No More Learning

At nights when he lay awake, his bed dragged outside the tent for
coolness, looking at the velvet dark from which the barking of a gyi sometimes sounded,
he hated himself for the images that inhabited his mind. It was so base, this envying of
the better man who had beaten him. For it was only envy — even jealousy was too good a
name for it. What right had he to be jealous? He had offered himself to a girl who was too
young and pretty for him, and she had turned him down — rightly. He had got the snub he
deserved. Nor was there any appeal from that decision; nothing would ever make him
young again, or take away his birthmark and his decade of lonely debaucheries. He could
only stand and look on while the better man took her, and envy him, like — but the simile
was not even mentionable. Envy is a horrible thing. It is unlike all other kinds of
suffering in that there is no disguising it, no elevating it into tragedy. It is more than
merely painful, it is disgusting.

But meanwhile, was it true, what he suspected? Had Verrall really become Elizabeth’s
lover? There is no knowing, but on the whole the chances were against it, for, had it been
so, there would have been no concealing it in such a place as Kyauktada. Mrs
Lackersteen would probably have guessed it, even if the others had not. One thing was
certain, however, and that was that Verrall had as yet made no proposal of marriage. A
week went by, two weeks, three weeks; three weeks is a very long time in a small Indian
station. Verrall and Elizabeth rode together every evening, danced together every night;
yet Verrall had never so much as entered the Lackersteens’ house. There was endless
scandal about Elizabeth, of course. All the Orientals of the town had taken it for granted
that she was VerralFs mistress. U Po Kyin’s version (he had a way of being essentially
right even when he was wrong in detail) was that Elizabeth had been Flory’s concubine



and had deserted him for Verrall because Verrall paid her more. Ellis, too, was inventing
tales about Elizabeth that made Mr Macgregor squirm. Mrs Lackersteen, as a relative, did
not hear these scandals, but she was growing nervous. Every evening when Elizabeth
came home from her ride she would meet her hopefully, expecting the ‘Oh, aunt! What
DO you think! ’ — and then the glorious news. But the news never came, and however
carefully she studied Elizabeth’s face, she could divine nothing.

When three weeks had passed Mrs Lackersteen became fretful and finally half angry. The
thought of her husband, alone — or rather, not alone — in his camp, was troubling her.
After all, she had sent him back to camp in order to give Elizabeth her chance with
Verrall (not that Mrs Lackersteen would have put it so vulgarly as that). One evening she
began lecturing and threatening Elizabeth in her oblique way. The conversation consisted
of a sighing monologue with very long pauses — for Elizabeth made no answer whatever.

Mrs Lackersteen began with some general remarks, apropos of a photograph in the
Tatler, about these fast MODERN girls who went about in beach pyjamas and all that and
made themselves so dreadfully CHEAP with men. A girl, Mrs Lackersteen said, should
NEVER make herself too cheap with a man; she should make herself — but the opposite
of ‘cheap’ seemed to be ‘expensive’, and that did not sound at all right, so Mrs
Lackersteen changed her tack. She went on to tell Elizabeth about a letter she had had
from home with further news of that poor, POOR dear girl who was out in Burma for a
while and had so foolishly neglected to get married. Her sufferings had been quite
heartrending, and it just showed how glad a girl ought to be to marry anyone, literally
ANYONE. It appeared that the poor, poor dear girl had lost her job and been practically
STARVING for a long time, and now she had actually had to take a job as a common
kitchen maid under a horrid, vulgar cook who bullied her most shockingly. And it seemed
that the black beetles in the kitchen were simply beyond belief! Didn’t Elizabeth think it
too absolutely dreadful? BLACK BEETLES!

Mrs Lackersteen remained silent for some time, to allow the black beetles to sink in,
before adding:

‘SUCH a pity that Mr Verrall will be leaving us when the rains break. Kyauktada will
seem quite EMPTY without him! ’



‘When do the rains break, usually? ’ said Elizabeth as indifferently as she could manage.


