No More Learning

She was not wearing her spectacles.

‘You don’t mind? ’

‘No. ’

‘I mean, you don’t mind my — this thing of mine? ’ he shook his head slightly to indicate
the birthmark. He could not kiss her without first asking this question.

‘No, no. Of course not. ’


A moment after their mouths met he felt her bare arms settle lightly round his neck. They
stood pressed together, against the smooth trunk of the frangipani tree, body to body,



mouth to mouth, for a minute or more. The sickly scent of the tree came mingling with
the scent of Elizabeth’s hair. And the scent gave him a feeling of stultification, of
remoteness from Elizabeth, even though she was in his arms. All that that alien tree
symbolized for him, his exile, the secret, wasted years — it was like an unbridgeable gulf
between them. How should he ever make her understand what it was that he wanted of
her? He disengaged himself and pressed her shoulders gently against the tree, looking
down at her face, which he could see very clearly though the moon was behind her.

‘It’s useless trying to tell you what you mean to me,’ he said. “‘What you mean to me! ”
These blunted phrases! You don’t know, you can’t know, how much I love you. But I’ve
got to try and tell you. There’s so much I must tell you. Had we better go back to the
Club? They may come looking for us. We can talk on the veranda. ’

‘Is my hair very untidy? ’ she said.

‘It’s beautiful. ’

‘But has it got untidy? Smooth it for me, would you, please? ’

She bent her head towards him, and he smoothed the short, cool locks with his hand. The
way she bent her head to him gave him a curious feeling of intimacy, far more intimate
than the kiss, as though he had already been her husband. Ah, he must have her, that was
certain! Only by marrying her could his life be salvaged. In a moment he would ask her.
They walked slowly through the cotton bushes and back to the Club, his arm still round
her shoulder.

‘We can talk on the veranda,’ he repeated. ‘Somehow, we’ve never really talked, you and
I. My God, how I’ve longed all these years for somebody to talk to! How I could talk to
you, intenninably, interminably! That sounds boring. I’m afraid it will be boring. I must
ask you to put up with it for a little while. ’

She made a sound of remonstrance at the word ‘boring’.


‘No, it is boring, I know that. We Anglo-Indians are always looked on as bores. And we
ARE bores. But we can’t help it. You see, there’s — how shall I say? — a demon inside us



driving us to talk. We walk about under a load of memories which we long to share and
somehow never can. It’s the price we pay for coming to this country. ’

They were fairly safe from interruption on the side veranda, for there was no door
opening directly upon it. Elizabeth had sat down with her arms on the little wicker table,
but Flory remained strolling back and forth, with his hands in his coatpockets, stepping
into the moonlight that streamed beneath the eastern eaves of the veranda, and back into
the shadows.

‘I said just now that I loved you. Love! The word’s been used till it’s meaningless. But let
me try to explain. This afternoon when you were there shooting with me, I thought, my
God! here at last is somebody who can share my life with me, but really share it, really
LIVE it with me — do you see — ’

He was going to ask her to marry him — indeed, he had intended to ask her without more
delay. But the words were not spoken yet; instead, he found himself talking egoistically
on and on. He could not help it. It was so important that she should understand something
of what his life in this country had been; that she should grasp the nature of the loneliness
that he wanted her to nullify. And it was so devilishly difficult to explain. It is devilish to
suffer from a pain that is all but nameless. Blessed are they who are stricken only with
classifiable diseases! Blessed are the poor, the sick, the crossed in love, for at least other
people know what is the matter with them and will listen to their belly-achings with
sympathy. But who that has not suffered it understands the pain of exile? Elizabeth
watched him as he moved to and fro, in and out of the pool of moonlight that turned his
silk coat to silver. Her heart was still knocking from the kiss, and yet her thoughts
wandered as he talked. Was he going to ask her to marry him? He was being so slow
about it! She was dimly aware that he was saying something about loneliness. Ah, of
course! He was telling her about the loneliness she would have to put up with in the
jungle, when they were married. He needn’t have troubled. Perhaps you did get rather
lonely in the jungle sometimes? Miles from anywhere, no cinemas, no dances, no one but
each other to talk to, nothing to do in the evenings except read — rather a bore, that. Still,
you could have a gramophone. What a difference it would make when those new portable
radio sets got out to Burma! She was about to say this when he added:



