No More Learning

‘You’ve had dinner, I gather? ’ said Ravelston, in his rather Bloomsbury voice.

‘Yes, ages ago. Haven’t you? ’

‘Oh, yes, certainly. Oh, quite! ’

It was twenty past eight and Gordon had had no food since midday. Neither had
Ravelston. Gordon did not know that Ravelston was hungry, but Ravelston knew that
Gordon was hungry, and Gordon knew that Ravelston knew it. Nevertheless, each saw
good reason for pretending not to be hungry. They seldom or never had meals together.
Gordon would not let Ravelston buy his meals for him, and for himself he could not



afford to go to restaurants, not even to a Lyons or an A. B. C. This was Monday and he
had five and ninepence left. He might afford a couple of pints at a pub, but not a proper
meal. When he and Ravelston met it was always agreed, with silent manoeuvrings, that
they should do nothing that involved spending money, beyond the shilling or so one
spends in a pub. In this way the fiction was kept up that there was no serious difference in
their incomes.

Gordon sidled closer to Ravelston as they started down the pavement. He would have
taken his arm, only of course one can’t do that kind of thing. Beside Ravelston’s taller,
comelier figure he looked frail, fretful, and miserably shabby. He adored Ravelston and
was never quite at ease in his presence. Ravelston had not merely a charm of manner, but
also a kind of fundamental decency, a graceful attitude to life, which Gordon scarcely
encountered elsewhere. Undoubtedly it was bound up with the fact that Ravelston was
rich. For money buys all virtues. Money suffereth long and is kind, is not puffed up, doth
not behave unseemly, seeketh not her own. But in some ways Ravelston was not even
like a moneyed person. The fatty degeneration of the spirit which goes with wealth had
missed him, or he had escaped it by a conscious effort. Indeed his whole life was a
struggle to escape it. It was for this reason that he gave up his time and a large part of his
income to editing an unpopular Socialist monthly. And apart from Antichrist, money
flowed from him in all directions. A tribe of cadgers ranging from poets to pavement-
artists browsed upon him unceasingly. For himself he lived upon eight hundred a year or
thereabouts. Even of this income he was acutely ashamed. It was not, he realized, exactly
a proletarian income; but he had never learned to get along on less. Eight hundred a year
was a minimum living wage to him, as two pounds a week was to Gordon.

‘How is your work getting on? ’ said Ravelston presently.

‘Oh, as usual. It’s a drowsy kind of job. Swapping back-chat with old hens about Hugh
Walpole. I don’t object to it. ’

‘I meant your own work — your writing. Is London Pleasures getting on all right? ’

‘Oh, Christ! Don’t speak of it. It’s turning my hair grey. ’


‘Isn’t it going forward at all? ’



‘My books don’t go forward. They go backward. ’


Ravelston sighed. As editor of Antichrist, he was used to encouraging despondent poets
that it had become a second nature to him. He did not need telling why Gordon ‘couldn’t’
write, and why all poets nowadays ‘can’t’ write, and why when they do write it is
something as arid as the rattling of a pea inside a big drum. He said with sympathetic
gloom:

‘Of course I admit this isn’t a hopeful age to write poetry in. ’

‘You bet it isn’t. ’

Gordon kicked his heel against the pavement. He wished that London Pleasures had not
been mentioned. It brought back to him the memory of his mean, cold bedroom and the
grimy papers littered under the aspidistra. He said abruptly:

‘This writing business! What b — s it all is! Sitting in a corner torturing a nerve which
won’t even respond any longer. And who wants poetry nowadays? Training performing
fleas would be more useful by comparison. ’

‘Still, you oughtn’t to let yourself be discouraged. After all, you do produce something,
which is more than one can say for a lot of poets nowadays. There was Mice, for
instance. ’

‘Oh, Mice! It makes me spew to think of it. ’

He thought with loathing of that sneaky little foolscap octavo. Those forty or fifty drab,
dead little poems, each like a little abortion in its labelled jar. ‘Exceptional promise’, The
Times Lit. Supp. had said. A hundred and fifty-three copies sold and the rest
remaindered. He had one of those movements of contempt and even horror which every
artist has at times when he thinks of his own work.

