No More Learning

‘Look at it. Aren’t they
lovely things? The most beautiful bird in Asia. ’

Elizabeth touched its smooth feathers with her finger-tip. It filled her with bitter envy,
because she had not shot it. And yet it was curious, but she felt almost an adoration for
Flory now that she had seen how he could shoot.



‘Just look at its breast-feathers; like a jewel. It’s murder to shoot them. The Burmese say
that when you kill one of these birds they vomit, meaning to say, “Look, here is all I
possess, and I’ve taken nothing of yours. Why do you kill me? ” I’ve never seen one do it,
I must admit. ’

‘Are they good to eat? ’

‘Very. Even so, I always feel it’s a shame to kill them. ’

‘I wish I could do it like you do! ’ she said enviously.

‘It’s only a knack, you’ll soon pick it up. You know how to hold your gun, and that’s
more than most people do when they start. ’

However, at the next two beats, Elizabeth could hit nothing. She had learned not to fire
both barrels at once, but she was too paralysed with excitement ever to take aim. Flory
shot several more pigeons, and a small bronze-wing dove with back as green as verdigris.
The jungle fowl were too cunning to show themselves, though one could hear them
cluck-clucking all round, and once or twice the sharp trumpet-call of a cock. They were
getting deeper into the jungle now. The light was greyish, with dazzling patches of
sunlight. Whichever way one looked one’s view was shut in by the multitudinous ranks
of trees, and the tangled bushes and creepers that struggled round their bases like the sea
round the piles of a pier. It was so dense, like a bramble bush extending mile after mile,
that one’s eyes were oppressed by it. Some of the creepers were huge, like serpents. Flory
and Elizabeth struggled along narrow game-tracks, up slippery banks, thorns tearing at
their clothes. Both their shirts were drenched with sweat. It was stifling hot, with a scent
of crushed leaves. Sometimes for minutes together invisible cidadas would keep up a
shrill, metallic pinging like the twanging of a steel guitar, and then, by stopping, make a
silence that startled one.

As they were walking to the fifth beat they came to a great peepul tree in which, high up,
one could hear imperial pigeons cooing. It was a sound like the far-off lowing of cows.
One bird fluttered out and perched alone on the topmost bough, a small greyish shape.



‘Try a sitting shot,’ Flory said to Elizabeth. ‘Get your sight on him and pull off without
waiting. Don’t shut your left eye. ’

Elizabeth raised her gun, which had begun trembling as usual. The beaters halted in a
group to watch, and some of them could not refrain from clicking their tongues; they
thought it queer and rather shocking to see a woman handle a gun. With a violent effort
of will Elizabeth kept her gun still for a second, and pulled the trigger. She did not hear
the shot; one never does when it has gone home. The bird seemed to jump upwards from
the bough, then down it came, tumbling over and over, and stuck in a fork ten yards up.
One of the beaters laid down his dah and glanced appraisingly at the tree; then he walked
to a great creeper, thick as a man’s thigh and twisted like a stick of barley sugar, that
hung far out from a bough. He ran up the creeper as easily as though it had been a ladder,
walked upright along the broad bough, and brought the pigeon to the ground. He put it
limp and wann into Elizabeth’s hand.

She could hardly give it up, the feel of it so ravished her. She could have kissed it,
hugged it to her breast. All the men, Flory and Ko S’la and the beaters, smiled at one
another to see her fondling the dead bird. Reluctantly, she gave it to Ko S’la to put in the
bag. She was conscious of an extraordinary desire to fling her arms round Flory’s neck
and kiss him; and in some way it was the killing of the pigeon that made her feel this.

After the fifth beat the hunter explained to Flory that they must cross a clearing that was
used for growing pineapples, and would beat another patch of jungle beyond. They came
out into sunlight, dazzling after the jungle gloom. The clearing was an oblong of an acre
or two hacked out of the jungle like a patch mown in long grass, with the pineapples,
prickly cactus-like plants, growing in rows, almost smothered by weeds. A low hedge of
thorns divided the field in the middle. They had nearly crossed the field when there was a
sharp cock-a-doodle-doo from beyond the hedge.