‘Have I made myself at all clear to you? Have you got some picture of the life we live
here? The foreignness, the solitude, the melancholy! Foreign trees, foreign flowers,
foreign landscapes, foreign faces. It’s all as alien as a different planet. But do you see —
and it’s this that I so want you to understand — do you see, it mightn’t be so bad living on
a different planet, it might even be the most interesting thing imaginable, if you had even
one person to share it with. One person who could see it with eyes something like your
own. This country’s been a kind of solitary hell to me — it’s so to most of us — and yet I
tell you it could be a paradise if one weren’t alone. Does all this seem quite
meaningless? ’

He had stopped beside the table, and he picked up her hand. In the half-darkness he could
see her face only as a pale oval, like a flower, but by the feeling of her hand he knew
instantly that she had not understood a word of what he was saying. How should she,
indeed? It was so futile, this meandering talk! He would say to her at once, Will you
marry me? Was there not a lifetime to talk in? He took her other hand and drew her
gently to her feet.

‘Forgive me all this rot I’ve been talking. ’

‘It’s all right,’ she murmured indistinctly, expecting that he was about to kiss her.

‘No, it’s rot talking like that. Some things will go into words, some won’t. Besides, it was
an impertinence to go belly-aching on and on about myself. But I was trying to lead up to
something. Look, this is what I wanted to say. Will — ’

‘Eliz-a-beth! ’

It was Mrs Lackersteen’s high-pitched, plaintive voice, calling from within the Club.
‘Elizabeth? Where are you, Elizabeth? ’

Evidently she was near the front door — would be on the veranda in a moment. Flory
pulled Elizabeth against him. They kissed hurriedly. He released her, only holding her
hands.


‘Quickly, there’s just time. Answer me this. Will you — ’



But that sentence never got any further. At the same moment something extraordinary
happened under his feet — the floor was surging and rolling like a sea — he was staggering,
then dizzily falling, hitting his upper ann a thump as the floor rushed towards him. As he
lay there he found himself jerked violently backwards and forwards as though some
enonnous beast below were rocking the whole building on its back.

The drunken floor righted itself very suddenly, and Flory sat up, dazed but not much hurt.
He dimly noticed Elizabeth sprawling beside him, and screams coming from within the
Club. Beyond the gate two Burmans were racing through the moonlight with their long
hair streaming behind them. They were yelling at the top of their voices:

‘Nga Yin is shaking himself! Nga Yin is shaking himself! ’

Flory watched them unintelligently. Who was Nga Yin? Nga is the prefix given to
criminals. Nga Yin must be a dacoit. Why was he shaking himself? Then he remembered.
Nga Yin was a giant supposed by the Burmese to be buried, like Typhaeus, beneath the
crust of the earth. Of course! It was an earthquake.

‘An earthquake! ’ he exclaimed, and he remembered Elizabeth and moved to pick her up.
But she was already sitting up, unhurt, and rubbing the back of her head.

‘Was that an earthquake? ’ she said in a rather awed voice.

Mrs Lackersteen’s tall form came creeping round the comer of the veranda, clinging to
the wall like some elongated lizard. She was exclaiming hysterically:

‘Oh dear, an earthquake! Oh, what a dreadful shock! I can’t bear it — my heart won’t
stand it! Oh dear, oh dear! An earthquake! ’

Mr Lackersteen tottered after her, with a strange ataxic step caused partly by earth-
tremors and partly by gin.

‘An earthquake, dammit! ’ he said.


Flory and Elizabeth slowly picked themselves up. They all went inside, with that queer
feeling in the soles of the feet that one has when one steps from a rocking boat on to the



shore. The old butler was hurrying from the servants’ quarters, thrusting his pagri on his
head as he came, and a troop of twittering chokras after him.


‘Earthquake, sir, earthquake! ’ he bubbled eagerly.