‘It’s dead,’ he said. ‘Dead as a blasted foetus in a bottle. ’

‘Oh, well, I suppose that happens to most books. You can’t expect an enormous sale for
poetry nowadays. There’s too much competition. ’



‘I didn’t mean that. I meant the poems themselves are dead. There’s no life in them.
Everything I write is like that. Lifeless, gutless. Not necessarily ugly or vulgar; but
dead — just dead. ’ The word ‘dead’ re-echoed in his mind, setting up its own train of
thought. He added: ‘My poems are dead because I’m dead. You’re dead. We’re all dead.
Dead people in a dead world. ’

Ravelston murmured agreement, with a curious air of guilt. And now they were off upon
their favourite subject — Gordon’s favourite subject, anyway; the futility, the bloodiness,
the deathliness of modern life. They never met without talking for at least half an hour in
this vein. But it always made Ravelston feel rather uncomfortable. In a way, of course, he
knew — it was precisely this that Antichrist existed to point out — that life under a
decaying capitalism is deathly and meaningless. But this knowledge was only theoretical.
You can’t really feel that kind of thing when your income is eight hundred a year. Most
of the time, when he wasn’t thinking of coal-miners, Chinese junk-coolies, and the
unemployed in Middlesbrough, he felt that life was pretty good fun. Moreover, he had the
naive belief that in a little while Socialism is going to put things right. Gordon always
seemed to him to exaggerate. So there was subtle disagreement between them, which
Ravelston was too good-mannered to press home.

But with Gordon it was different. Gordon’s income was two pounds a week. Therefore
the hatred of modem life, the desire to see our money-civilization blown to hell by
bombs, was a thing he genuinely felt. They were walking southward, down a darkish,
meanly decent residential street with a few shuttered shops. From a hoarding on the blank
end of a house the yard-wide face of Corner Table simpered, pallid in the lamplight.
Gordon caught a glimpse of a withering aspidistra in a lower window. London! Mile after
mile of mean lonely houses, let off in flats and single rooms; not homes, not
communities, just clusters of meaningless lives drifting in a sort of drowsy chaos to the
grave! He saw men as corpses walking. The thought that he was merely objectifying his
own inner misery hardly troubled him. His mind went back to Wednesday afternoon,
when he had desired to hear the enemy aeroplanes zooming over London. He caught
Ravelston’s ann and paused to gesticulate at the Corner Table poster.

‘Look at that bloody thing up there! Look at it, just look at it! Doesn’t it make you
spew? ’



‘It’s aesthetically offensive, I grant. But I don’t see that it matters very greatly. ’


‘Of course it matters — having the town plastered with things like that. ’

‘Oh, well, it’s merely a temporary phenomenon. Capitalism in its last phase. I doubt
whether it’s worth worrying about. ’

‘But there’s more in it than that. Just look at that fellow’s face gaping down at us! You
can see our whole civilization written there. The imbecility, the emptiness, the
desolation! You can’t look at it without thinking of French letters and machine guns. Do
you know that the other day I was actually wishing war would break out? I was longing
for it — praying for it, almost. ’

‘Of course, the trouble is, you see, that about half the young men in Europe are wishing
the same thing. ’

‘Let’s hope they are. Then perhaps it’ll happen. ’

‘My dear old chap, no! Once is enough, surely. ’

Gordon walked on, fretfully. ‘This life we live nowadays! It’s not life, it’s stagnation,
death-in-life. Look at all these bloody houses, and the meaningless people inside them!
Sometimes I think we’re all corpses. Just rotting upright. ’

‘But where you make your mistake, don’t you see, is in talking as if all this was
incurable. This is only something that’s got to happen before the proletariat take over. ’

‘Oh, Socialism! Don’t talk to me about Socialism. ’

‘You ought to read Marx, Gordon, you really ought. Then you’d realize that this is only a
phase. It can’t go on for ever. ’

‘Can’t it? It FEELS as if it was going on for ever. ’

‘It’s merely that we’re at a bad moment. We’ve got to die before we can be reborn, if you
take my meaning. ’



‘We’re dying right enough. I don’t see much signs of our being reborn. ’


Ravelston rubbed his nose. ‘Oh, well, we must have faith, I suppose. And hope. ’

‘We must have money you mean,’ said Gordon gloomily.