‘About the beginning of June, up here. Only a week or two now. . . . My dear, it seems
absurd to mention it again, but I cannot get out of my head the thought of that poor, poor
dear girl in the kitchen among the BLACK BEETLES! ’

Black beetles recurred more than once in Mrs Lackersteen’s conversation during the rest
of the evening. It was not until the following day that she remarked in the tone of
someone dropping an unimportant piece of gossip:

‘By the way, I believe Flory is coming back to Kyauktada at the beginning of June. He
said he was going to be in for the general meeting at the Club. Perhaps we might invite
him to dinner some time. ’

It was the first time that either of them had mentioned Flory since the day when he had
brought Elizabeth the leopard-skin. After being virtually forgotten for several weeks, he
had returned to each woman’s mind, a depressing pis aller.

Three days later Mrs Lackersteen sent word to her husband to come back to Kyauktada.
He had been in camp long enough to earn a short spell in headquarters. He came back,
more florid than ever — sunburn, he explained — and having acquired such a trembling of
the hands that he could barely light a cigarette. Nevertheless, that evening he celebrated
his return by manoeuvring Mrs Lackersteen out of the house, coming into Elizabeth’s
bedroom and making a spirited attempt to rape her.

During all this time, unknown to anyone of importance, further sedition was afoot. The
‘weiksa’ (now far away, peddling the philosopher’s stone to innocent villagers in
Martaban) had perhaps done his job a little better than he intended. At any rate, there was
a possibility of fresh trouble — some isolated, futile outrage, probably. Even U Po Kyin
knew nothing of this yet. But as usual the gods were fighting on his side, for any further
rebellion would make the first seem more serious than it had been, and so add to his
glory.



CHAPTER 21


O western wind, when wilt thou blow, that the small rain down can rain? It was the first
of June, the day of the general meeting, and there had not been a drop of rain yet. As
Flory came up the Club path the sun of afternoon, slanting beneath his hat-brim, was still
savage enough to scorch his neck uncomfortably. The mali staggered along the path, his
breast-muscles slippery with sweat, carrying two kerosene-tins of water on a yoke. He
dumped them down, slopping a little water over his lank brown feet, and salaamed to
Flory.

‘Well, mali, is the rain coming? ’

The man gestured vaguely towards the west. ‘The hills have captured it, sahib. ’

Kyauktada was ringed almost round by hills, and these caught the earlier showers, so that
sometimes no rain fell till almost the end of June. The earth of the flower-beds, hoed into
large untidy lumps, looked grey and hard as concrete. Flory went into the lounge and
found Westfield loafing by the veranda, looking out over the river, for the chicks had
been rolled up. At the foot of the veranda a chokra lay on his back in the sun, pulling the
punkah rope with his heel and shading his face with a broad strip of banana leaf.

‘Hullo, Flory! You’ve got thin as a rake. ’

‘So’ve you. ’

‘H’m, yes. Bloody weather. No appetite except for booze. Christ, won’t I be glad when I
hear the frogs start croaking. Let’s have a spot before the others come. Butler! ’

‘Do you know who’s coming to the meeting? ’ Flory said, when the butler had brought
whisky and tepid soda.

‘Whole crowd, I believe. Lackersteen got back from camp three days ago. By God, that
man’s been having the time of his life away from his missus! My inspector was telling
me about the goings-on at his camp. Tarts by the score. Must have imported ‘em
specially from Kyauktada. He’ll catch it all right when the old woman sees his Club bill.
Eleven bottles of whisky sent out to his camp in a fortnight. ’



‘Is young Verrall coming? ’

‘No, he’s only a temporary member. Not that he’d trouble to come anyway, young tick.
Maxwell won’t be here either. Can’t leave camp just yet, he says. He sent word Ellis was
to speak for him if there’s any voting to be done. Don’t suppose there’ll be anything to
vote about, though eh? ’ he added, looking at Flory obliquely, for both of them
remembered their previous quarrel on this subject.