‘I should damn well think it was an earthquake,’ said Mr Lackersteen as he lowered
himself cautiously into a chair. ‘Here, get some drinks, butler. By God, I could do with a
nip of something after that. ’

They all had a nip of something. The butler, shy yet beaming, stood on one leg beside the
table, with the tray in his hand. ‘Earthquake, sir, BIG earthquake! ’ he repeated
enthusiastically. He was bursting with eagerness to talk; so, for that matter, was everyone
else. An extraordinary joie de vivre had come over them all as soon as the shaky feeling
departed from their legs. An earthquake is such fun when it is over. It is so exhilarating to
reflect that you are not, as you well might be, lying dead under a heap of ruins. With one
accord they all burst out talking: ‘My dear, I’ve never HAD such a shock — I fell
absolutely FLAT on my back — I thought it was a dam’ pariah dog scratching itself under
the floor — I thought it must be an explosion somewhere — ’ and so on and so forth; the
usual earthquake-chatter. Even the butler was included in the conversation.

‘I expect you can remember ever so many earthquakes can’t you butler? ’ said Mrs
Lackersteen, quite graciously, for her.

‘Oh yes, madam, many earthquakes! 1887, 1899, 1906, 1912 — many, many I can
remember, madam! ’

‘The 1912 one was a biggish one,’ Flory said.

‘Oh, sir, but 1906 was bigger! Very bad shock, sir! And big heathen idol in the temple
fall down on top of the thathanabaing, that is Buddhist bishop, madam, which the
Burmese say mean bad omen for failure of paddy crop and foot-and-mouth disease. Also
in 1887 my first earthquake I remember, when I was a little chokra, and Major Maclagan
sahib was lying under the table and promising he sign the teetotal pledge tomorrow
morning. He not know it was an earthquake. Also two cows was killed by falling roofs,’
etc. , etc.



The Europeans stayed in the Club till midnight, and the butler popped into the room as
many as half a dozen times, to relate a new anecdote. So far from snubbing him, the
Europeans even encouraged him to talk. There is nothing like an earthquake for drawing
people together. One more tremor, or perhaps two, and they would have asked the butler
to sit down at table with them.

Meanwhile, Flory’s proposal went no further. One cannot propose marriage immediately
after an earthquake. In any case, he did not see Elizabeth alone for the rest of that
evening. But it did not matter, he knew that she was his now. In the morning there would
be time enough. On this thought, at peace in his mind, and dog-tired after the long day, he
went to bed.


CHAPTER 16

The vultures in the big pyinkado trees by the cemetery flapped from their dung-whitened
branches, steadied themselves on the wing, and climbed by vast spirals into the upper air.
It was early, but Flory was out already. He was going down to the Club, to wait until
Elizabeth came and then ask her formally to marry him. Some instinct, which he did not
understand, prompted him to do it before the other Europeans returned from the jungle.

As he came out of the compound gate he saw that there was a new arrival at Kyauktada.
A youth with a long spear like a needle in his hand was cantering across the maidan on a
white pony. Some Sikhs, looking like sepoys, ran after him, leading two other ponies, a
bay and a chestnut, by the bridle. When he came level with him Flory halted on the road
and shouted good morning. He had not recognized the youth, but it is usual in small
stations to make strangers welcome. The other saw that he was hailed, wheeled his pony
negligently round and brought it to the side of the road. He was a youth of about twenty-
live, lank but very straight, and manifestly a cavalry officer. He had one of those rabbit-
like faces common among English soldiers, with pale blue eyes and a little triangle of
fore-teeth visible between the lips; yet hard, fearless and even brutal in a careless
fashion — a rabbit, perhaps, but a tough and martial rabbit. He sat his horse as though he



were part of it, and he looked offensively young and fit. His fresh face was tanned to the
exact shade that went with his light-coloured eyes, and he was as elegant as a picture with
his white buckskin topi and his polo-boots that gleamed like an old meerschaum pipe.
Flory felt uncomfortable in his presence from the start.

‘How d’you do? ’ said Flory.
‘Have you just arrived? ’

‘Last night, got in by the late train. ’ He had a surly, boyish voice. ‘I’ve been sent up here
with a company of men to stand by in case your local bad-mashes start any trouble. My
name’s Verrall — Military Police,’ he added, not, however, inquiring Flory’s name in
return.

‘Oh yes. We heard they were sending somebody. Where are you putting up? ’

‘Dak bungalow, for the time being. There was some black beggar staying there when I
got in last night — Excise Officer or something. I booted him out. This is a filthy hole,
isn’t it? ’ he said with a backward movement of his head, indicating the whole of
Kyauktada.

