No More Learning

He walked seven times round the square, slowly. Four times
clockwise, three times widdershins. His feet were sore and most of the benches were
empty, but he would not sit down. If he halted for an instant the longing for tobacco
would come upon him. In the Charing Cross Road the teashops called like sirens. Once
the glass door of a Lyons swung open, letting out a wave of hot cake-scented air. It
almost overcame him. After all, why NOT go in? You could sit there for nearly an hour.
A cup of tea twopence, two buns a penny each. He had fourpence halfpenny, counting the
Joey. But no! That bloody Joey! The girl at the cash desk would titter. In a vivid vision he
saw the girl at the cash desk, as she handled his threepenny-bit, grin sidelong at the girl
behind the cake-counter. They’d KNOW it was your last threepence. No use. Shove on.
Keep moving.



In the deadly glare of the Neon lights the pavements were densely crowded. Gordon
threaded his way, a small shabby figure, with pale face and unkempt hair. The crowd slid
past him; he avoided and was avoided. There is something horrible about London at
night; the coldness, the anonymity, the aloofness. Seven million people, sliding to and
fro, avoiding contact, barely aware of one another’s existence, like fish in an aquarium
tank. The street swarmed with pretty girls. By scores they streamed past him, their faces
averted or unseeing; cold nymph-creatures, dreading the eyes of the male. It was queer
how many of them seemed to be alone, or with another girl. Far more women alone than
women with men, he noted. That too was money. How many girls alive wouldn’t be
manless sooner than take a man who’s moneyless?

The pubs were open, oozing sour whiffs of beer. People were trickling by ones and twos
into the picture -houses. Gordon halted outside a great garish picture-house, under the
weary eye of the commissionaire, to examine the photographs. Greta Garbo in The
Painted Veil. He yearned to go inside, not for Greta’s sake, but just for the warmth and
the softness of the velvet seat. He hated the pictures, of course, seldom went there even
when he could afford it. Why encourage the art that is destined to replace literature? But
still, there is a kind of soggy attraction about it. To sit on the padded seat in the warm
smoke-scented darkness, letting the flickering drivel on the screen gradually overwhelm
you — feeling the waves of its silliness lap you round till you seem to drown, intoxicated,
in a viscous sea — after all, it’s the kind of drug we need. The right drug for friendless
people. As he approached the Palace Theatre a tart on sentry-go under the porch marked
him down, stepped forward, and stood in his path. A short, stocky Italian girl, very
young, with big black eyes. She looked agreeable, and, what tarts so seldom are, merry.
For a moment he checked his step, even allowing himself to catch her eye. She looked up
at him, ready to break out into a broad-lipped smile. Why not stop and talk to her? She
looked as though she might understand him. But no! No money! He looked away and
side-stepped her with the cold haste of a man whom poverty makes virtuous. How furious
she’d be if he stopped and then she found he had no money! He pressed on. Even to talk
costs money.

Up Tottenham Court Road and Camden Road it was a dreary drudge. He walked slower,
dragging his feet a little. He had done ten miles over pavements. More girls streamed
past, unseeing. Girls alone, girls with youths, girls with other girls, girls alone. Their



cruel youthful eyes went over him and through him as though he had not existed. He was
too tired to resent it. His shoulders surrendered to their weariness; he slouched, not trying
any longer to preserve his upright carriage and his you-be-damned air. They flee from me
that someone did me seek. How could you blame them? He was thirty, moth-eaten, and
without charm. Why should any girl ever look at him again?

He reflected that he must go home at once if he wanted any food — for Ma Wisbeach
refused to serve meals after nine o’clock. But the thought of his cold womanless bedroom
sickened him. To climb the stairs, light the gas, flop down at the table with hours to kill
and nothing to do, nothing to read, nothing to smoke — no, NOT endurable. In Camden
Town the pubs were full and noisy, though this was only Thursday. Three women, red-
armed, squat as the beer mugs in their hands, stood outside a pub door, talking. From
within came hoarse voices, fag-smoke, the fume of beer. Gordon thought of the Crichton
Arms. Flaxman might be there. Why not risk it? A half of bitter, threepence halfpenny.
He had fourpence halfpenny counting the Joey. After all, a Joey IS legal tender.