‘Oh, listen! ’ said Elizabeth, stopping. ‘Was that a jungle cock? ’

‘Yes. They come out to feed about this time. ’


‘Couldn’t we go and shoot him? ’



‘We’ll have a try if you like. They’re cunning beggars. Look, we’ll stalk up the hedge
until we get opposite where he is. We’ll have to go without making a sound. ’

He sent Ko S’la and the beaters on, and the two of them skirted the field and crept along
the hedge. They had to bend double to keep themselves out of sight. Elizabeth was in
front. The hot sweat trickled down her face, tickling her upper lip, and her heart was
knocking violently. She felt Flory touch her heel from behind. Both of them stood upright
and looked over the hedge together.

Ten yards away a little cock the size of a bantam, was pecking vigorously at the ground.
He was beautiful, with his long silky neck-feathers, bunched comb and arching, laurel-
green tail. There were six hens with him, smaller brown birds, with diamond-shaped
feathers like snake-scales on their backs. All this Elizabeth and Flory saw in the space of
a second, then with a squawk and a whirr the birds were up and flying like bullets for the
jungle. Instantly, automatically as it seemed, Elizabeth raised her gun and fired. It was
one of those shots where there is no aiming, no consciousness of the gun in one’s hand,
when one’s mind seems to fly behind the charge and drive it to the mark. She knew the
bird was doomed even before she pulled the trigger. He tumbled, showered feathers thirty
yards away. ‘Good shot, good shot! ’ cried Flory. In their excitement both of them
dropped their guns, broke through the thorn hedge and raced side by side to where the
bird lay.

‘Good shot! ’ Flory repeated, as excited as she. ‘By Jove, I’ve never seen anyone kill a
flying bird their first day, never! You got your gun off like lightning. It’s marvellous! ’

They were kneeling face to face with the dead bird between them. With a shock they
discovered that their hands, his right and her left, were clasped tightly together. They had
run to the place hand-in-hand without noticing it.

A sudden stillness came on them both, a sense of something momentous that must
happen. Flory reached across and took her other hand. It came yieldingly, willingly. For a
moment they knelt with their hands clasped together. The sun blazed upon them and the
warmth breathed out of their bodies; they seemed to be floating upon clouds of heat and
joy. He took her by the upper arms to draw her towards him.



Then suddenly he turned his head away and stood up, pulling Elizabeth to her feet. He let
go of her arms. He had remembered his birthmark. He dared not do it. Not here, not in
daylight! The snub it invited was too terrible. To cover the awkwardness of the moment
he bent down and picked up the jungle cock.

‘It was splendid,’ he said. ‘You don’t need any teaching. You can shoot already. We’d
better get on to the next beat. ’

They had just crossed the hedge and picked up their guns when there was a series of
shouts from the edge of the jungle. Two of the beaters were running towards them with
enonnous leaps, waving their arms wildly in the air.

‘What is it? ’ Elizabeth said.

‘I don’t know. They’ve seen some animal or other. Something good, by the look of
them. ’

‘Oh, hurrah! Come on! ’

They broke into a run and hurried across the field, breaking through the pineapples and
the stiff prickly weeds. Ko S’la and five of the beaters were standing in a knot all talking
at once, and the other two were beckoning excitedly to Flory and Elizabeth. As they came
up they saw in the middle of the group an old woman who was holding up her ragged
longyi with one hand and gesticulating with a big cigar in the other. Elizabeth could hear
some word that sounded like ‘Char’ repeated over and over again.

‘What is it they’re saying? ’ she said.

The beaters came crowding round Flory, all talking eagerly and pointing into the jungle.
After a few questions he waved his hand to silence them and turned to Elizabeth:

‘I say, here’s a bit of luck! This old girl was coming through the jungle, and she says that
at the sound of the shot you fired just now, she saw a leopard run across the path. These
fellows know where he’s likely to hide. If we’re quick they may be able to surround him
before he sneaks away, and drive him out. Shall we try it? ’



‘Oh, do let’s! Oh, what awful fun! How lovely, how lovely if we could get that leopard! ’


‘You understand it’s dangerous? We’ll keep close together and it’ll probably be all right,
but it’s never absolutely safe on foot. Are you ready for that? ’

‘Oh, of course, of course! I’m not frightened. Oh, do let’s be quick and start! ’

‘One of you come with us, and show us the way,’ he said to the beaters. ‘Ko S’la, put Flo
on the leash and go with the others. She’ll never keep quiet with us. We’ll have to hurry,’
he added to Elizabeth.