‘I suppose it’s like the rest of these small stations. Are you staying long? ’

‘Only a month or so, thank God. Till the rains break. What a rotten maidan you’ve got
here, haven’t you? Pity they can’t keep this stuff cut,’ he added, swishing the dried-up
grass with the point of his spear. ‘Makes it so hopeless for polo or anything. ’

‘I’m afraid you won’t get any polo here,’ Flory said. ‘Tennis is the best we can manage.
There are only eight of us all told, and most of us spend three-quarters of our time in the
jungle. ’

‘Christ! What a hole! ’

After this there was a silence. The tall, bearded Sikhs stood in a group round their horses’
heads, eyeing Flory without much favour. It was perfectly clear that Verral was bored
with the conversation and wanted to escape. Flory had never in his life felt so completely
de trop, or so old and shabby. He noticed that Verrall’s pony was a beautiful Arab, a
mare, with proud neck and arching, plume-like tail; a lovely milk-white thing, worth



several thousands of rupees. Verrall had already twitched the bridle to turn away,
evidently feeling that he had talked enough for one morning.

‘That’s a wonderful pony of yours,’ Flory said.

‘She’s not bad, better than these Burma scrubs. I’ve come out to do a bit of tent-pegging.
It’s hopeless trying to knock a polo ball about in this muck. Hey, Hira Singh! ’ he called,
and turned his pony away.

The sepoy holding the bay pony handed his bridle to a companion, ran to a spot forty
yards away, and fixed a narrow boxwood peg in the ground. Verral took no further notice
of Flory. He raised his spear and poised himself as though taking aim at the peg, while
the Indians backed their horses out of the way and stood watching critically. With a just
perceptible movement Verrall dug his knees into the pony’s sides. She bounded forward
like a bullet from a catapult. As easily as a centaur the lank, straight youth leaned over in
the saddle, lowered his spear and plunged it clean through the peg. One of the Indians
muttered gruffly ‘Shabash! ’ Verrall raised his spear behind him in the orthodox fashion,
and then, pulling his horse to a canter, wheeled round and handed the transfixed peg to
the sepoy.

Verrall rode twice more at the peg, and hit it each time. It was done with matchless grace
and with extraordinary solemnity. The whole group of men, Englishman and Indians,
were concentrated upon the business of hitting the peg as though it had been a religious
ritual. Flory still stood watching, disregarded — VerralFs face was one of those that are
specially constructed for ignoring unwelcome strangers — but from the very fact that he
had been snubbed unable to tear himself away. Somehow, Verrall had filled him with a
horrible sense of inferiority. He was trying to think of some pretext for renewing the
conversation, when he looked up the hillside and saw Elizabeth, in pale blue, coming out
of her uncle’s gate. She must have seen the third transfixing of the peg. His heart stirred
painfully. A thought occurred to him, one of those rash thoughts that usually lead to
trouble. He called to Verrall, who was a few yards away from him, and pointed with his
stick.


‘Do these other two know how to do it? ’



Verrall looked over his shoulder with a surly air. He had expected Flory to go away after
being ignored.


‘What? ’

‘Can these other two do it? ’ Flory repeated.

‘The chestnut’s not bad. Bolts if you let him, though. ’

‘Let me have a shot at the peg, would you? ’

‘All right,’ said Verrall ungraciously. ‘Don’t go and cut his mouth to bits. ’

A sepoy brought the pony, and Flory pretended to examine the curb-chain. In reality he
was temporizing until Elizabeth should be thirty or forty yards away. He made up his
mind that he would stick the peg exactly at the moment when she passed (it is easy
enough on the small Burma ponies, provided that they will gallop straight), and then ride
up to her with it on his point. That was obviously the right move. He did not want her to
think that that pink-faced young whelp was the only person who could ride. He was
wearing shorts, which are uncomfortable to ride in, but he knew that, like nearly
everyone, he looked his best on horseback.

Elizabeth was approaching. Flory stepped into the saddle, took the spear from the Indian
and waved it in greeting to Elizabeth. She made no response, however. Probably she was
shy in front of Verrall. She was looking away, towards the cemetery, and her cheeks were
pink.