He felt dreadfully thirsty already. It had been a mistake to let himself think of beer. As he
approached the Crichton, he heard voices singing. The great garish pub seemed to be
more brightly lighted than usual. There was a concert of something going on inside.
Twenty ripe male voices were chanting in unison:

‘Fo — or REE’S a jorrigoo’ fellow, For REE’S a jorrigoo’ fellow, For REE’S a jorrigoo’
fe — ELL — OW — And toori oori us! ’

At least, that was what it sounded like. Gordon drew nearer, pierced by a ravishing thirst.
The voices were so soggy, so infinitely beery. When you heard them you saw the scarlet
faces of prosperous plumbers. There was a private room behind the bar where the
Buffaloes held their secret conclaves. Doubtless it was they who were singing. They were
giving some kind of commemorative booze to their president, secretary, Grand
Herbivore, or whatever he is called. Gordon hesitated outside the Saloon bar. Better to go
to the public bar, perhaps. Draught beer in the public, bottled beer in the saloon. He went
round to the other side of the pub. The beer-choked voices followed him:


‘With a toori oori ay. An’ a toori oori ay!



‘Fo — or REE’S ajorrigoo’ fellow, For REE’S ajorrigoo’ fellow — ’


He felt quite faint for a moment. But it was fatigue and hunger as well as thirst. He could
picture the cosy room where those Buffaloes were singing; the roaring fire, the big shiny
table, the bovine photographs on the wall. Could picture also, as the singing ceased,
twenty scarlet faces disappearing into pots of beer. He put his hand into his pocket and
made sure that the threepenny-bit was still there. After all, why not? In the public bar,
who would comment? Slap the Joey down on the bar and pass it off as a joke. ‘Been
saving that up from the Christmas pudding — ha, ha! ’ Laughter all round. Already he
seemed to have the metallic taste of draught beer on his tongue.

He fingered the tiny disc, irresolute. The Buffaloes had tuned up again:

‘With a toori oori ay, An’ a toori oori ay!

‘Fo — or REE’S ajorrigoo’ fellow — ’

Gordon moved back to the saloon bar. The window was frosted, and also steamy from the
heat inside. Still, there were chinks where you could see through. He peeped in. Yes,
Flaxman was there.

The saloon bar was crowded. Like all rooms seen from the outside, it looked ineffably
cosy. The fire that blazed in the grate danced, mirrored, in the brass spittoons. Gordon
thought he could almost smell the beer through the glass. Flaxman was propping up the
bar with two fish-faced pals who looked like insurance-touts of the better type. One
elbow on the bar, his foot on the rail, a beer-streaked glass in the other hand, he was
swapping backchat with the blonde cutie barmaid. She was standing on a chair behind the
bar, ranging the bottled beer and talking saucily over her shoulder. You couldn’t hear
what they were saying, but you could guess. Flaxman let fall some memorable witticism.
The fish-faced men bellowed with obscene laughter. And the blonde cutie, tittering down
at him, half shocked and half delighted, wriggled her neat little bum.

Gordon’s heart sickened. To be in there, just to be in there! In the warmth and light, with
people to talk to, with beer and cigarettes and a girl to flirt with! After all, why NOT go
in? You could borrow a bob off Flaxman. Flaxman would lend it to you all right. He



pictured Flaxman’s careless assent — ‘What ho, chappie! How’s life? What? A bob? Sure!
Take two. Catch, chappie! ’ — and the florin flicked along the beer-wet bar. Flaxman was a
decent sort, in his way.

Gordon put his hand against the swing door. He even pushed it open a few inches. The
warm fog of smoke and beer slipped through the crack. A familiar, reviving smell;
nevertheless as he smelled it his nerve failed him. No! Impossible to go in. He turned
away. He couldn’t go shoving in that saloon bar with only fourpence halfpenny in his
pocket. Never let other people buy your drinks for you! The first commandment of the
moneyless. He made off, down the dark pavement.

‘For REE’S a jorrigoo’ fe — ELL — OW — And toori oori us!

‘With a toori oori, ay! An’ a-’

The voices, diminishing with distance, rolled after him, bearing faint tidings of beer.
Gordon took the threepenny-bit from his pocket and sent it skimming away into the
darkness.

He was going home, if you could call it ‘going’. At any rate he was gravitating in that
direction. He did not want to go home, but he had got to sit down. His legs ached and his
feet were bruised, and that vile bedroom was the sole place in London where he had
purchased the right to sit down. He slipped in quietly, but, as usual, not quite so quietly
that Mrs Wisbeach failed to hear him. She gave him a brief nosy glance round the corner
of her door. It would be a little after nine. She might get him a meal if he asked her. But
she would grizzle and make a favour of it, and he would go to bed hungry sooner than
face that.

He started up the stairs. He was half way up the first flight when a double knock behind
made him jump. The post! Perhaps a letter from Rosemary!