‘I suppose it lies with Macgregor. ’

‘What I mean is, Macgregor’ll have dropped that bloody rot about electing a native
member, eh? Not the moment for it just now. After the rebellion and all that. ’

‘What about the rebellion, by the way? ’ said Flory. He did not want to start wrangling
about the doctor’s election yet. There was going to be trouble and to spare in a few
minutes. ‘Any more news — are they going to have another try, do you think? ’

‘No. All over, I’m afraid. They caved in like the funks they are. The whole district’s as
quiet as a bloody girls’ school. Most disappointing. ’

Flory’s heart missed a beat. He had heard Elizabeth’s voice in the next room. Mr
Macgregor came in at this moment, Ellis and Mr Lackersteen following. This made up
the full quota, for the women members of the Club had no votes. Mr Macgregor was
already dressed in a silk suit, and was carrying the Club account books under his arm. He
managed to bring a sub-official air even into such petty business as a Club meeting.

‘As we seem to be all here,’ he said after the usual greetings, ‘shall we — ah — proceed
with our labours? ’

‘Lead on, Macduff,’ said Westfield, sitting down.


‘Call the butler, someone, for Christ’s sake,’ said Mr Lackersteen. ‘I daren’t let my
missus hear me calling him. ’



‘Before we apply ourselves to the agenda,’ said Mr Macgregor when he had refused a
drink and the others had taken one, ‘I expect you will want me to run through the
accounts for the half-year? ’

They did not want it particularly, but Mr Macgregor, who enjoyed this kind of thing, ran
through the accounts with great thoroughness. Flory’s thoughts were wandering. There
was going to be such a row in a moment — oh, such a devil of a row! They would be
furious when they found that he was proposing the doctor after all. And Elizabeth was in
the next room. God send she didn’t hear the noise of the row when it came. It would
make her despise him all the more to see the others baiting him. Would he see her this
evening? Would she speak to him? He gazed across the quarter-mile of gleaming river.
By the far bank a knot of men, one of them wearing a green gaungbaung, were waiting
beside a sampan. In the channel, by the nearer bank, a huge, clumsy Indian barge
struggled with desperate slowness against the racing current. At each stroke the ten
rowers, Dravidian starvelings, ran forward and plunged their long primitive oars, with
heart-shaped blades, into the water. They braced their meagre bodies, then tugged,
writhed, strained backwards like agonized creatures of black rubber, and the ponderous
hull crept onwards a yard or two. Then the rowers sprang forward, panting, to plunge
their oars again before the current should check her.

‘And now,’ said Mr Macgregor more gravely, ‘we come to the main point of the agenda.
That, of course, is this — ah — distasteful question, which I am afraid must be faced, of
electing a native member to this Club. When we discussed the matter before — ’

‘What the hell! ’

It was Ellis who had interrupted. He was so excited that he had sprung to his feet.

‘What the hell! Surely we aren’t starting THAT over again? Talk about electing a
damned nigger so this Club, after everything that’s happened! Good God, I thought even
Flory had dropped it by this time! ’


‘Our friend Ellis appears surprised. The matter has been discussed before, I believe. ’



‘I should think it damned well was discussed before! And we all said what we thought of
it. By God — ’

‘If our friend Ellis will sit down for a few moments — ’ said Mr Macgregor tolerantly.

Ellis threw himself into his chair again, exclaiming, ‘Bloody rubbish! ’ Beyond the river
Flory could see the group of Burmans embarking. They were lifting a long, awkward-
shaped bundle into the sampan. Mr Macregor had produced a letter from his file of
papers.

‘Perhaps I had better explain how this question arose in the first place. The
Commissioner tells me that a circular has been sent round by the Government, suggesting
that in those Clubs where there are no native members, one at least shall be co-opted; that
is, admitted automatically. The circular says — ah yes! here it is: “It is mistaken policy to
offer social affronts to native officials of high standing. ” I may say that I disagree most
emphatically. No doubt we all do. We who have to do the actual work of government see
things very differently from these — ah — Paget M. P. s who interfere with us from above.
The Commissioner quite agrees with me. However — ’

‘But it’s all bloody rot! ’ broke in Ellis. ‘What’s it got to do with the Commissioner or
anyone else? Surely we can do as we like in our own bloody Club? They’ve no right to
dictate to us when we’re off duty. ’

‘Quite,’ said Westfield.