‘Chalo,’ said Flory to the Indian, and then dug his knees into the horse’s sides.

The very next instant, before the horse had taken to bounds, Flory found himself hurtling
through the air, hitting the ground with a crack that wrenched his shoulder almost out of
joint, and rolling over and over. Mercifully the spear fell clear of him. He lay supine, with
a blurred vision of blue sky and floating vultures. Then his eyes focused on the khaki
pagri and dark face of a Sikh, bearded to the eyes, bending over him.



‘What’s happened? ’ he said in English, and he raised himself painfully on his elbow. The
Sikh made some gruff answer and pointed. Flory saw the chestnut pony careering away
over the maidan, with the saddle under its belly. The girth had not been tightened, and
had slipped round; hence his fall.

When Flory sat up he found that he was in extreme pain. The right shoulder of his shirt
was torn open and already soaking with blood, and he could feel more blood oozing from
his cheek. The hard earth had grazed him. His hat, too, was gone. With a deadly pang he
remembered Elizabeth, and he saw her coming towards him, barely ten yards away,
looking straight at him as he sprawled there so ignominiously. My God, my God! he
thought, O my God, what a fool I must look! The thought of it even drove away the pain
of the fall. He clapped a hand over his birth-mark, though the other cheek was the
damaged one.

‘Elizabeth! Hullo, Elizabeth! Good morning! ’

He had called out eagerly, appealingly, as one does when one is conscious of looking a
fool. She did not answer, and what was almost incredible, she walked on without pausing
even for an instant, as though she had neither seen nor heard him.

‘Elizabeth! ’ he called again, taken aback; ‘did you see my fall? The saddle slipped. The
fool of a sepoy hadn’t — ’

There was no question that she had heard him now. She turned her face full upon him for
a moment, and looked at him and through him as though he had not existed. Then she
gazed away into the distance beyond the cemetery. It was terrible. He called after her in
dismay —

‘Elizabeth! I say, Elizabeth! ’

She passed on without a word, without a sign, without a look. She was walking sharply
down the road, with a click of heels, her back turned upon him.

The sepoys had come round him now, and Verrall, too, had ridden across to where Flory
lay. Some of the sepoys had saluted Elizabeth; Verrall had ignored her, perhaps not
seeing her. Flory rose stiffly to his feet. He was badly bruised, but no bones were broken.



The Indians brought him his hat and stick, but they did not apologize for their
carelessness. They looked faintly contemptuous, as though thinking that he had only got
what he deserved. It was conceivable that they had loosened the girth on purpose.

‘The saddle slipped,’ said Flory in the weak, stupid way that one does at such moments.

‘Why the devil couldn’t you look at it before you got up? ’ said Verrall briefly. ‘You
ought to know these beggars aren’t to be trusted. ’

Having said which he twitched his bridle and rode away, feeling the incident closed. The
sepoys followed him without saluting Flory. When Flory reached his gate he looked back
and saw that the chestnut pony had already been caught and re-saddled, and Verrall was
tent-pegging upon it.

The fall had so shaken him that even now he could hardly collect his thoughts. What
could have made her behave like that? She had seen him lying bloody and in pain, and
she had walked past him as though he had been a dead dog. How could it have happened?
HAD it happened? It was incredible. Could she be angry with him? Could he have
offended her in any way? All the servants were waiting at the compound fence. They had
come out to watch the tent-pegging, and every one of them had seen his bitter
humiliation. Ko S’la ran part of the way down the hill to meet him, with concerned face.

‘The god has hurt himself? Shall I carry the god back to the house? ’

‘No,’ said the god. ‘Go and get me some whisky and a clean shirt. ’

When they got back to the house Ko S’la made Flory sit down on the bed and peeled off
his torn shirt which the blood had stuck to his body. Ko S’la clicked his tongue.

‘Ah ma lay? These cuts are full of dirt. You ought not to play these children’s games on
strange ponies, thakin. Not at your age. It is too dangerous. ’


‘The saddle slipped,’ Flory said.



‘Such games,’ pursued Ko S’la, ‘are all very well for the young police officer. But you
are no longer young, thakin. A fall hurts at your age. You should take more care of
yourself. ’

‘Do you take me for an old man? ’ said Flory angrily. His shoulder was smarting
abominably.