‘Money? ’

‘It’s the price of optimism. Give me five quid a week and I’D be a Socialist, I dare say. ’

Ravelston looked away, discomforted. This money-business! Everywhere it came up
against you! Gordon wished he had not said it. Money is the one thing you must never
mention when you are with people richer than yourself. Or if you do, then it must be
money in the abstract, money with a big ‘M’, not the actual concrete money that’s in your
pocket and isn’t in mine. But the accursed subject drew him like a magnet. Sooner or
later, especially when he had a few drinks inside him, he invariably began talking with
self-pitiful detail about the bloodiness of life on two quid a week. Sometimes, from sheer
nervous impulse to say the wrong thing, he would come out with some squalid
confession — as, for instance, that he had been without tobacco for two days, or that his
underclothes were in holes and his overcoat up the spout. But nothing of that sort should
happen tonight, he resolved. They veered swiftly away from the subject of money and
began talking in a more general way about Socialism. Ravelston had been trying for years
to convert Gordon to Socialism, without even succeeding in interesting him in it.
Presently they passed a low-looking pub on a comer in a side-street. A sour cloud of beer
seemed to hang about it. The smell revolted Ravelston. He would have quickened his
pace to get away from it. But Gordon paused, his nostrils tickled.

‘Christ! I could do with a drink,’ he said.

‘So could I,’ said Ravelston gallantly.

Gordon shoved open the door of the public bar, Ravelston following. Ravelston
persuaded himself that he was fond of pubs, especially low-class pubs. Pubs are
genuinely proletarian. In a pub you can meet the working class on equal terms — or that’s
the theory, anyway. But in practice Ravelston never went into a pub unless he was with
somebody like Gordon, and he always felt like a fish out of water when he got there. A



foul yet coldish air enveloped them. It was a fdthy, smoky room, low-ceilinged, with a
sawdusted floor and plain deal tables ringed by generations of beer-pots. In one comer
four monstrous women with breasts the size of melons were sitting drinking porter and
talking with bitter intensity about someone called Mrs Croop. The landlady, a tall grim
woman with a black fringe, looking like the madame of a brothel, stood behind the bar,
her powerful forearms folded, watching a game of darts which was going on between
four labourers and a postman. You had to duck under the darts as you crossed the room,
there was a moment’s hush and people glanced inquisitively at Ravelston. He was so
obviously a gentleman. They didn’t see his type very often in the public bar.

Ravelston pretended not to notice that they were staring at him. He lounged towards the
bar, pulling off a glove to feel for the money in his pocket. ‘What’s yours? ’ he said
casually.

But Gordon had already shoved his way ahead and was tapping a shilling on the bar.
Always pay for the first round of drinks! It was his point of honour.
Ravelston made for
the only vacant table. A navvy leaning on the bar turned on his elbow and gave him a

long, insolent stare ‘A toff! ’ he was thinking. Gordon came back balancing two pint

glasses of the dark common ale. They were thick cheap glasses, thick as jamjars almost,
and dim and greasy. A thin yellow froth was subsiding on the beer. The air was thick
with gunpowdery tobacco-smoke. Ravelston caught sight of a well-filled spittoon near
the bar and averted his eyes. It crossed his mind that this beer had been sucked up from
some beetle-ridden cellar through yards of slimy tube, and that the glasses had never been
washed in their lives, only rinsed in beery water. Gordon was very hungry. He could have
done with some bread and cheese, but to order any would have been to betray the fact
that he had had no dinner. He took a deep pull at his beer and lighted a cigarette, which
made him forget his hunger a little. Ravelston also swallowed a mouthful or so and set
his glass gingerly down. It was typical London beer, sickly and yet leaving a chemical
after-taste. Ravelston thought of the wines of Burgundy. They went on arguing about
Socialism.

‘You know, Gordon, it’s really time you started reading Marx,’ said Ravelston, less
apologetically than usual, because the vile taste of the beer had annoyed him.



‘I’d sooner read Mrs Humphry Ward,’ said Gordon.


‘But don’t you see, your attitude is so unreasonable. You’re always tirading against
Capitalism, and yet you won’t accept the only possible alternative. One can’t put things
right in a hole-and-corner way. One’s got to accept either Capitalism or Socialism.
There’s no way out of it. ’

‘I tell you I can’t be bothered with Socialism. The very thought of it makes me yawn. ’

‘But what’s your objection to Socialism, anyway? ’

‘There’s only one objection to Socialism, and that is that nobody wants it. ’

‘Oh, surely it’s rather absurd to say that! ’

‘That’s to say, nobody who could see what Socialism would really mean. ’

‘But what WOULD Socialism mean, according to your idea of it? ’