Forced from outside, the letter flap lifted, and with an effort, like a heron regurgitating a
flatfish, vomited a bunch of letters on to the mat. Gordon’s heart bounded. There were six
or seven of them. Surely among all that lot there must be one for himself! Mrs Wisbeach,
as usual, had darted from her lair at the sound of the postman’s knock. As a matter of



fact, in two years Gordon had never once succeeded in getting hold of a letter before Mrs
Wisbeach laid hands on it. She gathered the letters jealously to her breast, and then,
holding them up one at a time, scanned their addresses. From her manner you could
gather that she suspected each one of them of containing a writ, an improper love letter,
or an ad for Amen Pills.

‘One for you, Mr Comstock,’ she said sourly, handing him a letter.

His heart shrank and paused in its beat. A long-shaped envelope. Not from Rosemary,
therefore. Ah! It was addressed in his own handwriting. From the editor of a paper, then.
He had two poems ‘out’ at present. One with the Californian Review, the other with the
Primrose Quarterly. But this wasn’t an American stamp. And the Primrose had had his
poem at least six weeks! Good God, supposing they’d accepted it!

He had forgotten Rosemary’s existence. He said ‘Thanks! ’, stuck the letter in his pocket,
and started up the stairs with outward calm, but no sooner was he out of Mrs Wisbeach’s
sight that he bounded up three steps at a time. He had got to be alone to open that letter.
Even before he reached the door he was feeling for his matchbox, but his fingers were
trembling so that in lighting the gas he chipped the mantle. He sat down, took the letter
from his pocket, and then quailed. For a moment he could not nerve himself to open it.
He held it up to the light and felt it to see how thick it was. His poem had been two
sheets. Then, calling himself a fool, he ripped the envelope open. Out tumbled his own
poem, and with it a neat — oh, so neat! — little printed slip of imitation parchment:

The Editor regrets that he is unable to make use of the enclosed contribution.
The slip was decorated with a design of funereal laurel leaves.

Gordon gazed at the thing with wordless hatred. Perhaps no snub in the world is so
deadly as this, because none is so unanswerable. Suddenly he loathed his own poem and
was acutely ashamed of it. He felt it the weakest, silliest poem ever written. Without
looking at it again he tore it into small bits and flung them into the wastepaper basket. He
would put that poem out of his mind for ever. The rejection slip, however, he did not tear
up yet. He fingered it, feeling its loathly sleekness. Such an elegant little thing, printed in
admirable type. You could tell at a glance that it came from a ‘good’ magazine — a snooty



highbrow magazine with the money of a publishing house behind it. Money, money!
Money and culture! It was a stupid thing that he had done. Fancy sending a poem to a
paper like the Primrose! As though they’d accept poems from people like HIM. The mere
fact that the poem wasn’t typed would tell them what kind of person he was. He might as
well have dropped a card on Buckingham Palace. He thought of the people who wrote for
the Primrose; a coterie of moneyed highbrows — those sleek, refined young animals who
suck in money and culture with their mother’s milk. The idea of trying to horn in among
that pansy crowd! But he cursed them all the same. The sods! The bloody sods! ‘The
Editor regrets! ’ Why be so bloody mealy-mouthed about it? Why not say outright, ‘We
don’t want your bloody poems. We only take poems from chaps we were at Cambridge
with. You proletarians keep your distance’? The bloody, hypocritical sods!

At last he crumpled up the rejection slip, threw it away, and stood up. Better get to bed
while he had the energy to undress. Bed was the only place that was warm. But wait.
Wind the clock, set the alarm. He went through the familiar action with a sense of deadly
staleness. His eye fell upon the aspidistra. Two years he had inhabited this vile room; two
mortal years in which nothing had been accomplished. Seven hundred wasted days, all
ending in the lonely bed. Snubs, failures, insults, all of them unavenged. Money, money,
all is money! Because he had no money the Dorings’ snubbed him, because he had no
money the Primrose had turned down his poem, because he had no money Rosemary
wouldn’t sleep with him. Social failure, artistic failure, sexual failure — they are all the
same. And lack of money is at the bottom of them all.

He must hit back at somebody or something. He could not go to bed with that rejection
slip as the last thing in his mind. He thought of Rosemary. It was five days now since she
had written. If there had been a letter from her this evening even that rap over the
knuckles from the Primrose Quarterly would have mattered less. She declared that she
loved him, and she wouldn’t sleep with him, wouldn’t even write to him! She was the
same as all the others. She despised him and forgot about him because he had no money
and therefore didn’t matter. He would write her an enonnous letter, telling her what it felt
like to be ignored and insulted, making her see how cruelly she had treated him.