Ko S’la and the beaters hurried off along the edge of the jungle. They would strike in and
begin beating farther up. The other beater, the same youth who had climbed the tree after
the pigeon, dived into the jungle, Flory and Elizabeth following. With short rapid steps,
almost running, he led them through a labyrinth of game -tracks. The bushes trailed so
low that sometimes one had almost to crawl, and creepers hung across the path like trip-
wires. The ground was dusty and silent underfoot. At some landmark in the jungle the
beater halted, pointed to the ground as a sign that this spot would do, and put his finger
on his lips to enjoin silence. Flory took four SG cartridges from his pockets and took
Elizabeth’s gun to load it silently.

There was a faint rustling behind them, and they all started. A nearly naked youth with a
pellet-bow, come goodness knows whence, had parted the bushes. He looked at the
beater, shook his head and pointed up the path. There was a dialogue of signs between the
two youths, then the beater seemed to agree. Without speaking all four stole forty yards
along the path, round a bend, and halted again. At the same moment a frightful
pandemonium of yells, punctuated by barks from Flo, broke out a few hundred yards
away.

Elizabeth felt the beater’s hand on her shoulder, pushing her downwards. They all four
squatted down under cover of a prickly bush, the Europeans in front, the Burmans
behind. In the distance there was such a tumult of yells and the rattle of dahs against tree-
trunks that one could hardly believe six men could make so much noise. The beaters were
taking good care that the leopard should not turn back upon them. Elizabeth watched
some large, pale yellow ants marching like soldiers over the thorns of the bush. One fell



on to her hand and crawled up her forearm. She dared not move to brush it away. She was
praying silently, ‘Please God, let the leopard come! Oh please, God, let the leopard
come! ’

There was a sudden loud pattering on the leaves. Elizabeth raised her gun, but Flory
shook his head sharply and pushed the barrel down again. A jungle fowl scuttled across
the path with long noisy strides.

The yells of the beaters seemed hardly to come any closer, and this end of the jungle the
silence was like a pall. The ant on Elizabeth’s arm bit her painfully and dropped to the
ground. A dreadful despair had begun to form in her heart; the leopard was not coming,
he had slipped away somewhere, they had lost him. She almost wished they had never
heard of the leopard, the disappointment was so agonizing. Then she felt the beater pinch
her elbow. He was craning his face forward, his smooth, dull yellow cheek only a few
inches from her own; she could smell the coco-nut oil in his hair. His coarse lips were
puckered as in a whistle; he had heard something. Then Flory and Elizabeth heard it too,
the faintest whisper, as though some creature of air were gliding through the jungle, just
brushing the ground with its foot. At the same moment the leopard’s head and shoulders
emerged from the undergrowth, fifteen yards down the path.

He stopped with his forepaws on the path. They could see his low, flat-eared head, his
bare eye-tooth and his thick, terrible foreann. In the shadow he did not look yellow but
grey. He was listening intently. Elizabeth saw Flory spring to his feet, raise his gun and
pull the trigger instantly. The shot roared, and almost simultaneously there was a heavy
crash as the brute dropped flat in the weeds. ‘Look out! ’ Flory cried, ‘he’s not done for! ’
He fired again, and there was a fresh thump as the shot went home. The leopard gasped.
Flory threw open his gun and felt in his pocket for a cartridge, then flung all his
cartridges on to the path and fell on his knees, searching rapidly among them.

‘Damn and blast it! ’ he cried. ‘There isn’t a single SG among them. Where in hell did I
put them? ’

The leopard had disappeared as he fell. He was thrashing about in the undergrowth like a
great, wounded snake, and crying out with a snarling, sobbing noise, savage and pitiful.
The noise seemed to be coming nearer. Every cartridge Flory turned up had 6 or 8



marked on the end. The rest of the large-shot cartridges had, in fact, been left with Ko
STa. The crashing and snarling were now hardly five yards away, but they could see
nothing, the jungle was so thick.

The two Burmans were crying out ‘Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!
’ The sound of ‘Shoot! Shoot! ’
got farther away — they were skipping for the nearest climbable trees. There was a crash
in the undergrowth so close that it shook the bush by which Elizabeth was standing.