‘You anticipate me. I told the Commissioner that I should have to put the matter before
the other members. And the course he suggests is this. If the idea finds any support in the
Club, he thinks it would be better if we co-opted our native member. On the other hand, if
the entire Club is against it, it can be dropped. That is, if opinion is quite unanimous. ’

‘Well, it damned well is unanimous,’ said Ellis.

‘D’you mean,’ said Westfield, ‘that it depends on ourselves whether we have ‘em in here
or no? ’


‘I fancy we can take it as meaning that. ’



‘Well, then, let’s say we’re against it to a man. ’


‘And say it bloody firmly, by God. We want to put our foot down on this idea once and
for all. ’

‘Hear, hear! ’ said Mr Lackersteen gruffly. ‘Keep the black swabs out of it. Esprit de
corps and all that. ’

Mr Lackersteen could always be relied upon for sound sentiments in a case like this. In
his heart he did not care and never had cared a damn for the British Raj, and he was as
happy drinking with an Oriental as with a white man; but he was always ready with a
loud ‘Hear, hear! ’ when anyone suggested the bamboo for disrespectful servants or
boiling oil for Nationalists. He prided himself that though he might booze a bit and all
that, dammit, he WAS loyal. It was his form of respectability. Mr Macgregor was secretly
rather relieved by the general agreement.
If any Oriental member were co-opted, that
member would have to be Dr Veraswami, and he had had the deepest distrust of the
doctor ever since Nga Shwe O’s suspicious escape from the jail.

‘Then I take it that you are all agreed? ’ he said. ‘If so, I will inform the Commissioner.
Otherwise, we must begin discussing the candidate for election. ’

Flory stood up. He had got to say his say. His heart seemed to have risen into his throat
and to be choking him. From what Mr Macgregor had said, it was clear that it was in his
power to secure the doctor’s election by speaking the word. But oh, what a bore, what a
nuisance it was! What an infernal uproar there would be! How he wished he had never
given the doctor that promise! No matter, he had given it, and he could not break it. So
short a time ago he would have broken it, en bon pukka sahib, how easily! But not now.
He had got to see this thing through. He turned himself sidelong so that his birthmark was
away from the others. Already he could feel his voice going flat and guilty.

‘Our friend Flory has something to suggest? ’

‘Yes. I propose Dr Veraswami as a member of this Club. ’

There was such a yell of dismay from three of the others that Mr Macgregor had to rap
sharply on the table and remind them that the ladies were in the next room. Ellis took not



the smallest notice. He had sprung to his feet again, and the skin round his nose had gone
quite grey. He and Flory remained facing one another, as though on the point of blows.

‘Now, you damned swab, will you take that back? ’

‘No, I will not. ’

‘You oily swine! You nigger’s Nancy Boy! You crawling, sneaking, — bloody bastard! ’
‘Order! ’ exclaimed Mr Macgregor.

‘But look at him, look at him! ’ cried Ellis almost tearfully. ‘Letting us all down for the
sake of a pot-bellied nigger! After all we’ve said to him! When we’ve only got to hang
together and we can keep the stink of garlic out of this Club for ever. My God, wouldn’t
it make you spew your guts up to see anyone behaving like such a — ? ’

‘Take it back, Flory, old man! ’ said Westfield. ‘Don’t be a bloody fool! ’

‘Downright Bolshevism, dammit! ’ said Mr Lackersteen.

‘Do you think I care what you say? What business is it of yours? It’s for Macgregor to
decide. ’

‘Then do you — ah — adhere to your decision? ’ said Mr Macgregor gloomily.