He found a clean sheet of paper and wrote in the top right-hand corner:



‘31 Willowbed Road, NW, 1 December, 9. 30 p. m. ’


But having written that much, he found that he could write no more. He was in the
defeated mood when even the writing of a letter is too great an effort. Besides, what was
the use? She would never understand. No woman ever understands. But he must write
something. Something to wound her — that was what he most wanted, at this moment. He
meditated for a long time, and at last wrote, exactly in the middle of the sheet:

Y ou have broken my heart.

No address, no signature. Rather neat it looked, all by itself, there in the middle of the
sheet, in his small ‘scholarly’ handwriting. Almost like a little poem in itself. This
thought cheered him up a little.

He stuck the letter in an envelope and went out and posted it at the post office on the
comer, spending his last three halfpence on a penny stamp and a halfpenny stamp out of
the slot machine.


Chapter 5

‘We’re printing that poem of yours in next month’s Antichrist,’ said Ravelston from his
first-floor window.

Gordon, on the pavement below, affected to have forgotten the poem Ravelston was
speaking about; he remembered it intimately, of course, as he remembered all his poems.

‘Which poem? ’ he said.


‘The one about the dying prostitute. We thought it was rather successful. ’ Gordon
laughed a laugh of gratified conceit, and managed to pass it off as a laugh of sardonic
amusement.



‘Aha! A dying prostitute! That’s rather what you might call one of my subjects. I’ll do
you one about an aspidistra next time. ’

Ravelston’s over-sensitive, boyish face, framed by nice dark-brown hair, drew back a
little from the window.

‘It’s intolerably cold,’ he said. ‘You’d better come up and have some food, or
something. ’

‘No, you come down. I’ve had dinner. Let’s go to a pub and have some beer. ’

‘All right then. Half a minute while I get my shoes on. ’

They had been talking for some minutes, Gordon on the pavement, Ravelston leaning out
of the window above. Gordon had announced his arrival not by knocking at the door but
by throwing a pebble against the window pane. He never, if he could help it, set foot
inside Ravelston’s flat. There was something in the atmosphere of the flat that upset him
and made him feel mean, dirty, and out of place. It was so overwhelmingly, though
unconsciously, upper-class. Only in the street or in a pub could he feel himself
approximately Ravelston’s equal. It would have astonished Ravelston to learn that his
four-roomed flat, which he thought of as a poky little place, had this effect upon Gordon.
To Ravelston, living in the wilds of Regent’s Park was practically the same thing as
living in the slums; he had chosen to live there, en bon socialiste, precisely as your social
snob will live in a mews in Mayfair for the sake of the ‘WT on his notepaper. It was part
of a lifelong attempt to escape from his own class and become, as it were, an honorary
member of the proletariat. Like all such attempts, it was foredoomed to failure. No rich
man ever succeeds in disguising himself as a poor man; for money, like murder, will out.

On the street door there was a brass plate inscribed:

P. W. H. RAVELSTON

ANTICHRIST

Ravelston lived on the first floor, and the editorial offices of Antichrist were downstairs.
Antichrist was a middle — to high-brow monthly, Socialist in a vehement but ill-defined



way. In general, it gave the impression of being edited by an ardent Nonconformist who
had transferred his allegiance from God to Marx, and in doing so had got mixed up with a
gang of vers libre poets. This was not really Ravelston’s character; merely he was softer-
hearted than an editor ought to be, and consequently was at the mercy of his contributors.
Practically anything got printed in Antichrist if Ravelston suspected that its author was
starving.

Ravelston appeared a moment later, hatless and pulling on a pair of gauntlet gloves. You
could tell him at a glance for a rich young man. He wore the unifonn of the moneyed
intelligentsia; an old tweed coat — but it was one of those coats which have been made by
a good tailor and grow more aristocratic as they grow older — very loose grey flannel
bags, a grey pullover, much-wom brown shoes. He made a point of going everywhere,
even to fashionable houses and expensive restaurants, in these clothes, just to show his
contempt for upper-class conventions; he did not fully realize that it is only the upper
classes who can do these things. Though he was a year older than Gordon he looked
much younger. He was very tall, with a lean, wide-shouldered body and the typical
lounging grace of the upper-class youth. But there was something curiously apologetic in
his movements and in the expression of his face. He seemed always in the act of stepping
out of somebody else’s way. When expressing an opinion he would rub his nose with the
back of his left forefinger. The truth was that in every moment of his life he was
apologizing, tacitly, for the largeness of his income. You could make him uncomfortable
as easily by reminding him that he was rich as you could make Gordon by reminding him
that he was poor.

‘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.