‘Oh! Some kind of Aldous Huxley Brave New World: only not so amusing. Four hours a
day in a model factory, tightening up bolt number 6003. Rations served out in grease-
proof paper at the communal kitchen. Community-hikes from Marx Hostel to Lenin
Hostel and back. Free abortion-clinics on all the comers. All very well in its way, of
course. Only we don’ t want it. ’

Ravelston sighed. Once a month, in Antichrist, he repudiated this version of Socialism.
‘Well, what DO we want, then? ’

‘God knows. All we know is what we don’t want. That’s what’s wrong with us
nowadays. We’re stuck, like Buridan’s donkey. Only there are three alternatives instead
of two, and all three of them make us spew. Socialism’s only one of them. ’

‘And what are the other two? ’


‘Oh, I suppose suicide and the Catholic Church. ’



Ravelston smiled, anticlerically shocked. ‘The Catholic Church! Do you consider that an
alternative? ’

‘Well, it’s a standing temptation to the intelligentsia, isn’t it? ’

‘Not what / should call the intelligentsia. Though there was Eliot, of course,’ Ravelston
admitted.

‘And there’ll be plenty more, you bet. I dare say it’s fairly cosy under Mother Church’s
wing. A bit insanitary, of course — but you’d feel safe there, anyway. ’

Ravelston rubbed his nose reflectively. ‘It seems to me that’s only another form of
suicide. ’

‘In a way. But so’s Socialism. At least it’s a counsel of despair. But I couldn’t commit
suicide, real suicide. It’s too meek and mild. I’m not going to give up my share of earth to
anyone else. I’d want to do in a few of my enemies first. ’

Ravelston smiled again. ‘And who are your enemies? ’

‘Oh, anyone with over five hundred a year. ’

A momentary uncomfortable silence fell. Ravelston’s income, after payment of income
tax, was probably two thousand a year. This was the kind of thing Gordon was always
saying. To cover the awkwardness of the moment, Ravelston took up his glass, steeled
himself against the nauseous taste, and swallowed about two-thirds of his beer — enough
at any rate, to give the impression that he had finished it.

‘Drink up! ’ he said with would-be heartiness. ‘It’s time we had the other half of that. ’

Gordon emptied his glass and let Ravelston take it. He did not mind letting Ravelston pay
for the drinks now. He had paid the first round and honour was satisfied. Ravelston
walked self-consciously to the bar. People began staring at him again as soon as he stood
up. The navvy, still leaning against the bar over his untouched pot of beer, gazed at him
with quiet insolence. Ravelston resolved that he would drink no more of this filthy
common ale.



‘Two double whiskies, would you, please? ’ he said apologetically.


The grim landlady stared. ‘What? ’ she said.

‘Two double whiskies, please. ’

‘No whisky ‘ere. We don’t sell spirits. Beer ‘ouse, we are. ’

The navvy smiled flickering under his moustache. ‘ ignorant toff! ’ he was thinking.

‘Asking for a whisky in a beer ‘ouse! ’ Ravelston’s pale face flushed slightly. He

had not known till this moment that some of the poorer pubs cannot afford a spirit
licence.

‘Bass, then, would you? Two pint bottles of Bass. ’

There were no pint bottles, they had to have four half pints. It was a very poor house.
Gordon took a deep, satisfying swallow of Bass. More alcoholic than the draught beer, it
fizzed and prickled in his throat, and because he was hungry it went a little to his head.
He felt at once more philosophic and more self-pitiful. He had made up his mind not to
begin belly-aching about his poverty; but now he was going to begin after all. He said
abruptly:

‘This is all b — s that we’ve been talking. ’

‘What’s all b — s? ’

‘All this about Socialism and Capitalism and the state of the modem world and God

knows what. I don’t give a for the state of the modem world. If the whole of

England was starving except myself and the people I care about, I wouldn’t give a damn. ’

‘Don’t you exaggerate just a little? ’

‘No. All this talk we make — we’re only objectifying our own feelings. It’s all dictated by
what we’ve got in our pockets. I go up and down London saying it’s a city of the dead,
and our civilization’s dying, and I wish war would break out, and God knows what; and
all it means is that my wages are two quid a week and I wish they were five. ’



Ravelston, once again reminded obliquely of his income, stroked his nose slowly with the
knuckle of his left forefinger.