‘Yes. ’

Mr Macgregor sighed. ‘A pity! Well, in that case I suppose I have no choice — ’

‘No, no, no! ’ cried Ellis, dancing about in his rage. ‘Don’t give in to him! Put it to the
vote. And if that son of a bitch doesn’t put in a black ball like the rest of us, we’ll first
turf him out of the Club himself, and then — well! Butler! ’

‘Sahib! ’ said the butler, appearing.

‘Bring the ballot box and the balls. Now clear out! ’ he added roughly when the butler had
obeyed.



The air had gone very stagnant; for some reason the punkah had stopped working. Mr
Macgregor stood up with a disapproving but judicial mien, taking the two drawers of
black and white balls out of the ballot box.

‘We must proceed in order. Mr Flory proposes Dr Veraswami, the Civil Surgeon, as a
member of this Club. Mistaken, in my opinion, greatly mistaken; however — ! Before
putting the matter to the vote — ’

‘Oh, why make a song and dance about it? ’ said Ellis. ‘Here’s my contribution! And
another for Maxwell. ’ He plumped two black balls into the box. Then one of his sudden
spasms of rage seized him, and he took the drawer of white balls and pitched them across
the floor. They went flying in all directions. ‘There! Now pick one up if you want to use
it! ’


‘You damned fool! What good do you think that does? ’

‘Sahib! ’

They all started and looked round. The chokra was goggling at them over the veranda
rail, having climbed up from below. With one skinny arm he clung to the rail and with
the other gesticulated towards the river.

‘Sahib! Sahib! ’

‘What’s up? ’ said Westfield.

They all moved for the window. The sampan that Flory had seen across the river was
lying under the bank at the foot of the lawn, one of the men clinging to a bush to steady
it. The Burman in the green gaungbaung was climbing out.

‘That’s one of Maxwell’s Forest Rangers! ’ said Ellis in quite a different voice. ‘By God!
something’s happened! ’

The Forest Ranger saw Mr Macgregor, shikoed in a hurried, preoccupied way and turned
back to the sampan. Four other men, peasants, climbed out after him, and with difficulty
lifted ashore the strange bundle that Flory had seen in the distance. It was six feet long,



swathed in cloths, like a mummy. Something happened in everybody’s entrails. The
Forest Ranger glanced at the veranda, saw that there was no way up, and led the peasants
round the path to the front of the Club. They had hoisted the bundle on to their shoulders
as funeral bearers hoist a coffin. The butler had flitted into the lounge again, and even his
face was pale after its fashion — that is, grey.

‘Butler! ’ said Mr Macgregor sharply.

‘Sir! ’

‘Go quickly and shut the door of the card-room. Keep it shut. Don’t let the memsahibs
see. ’

‘Yes, sir! ’

The Burmans, with their burden, came heavily down the passage. As they entered the
leading man staggered and almost fell; he had trodden on one of the white balls that were
scattered about the floor. The Burmans knelt down, lowered their burden to the floor and
stood over it with a strange reverent air, slightly bowing, their hands together in a shiko.
Westfield had fallen on his knees, and he pulled back the cloth.

‘Christ! Just look at him! ’ he said, but without much surprise. ‘Just look at the poor little
b— ! ’

Mr Lackersteen had retreated to the other end of the room, with a bleating noise. From
the moment when the bundle was lifted ashore they had all known what it contained. It
was the body of Maxwell, cut almost to pieces with dahs by two relatives of the man
whom he had shot.


CHAPTER 22



Maxwell’s death had caused a profound shock in Kyauktada. It would cause a shock
throughout the whole of Burma, and the case — ‘the Kyauktada case, do you
remember? ’ — would still be talked of years after the wretched youth’s name was
forgotten. But in a purely personal way no one was much distressed. Maxwell had been
almost a nonentity — just a ‘good fellow’ like any other of the ten thousand ex colore
good fellows of Burma — and with no close friends. No one among the Europeans
genuinely mourned for him. But that is not to say that they were not angry. On the
contrary, for the moment they were almost mad with rage. For the unforgivable had
happened — A WHITE MAN had been killed. When that happens, a sort of shudder runs
through the English of the East. Eight hundred people, possibly, are murdered every year
in Burma; they matter nothing; but the murder of A WHITE MAN is a monstrosity, a
sacrilege. Poor Maxwell would be avenged, that was certain. But only a servant or two,
and the Forest Ranger who had brought in his body and who had been fond of him, shed
any tears for his death.

