had
the dingy, greyish pallor of people who live on bread and margarine. He looked much
older — thirty-five at the least. But Rosemary herself did not look quite as usual. She had
lost her gay trim bearing, and her clothes had the appearance of having been thrown on in
a hurry. It was obvious that there was something wrong.

He shut the door after the factory girl. ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ he began.

‘I had to come. I got away from the studio at lunch time. I told them I was ill. ’

‘You don’t look well. Here, you’d better sit down. ’

There was only one chair in the library. He brought it out from behind the desk and was
moving towards her, rather vaguely, to offer some kind of caress. Rosemary did not sit
down, but laid her small hand, from which she had removed the glove, on the top rung of
the chair-back. By the pressure of her lingers he could see how agitated she was.

‘Gordon, I’ve a most awful thing to tell you. It’s happened after all. ’

‘What’s happened? ’

‘I’m going to have a baby. ’

‘A baby? Oh, Christ! ’

He stopped short. For a moment he felt as though someone had struck him a violent blow
under the ribs. He asked the usual fatuous question:

‘Are you sure? ’


‘Absolutely. It’s been weeks now. If you knew the time I’ve had! I kept hoping and
hoping — I took some pills — oh, it was too beastly! ’



‘A baby! Oh, God, what fools we were! As though we couldn’t have foreseen it! ’

‘I know. I suppose it was my fault. I — ’

‘Damn! Here comes somebody. ’

The door-bell ping’d.