‘Of course, I’m with you up to a point. After all, it’s only what Marx said. Every
ideology is a reflection of economic circumstances. ’

‘Ah, but you only understand it out of Marx! You don’t know what it means to have to
crawl along on two quid a week. It isn’t a question of hardship — it’s nothing so decent as
hardship. It’s the bloody, sneaking, squalid meaness of it. Living alone for weeks on end
because when you’ve no money you’ve no friends. Calling yourself a writer and never
even producing anything because you’re always too washed out to write. It’s a sort of
filthy sub-world one lives in. A sort of spiritual sewer. ’

He had started now. They were never together long without Gordon beginning to talk in
this strain. It was the vilest manners. It embarrassed Ravelston horribly. And yet
somehow Gordon could not help it. He had got to retail his troubles to somebody, and
Ravelston was the only person who understood. Poverty, like every other dirty wound,
has got to be exposed occasionally. He began to talk in obscene detail of his life in
Willowbed Road. He dilated on the smell of slops and cabbage, the clotted sauce-bottles
in the dining-room, the vile food, the aspidistras. He described his furtive cups of tea and
his trick of throwing used tea-leaves down the W. C. Ravelston, guilty and miserable, sat
staring at his glass and revolving it slowly between his hands. Against his right breast he
could feel, a square accusing shape, the pocket-book in which, as he knew, eight pound
notes and two ten-bob notes nestled against his fat green cheque-book. How awful these
details of poverty are! Not that what Gordon was describing was real poverty. It was at
worst the fringe of poverty. But what of the real poor? What of the unemployed in
Middlesbrough, seven in a room on twenty-five bob a week? When there are people
living like that, how dare one walk the world with pound notes and cheque-books in
one’s pocket?

‘It’s bloody,’ he murmured several times, impotently. In his heart he wondered — it was
his invariable reaction — whether Gordon would accept a tenner if you offered to lend it to
him.



They had another drink, which Ravelston again paid for, and went out into the street. It
was almost time to part. Gordon never spent more than an hour or two with Ravelston.
One’s contacts with rich people, like one’s visits to high altitudes, must always be brief.
It was a moonless, starless night, with a damp wind blowing. The night air, the beer, and
the watery radiance of the lamps induced in Gordon a sort of dismal clarity. He perceived
that it is quite impossible to explain to any rich person, even to anyone so decent as
Ravelston, the essential bloodiness of poverty. For this reason it became all the more
important to explain it. He said suddenly:

‘Have you read Chaucer’s Man of Lawe’s Tale? ’

‘The Man of Lawe’s Tale? Not that I remember. What’s it about? ’

‘I forget. I was thinking of the first six stanzas. Where he talks about poverty. The way it
gives everyone the right to stamp on you! The way everyone WANTS to stamp on you! It
makes people HATE you, to kn ow that you’ve no money. They insult you just for the
pleasure of insulting you and knowing that you can’t hit back. ’

Ravelston was pained. ‘Oh, no, surely not! People aren’t so bad as all that. ’

‘Ah, but you don’t know the things that happen! ’

Gordon did not want to be told that ‘people aren’t so bad’. He clung with a sort of painful
joy to the notion that because he was poor everyone must WANT to insult him. It fitted in
with his philosophy of life. And suddenly, with the feeling that he could not stop himself,
he was talking of the thing that had been rankling in his mind for two days past — the
snub he had had from the Dorings on Thursday. He poured the whole story out quite
shamelessly. Ravelston was amazed. He could not understand what Gordon was making
such a fuss about. To be disappointed at missing a beastly literary tea-party seemed to
him absurd. He would not have gone to a literary tea-party if you had paid him. Like all
rich people, he spent far more time in avoiding human society than in seeking it. He
interrupted Gordon:

‘Really, you know, you ought not to take offence so easily. After all, a thing like that
doesn’t really matter. ’



‘It isn’t the thing itself that matters, it’s the spirit behind it. The way they snub you as a
matter of course, just because you’ve got no money. ’

‘But quite possibly it was all a mistake, or something. Why should anyone want to snub
you? ’

‘“If thou be poure, thy brother hateth thee,”’ quoted Gordon perversely.

Ravelston, deferential even to the opinions of the dead, rubbed his nose. ‘Does Chaucer
say that? Then I’m afraid I disagree with Chaucer. People don’t hate you, exactly. ’

‘They do. And they’re quite right to hate you. You ARE hateful. It’s like those ads for
Listerine. “Why is he always alone? Halitosis is ruining his career. ” Poverty is spiritual
halitosis.