On the other hand, no one was actually pleased, except U Po Kyin.

‘This is a positive gift from heaven! ’ he told Ma Kin. ‘I could not have arranged it better
myself. The one thing I needed to make them take my rebellion seriously was a little
bloodshed. And here it is! I tell you, Ma Kin, every day I grow more certain that some
higher power is working on my behalf. ’

‘Ko Po Kyin, truly you are without shame! I do not know how you dare to say such
things. Do you not shudder to have murder upon your soul? ’

‘What! I? Murder upon my soul? What are you talking about? I have never killed so
much as a chicken in my life. ’

‘But you are profiting by this poor boy’s death. ’

‘Profiting by it! Of course I am profiting by it! And why not, indeed? Am I to blame if
somebody else choose to commit murder? The fisherman catches fish, and he is damned
for it. But are we damned for eating the fish? Certainly not. Why NOT eat the fish, once
it is dead? You should study the Scriptures more carefully, my dear Kin Kin. ’



The funeral took place next morning, before breakfast. All the Europeans were present,
except Verrall, who was careering about the maidan quite as usual, almost opposite the
cemetery. Mr Macgregor read the burial service. The little group of Englishmen stood
round the grave, their topis in their hands, sweating into the dark suits that they had dug
out from the bottom of their boxes. The harsh morning light beat without mercy upon
their faces, yellower than ever against the ugly, shabby clothes. Every face except
Elizabeth’s looked lined and old. Dr Veraswami and half a dozen other Orientals were
present, but they kept themselves decently in the background. There were sixteen
gravestones in the little cemetery; assistants of timber firms, officials, soldiers killed in
forgotten skirmishes.

‘Sacred to the memory of John Henry Spagnall, late of the Indian Imperial Police, who
was cut down by cholera while in the unremitting exercise of etc. , etc. , etc.

Flory remembered Spagnall dimly. He had died very suddenly in camp after his second
go of delirium tremens. In a corner there were some graves of Eurasians, with wooden
crosses. The creeping jasmine, with tiny orange-hearted flowers, had overgrown
everything. Among the jasmine, large rat-holes led down into the graves.

Mr Macgregor concluded the burial service in a ripe, reverent voice, and led the way out
of the cemetery, holding his grey topi — the Eastern equivalent of a top hat — against his
stomach. Flory lingered by the gate, hoping that Elizabeth would speak to him, but she
passed him without a glance. Everyone had shunned him this morning. He was in
disgrace; the murder had made his disloyalty of last night seem somehow horrible. Ellis
had caught Westfield by the arm, and they halted at the grave-side, taking out their
cigarette-cases. Flory could hear their slangy voices coming across the open grave.

‘My God, Westfield, my God, when I think of that poor little b — lying down there — oh,
my God, how my blood does boil! I couldn’t sleep all night, I was so furious. ’

‘Pretty bloody, I grant. Never mind, promise you a couple of chaps shall swing for it.
Two corpses against their one — best we can do. ’

‘Two! It ought to be fifty! We’ve got to raise heaven and hell to get these fellows hanged.
Have you got their names yet? ’



‘Yes, rather! ! Whole blooming district knows who did it. We always do know who’s
done it in these cases. Getting the bloody villagers to talk — that’s the only trouble. ’

‘Well, for God’s sake get them to talk this time. Never mind the bloody law. Whack it out
of them. Torture them — anything. If you want to bribe any witnesses, I’m good for a
couple of hundred chips. ’

Westfield sighed. ‘Can’t do that sort of thing, I’m afraid. Wish we could. My chaps’d
know how to put the screw on a witness if you gave ‘em the word.