‘By God, he’s almost on us! ’ Flory said. ‘We must turn him somehow. Let fly at the
sound. ’

Elizabeth raised her gun. Her knees were knocking like castanets, but her hand was as
steady as stone. She fired rapidly, once, twice. The crashing noise receded. The leopard
was crawling away, crippled but swift, and still invisible.

‘Well done! You’ve scared him,’ Flory said.

‘But he’s getting away! He’s getting away! ’ Elizabeth cried, dancing about in agitation.
She made to follow him. Flory jumped to his feet and pulled her back.

‘No fear! You stay here. Wait! ’

He slipped two of the small-shot cartridges into his gun and ran after the sound of the
leopard. For a moment Elizabeth could not see either beast or man, then they reappeared
in a bare patch thirty yards away. The leopard was writhing along on his belly, sobbing as
he went. Flory levelled his gun and fired at four yards’ distance. The leopard jumped like
a cushion when one hits it, then rolled over, curled up and lay still. Flory poked the body
with his gun-barrel. It did not stir.

‘It’s all right, he’s done for,’ he called. ‘Come and have a look at him. ’

The two Burmans jumped down from their tree, and they and Elizabeth went across to
where Flory was standing. The leopard — it was a male — was lying curled up with his
head between his forepaws. He looked much smaller than he had looked alive; he looked
rather pathetic, like a dead kitten. Elizabeth’s knees were still quivering. She and Flory
stood looking down at the leopard, close together, but not clasping hands this time.



It was only a moment before Ko S’la and the others came up, shouting with glee. Flo
gave one sniff at the dead leopard, then down went her tail and she bolted fifty yards,
whimpering. She could not be induced to come near him again. Everyone squatted down
round the leopard and gazed at him. They stroked his beautiful white belly, soft as a
hare’s, and squeezed his broad pugs to bring out the claws, and pulled back his black lips
to examine the fangs. Presently two of the beaters cut down a tall bamboo and slung the
leopard upon it by his paws, with his long tail trailing down, and then they marched back
to the village in triumph. There was no talk of further shooting, though the light still held.
They were all, including the Europeans, too anxious to get home and boast of what they
had done.

Flory and Elizabeth walked side by side across the stubble field. The others were thirty
yards ahead with the guns and the leopard, and Flo was slinking after them a long way in
the rear. The sun was going down beyond the Irrawaddy. The light shone level across the
field, gilding the stubble stalks, and striking into their faces with a yellow, gentle beam.
Elizabeth’s shoulder was almost touching Flory’s as they walked. The sweat that had
drenched their shirts had dried again. They did not talk much. They were happy with that
inordinate happiness that comes of exhaustion and achievement, and with which nothing
else in life — no joy of either the body or the mind — is even able to be compared.

‘The leopard skin is yours,’ Flory said as they approached the village.

‘Oh, but you shot him! ’

‘Never mind, you stick to the skin. By Jove, I wonder how many of the women in this
country would have kept their heads like you did! I can just see them screaming and
fainting. I’ll get the skin cured for you in Kyauktada jail. There’s a convict there who can
cure skins as soft as velvet. He’s doing a seven-year sentence, so he’s had time to learn
the job. ’

‘Oh well, thanks awfully. ’


No more was said for the present. Later, when they had washed off the sweat and dirt,
and were fed and rested, they would meet again at the Club. They made no rendezvous,



but it was understood between them that they would meet. Also, it was understood that
Flory would ask Elizabeth to marry him, though nothing was said about this either.


At the village Flory paid the beaters eight annas each, superintended the skinning of the
leopard, and gave the headman a bottle of beer and two of the imperial pigeons. The skin
and skull were packed into one of the canoes. All the whiskers had been stolen, in spite of
Ko S’la’s efforts to guard them. Some young men of the village carried off the carcass in
order to eat the heart and various other organs, the eating of which they believed would
make them strong and swift like the leopard.


CHAPTER 15

When Flory arrived at the Club he found the Lackersteens in an unusually morose mood.
Mrs Lackersteen was sitting, as usual, in the best place under the punkah, and was
reading the Civil List, the Debrett of Burma. She was in a bad temper with her husband,
who had defied her by ordering a Targe peg’ as soon as he reached the Club, and was
further defying her by reading the Pink’un. Elizabeth was alone in the stuffy little library,
turning over the pages of an old copy of Blackwood’s.