‘You are thirty-five, thakin,’ said Ko S’la politely but firmly.

It was all very humiliating. Ma Pu and Ma Yi, temporarily at peace, had brought a pot of
some dreadful mess which they declared was good for cuts. Flory told Ko S’la privately
to throw it out of the window and substitute boracic ointment. Then, while he sat in a
tepid bath and Ko S’la sponged the dirt out of his grazes, he puzzled helplessly, and, as
his head grew clearer, with a deeper and deeper dismay, over what had happened. He had
offended her bitterly, that was clear. But, when he had not even seen her since last night,
how COULD he have offended her? And there was no even plausible answer.

He explained to Ko S’la several times over that his fall was due to the saddle slipping.
But Ko S’la, though sympathetic, clearly did not believe him. To the end of his days,
Flory perceived, the fall would be attributed to his own bad horsemanship. On the other
hand, a fortnight ago, he had won undeserved renown by putting to flight the harmless
buffalo. Fate is even-handed, after a fashion.


CHAPTER 17

Flory did not see Elizabeth again until he went down to the Club after dinner. He had not,
as he might have done, sought her out and demanded an explanation. His face unnerved
him when he looked at it in the glass. With the birthmark on one side and the graze on the
other it was so woebegone, so hideous, that he dared not show himself by daylight. As he
entered the Club lounge he put his hand over his birthmark — pretext, a mosquito bite on



the forehead. It would have been more than his nerve was equal to, not to cover his
birthmark at such a moment. However, Elizabeth was not there.

Instead, he tumbled into an unexpected quarrel. Ellis and Westfield had just got back
from the jungle, and they were sitting drinking, in a sour mood. News had come from
Rangoon that the editor of the Bunnese Patriot had been given only four months’
imprisonment for his libel against Mr Macregor, and Ellis was working himself up into a
rage over this light sentence. As soon as Flory came in Ellis began baiting him with
remarks about ‘that little nigger Very-slimy’. At the moment the very thought of
quarrelling made Flory yawn, but he answered incautiously, and there was an argument.
It grew heated, and after Ellis had called Flory a nigger’s Nancy Boy and Flory had
replied in kind, Westfield too lost his temper. He was a good-natured man, but Flory ’s
Bolshie ideas sometimes annoyed him. He could never understand why, when there was
so clearly a right and a wrong opinion about everything, Flory always seemed to delight
in choosing the wrong one. He told Flory ‘not to start talking like a damned Hyde Park
agitator’, and then read him a snappish little sermon, taking as his text the five chief
beatitudes of the pukka sahib, namely:

Keeping up our prestige, The firm hand (without the velvet glove), We white men must
hang together, Give them an inch and they’ll take an ell, and Esprit de Corps.

All the while his anxiety to see Elizabeth was so gnawing at Flory’s heart that he could
hardly hear what was said to him. Besides, he had heard it all so often, so very often — a
hundred times, a thousand times it might be, since his first week in Rangoon, when his
hurra sahib (an old Scotch gin-soaker and great breeder of racing ponies, afterwards
warned off the turf for some dirty business of running the same horse under two different
names) saw him take off his topi to pass a native funeral and said to him reprovingly:
‘Remember laddie, always remember, we are sahiblog and they are dirrt! ’ It sickened
him, now, to have to listen to such trash. So he cut Westfield short by saying
blasphemously:

‘Oh, shut up! I’m sick of the subject. Veraswami’s a damned good fellow — a damned
sight better than some white men I can think of. Anyway, I’m going to propose his name



for the Club when the general meeting comes. Perhaps he’ll liven this bloody place up a
bit. ’

Whereat the row would have become serious if it had not ended as most rows ended at
the Club — with the appearance of the butler, who had heard the raised voices.

‘Did master call, sir? ’

‘No. Go to hell,’ said Ellis morosely.

The butler retired, but that was the end of the dispute for the time being. At this moment
there were footsteps and voices outside; the Lackersteens were arriving at the Club.

When they entered the lounge, Flory could not even nerve himself to look directly at
Elizabeth; but he noticed that all three of them were much more smartly dressed than
usual. Mr Lackersteen was even wearing a dinner-jacket — white, because of the season —
and was completely sober.