Since parting with Flory, Elizabeth had had a very disagreeable adventure. She had come
out of her bath and was half-way through dressing for dinner when her uncle had
suddenly appeared in her room — pretext, to hear some more about the day’s shooting —
and begun pinching her leg in a way that simply could not be misunderstood. Elizabeth
was horrified. This was her first introduction to the fact that some men are capable of
making love to their nieces. We live and learn. Mr Lackersteen had tried to carry the
thing off as a joke, but he was too clumsy and too nearly drunk to succeed. It was
fortunate that his wife was out of hearing, or there might have been a first-rate scandal.

After this, dinner was an uncomfortable meal. Mr Lackersteen was sulking. What rot it
was, the way these women put on airs and prevented you from having a good time! The
girl was pretty enough to remind him of the Illustrations in La Vie Parisienne, and damn



it! wasn’t he paying for her keep? It was a shame. But for Elizabeth the position was very
serious. She was penniless and had no home except her uncle’s house. She had come
eight thousand miles to stay here. It would be terrible if after only a fortnight her uncle’s
house were to be made uninhabitable for her.

Consequently, one thing was much surer in her mind than it had been: that if Flory asked
her to marry him (and he would, there was little doubt of it), she would say yes. At
another time it was just possible that she would have decided differently. This afternoon,
under the spell of that glorious, exciting, altogether ‘lovely’ adventure, she had come near
to loving Flory; as near as, in his particular case, she was able to come. Yet even after
that, perhaps, her doubts would have returned. For there had always been something
dubious about Flory; his age, his birthmark, his queer, perverse way of talking — that
‘highbrow’ talk that was at once unintelligible and disquieting. There had been days
when she had even disliked him. But now her uncle’s behaviour had turned the scale.
Whatever happened she had got to escape from her uncle’s house, and that soon. Yes,
undoubtedly she would marry Flory when he asked her!

He could see her answer in her face as he came into the library. Her air was gentler, more
yielding than he had known it. She was wearing the same lilac-coloured frock that she
had worn that first morning when he met her, and the sight of the familiar frock gave him
courage. It seemed to bring her nearer to him, taking away the strangeness and the
elegance that had sometimes unnerved him.

He picked up the magazine she had been reading and made some remark; for a moment
they chattered in the banal way they so seldom managed to avoid. It is strange how the
drivelling habits of conversation will persist into almost all moments. Yet even as they
chattered they found themselves drifting to the door and then outside, and presently to the
big frangipani tree by the tennis court. It was the night of the full moon. Flaring like a
white-hot coin, so brilliant that it hurt one’s eyes, the moon swam rapidly upwards in a
sky of smoky blue, across which drifted a few wisps of yellowish cloud. The stars were
all invisible. The croton bushes, by day hideous things like jaundiced laurels, were
changed by the moon into jagged black and white designs like fantastic wood-cuts. By
the compound fence two Dravidian coolies were walking down the road, transfigured,



their white rags gleaming. Through the tepid air the scent streamed from the frangipani
trees like some intolerable compound out of a penny-in-the-slot machine.

‘Look at the moon, just look at it! ’ Flory said. ‘It’s like a white sun. It’s brighter than an
English winter day. ’

Elizabeth looked up into the branches of the frangipani tree, which the moon seemed to
have changed into rods of silver. The light lay thick, as though palpable, on everything,
crusting the earth and the rough bark of trees like some dazzling salt, and every leaf
seemed to bear a freight of solid light, like snow. Even Elizabeth, indifferent to such
things, was astonished.

‘It’s wonderful! You never see moonlight like that at Home. It’s so — so — ’ No adjective
except ‘bright’ presenting itself, she was silent. She had a habit of leaving her sentences
unfinished, like Rosa Dartle, though for a different reason.

‘Yes, the old moon does her best in this country. How that tree does stink, doesn’t it?
Beastly, tropical thing! I hate a tree that blooms all the year round, don’t you? ’

He was talking half abstractedly, to cover the time till the coolies should be out of sight.
As they disappeared he put his arm round Elizabeth’s shoulder, and then, when she did
not start or speak, turned her round and drew her against him. Her head came against his
breast, and her short hair grazed his lips. He put his hand under her chin and lifted her
face up to meet his. 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.