No More Learning

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



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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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


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

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

‘Money? ’

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

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

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

‘So could I,’ said Ravelston gallantly.

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



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

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

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

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

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

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



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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And what are the other two? ’


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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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


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

‘Two double whiskies, please. ’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What’s all b — s? ’

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

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

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

‘Don’t you exaggerate just a little? ’

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



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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

Ravelston sighed. Undoubtedly Gordon was perverse. They walked on, arguing, Gordon
vehemently, Ravelston deprecatingly. Ravelston was helpless against Gordon in an
argument of this kind. He felt that Gordon exaggerated, and yet he never liked to
contradict him. How could he? He was rich and Gordon was poor. And how can you
argue about poverty with someone who is genuinely poor?

‘And then the way women treat you when you’ve no money! ’ Gordon went on. ‘That’s
another thing about this accursed money business — women! ’

Ravelston nodded rather gloomily. This sounded to him more reasonable than what
Gordon had been saying before. He thought of Hermione Slater, his own girl. They had
been lovers two years but had never bothered to get married. It was ‘too much fag’,
Hermione always said. She was rich, of course, or rather her people were. He thought of
her shoulders, wide, smooth, and young, that seemed to rise out of her clothes like a
mermaid rising from the sea; and her skin and hair, which were somehow warm and
sleepy, like a wheatfield in the sun. Hermione always yawned at the mention of
Socialism, and refused even to read Antichrist. ‘Don’t talk to me about the lower classes,’
she used to say. ‘I hate them. They SMELL. ’ And Ravelston adored her.


‘Of course women ARE a difficulty,’ he admitted.



‘They’re more than a difficulty, they’re a bloody curse. That is, if you’ve got no money.
A woman hates the sight of you if you’ve got no money. ’


‘I think that’s putting it a little too strongly. Things aren’t so crude as all that. ’

Gordon did not listen. ‘What rot it is to talk about Socialism or any other ism when
women are what they are! The only thing a woman ever wants is money; money for a
house of her own and two babies and Drage furniture and an aspidistra. The only sin they
can imagine is not wanting to grab money. No woman ever judges a man by anything
except his income. Of course she doesn’t put it to herself like that. She says he’s SUCH
A NICE man — meaning that he’s got plenty of money. And if you haven’t got money
you aren’t NICE. You’re dishonoured, somehow. You’ve sinned. Sinned against the
aspidistra. ’

‘You talk a great deal about aspidistras,’ said Ravelston.

‘They’re a dashed important subject,’ said Gordon.

Ravelston rubbed his nose and looked away uncomfortably.

‘Look here, Gordon, you don’t mind my asking — have you got a girl of your own? ’

‘Oh, Christ! don’t speak of her! ’

He began, nevertheless, to talk about Rosemary. Ravelston had never met Rosemary. At
this moment Gordon could not even remember what Rosemary was like. He could not
remember how fond he was of her and she of him, how happy they always were together
on the rare occasions when they could meet, how patiently she put up with his almost
intolerable ways. He remembered nothing save that she would not sleep with him and
that it was now a week since she had even written. In the dank night air, with beer inside
him, he felt himself a forlorn, neglected creature. Rosemary was ‘cruel’ to him — that was
how he saw it. Perversely, for the mere pleasure of tormenting himself and making
Ravelston uncomfortable, be began to invent an imaginary character for Rosemary. He
built up a picture of her as a callous creature who was amused by him and yet half
despised him, who played with him and kept him at arm’s length, and who would



nevertheless fall into his arms if only he had a little more money. And Ravelston, who
had never met Rosemary, did not altogether disbelieve him. He broke in:

‘But I say, Gordon, look here. This girl, Miss — Miss Waterlow, did you say her name
was? — Rosemary; doesn’t she care for you at all, really? ’

Gordon’s conscience pricked him, though not very deeply. He could not say that
Rosemary did not care for him.

‘Oh, yes, she does care for me. In her own way, I dare say she cares for me quite a lot.
But not enough, don’t you see. She can’t, while I’ve got no money. It’s all money. ’

‘But surely money isn’t so important as all that? After all, there ARE other things. ’

‘What other things? Don’t you see that a man’s whole personality is bound up with his
income? His personality IS his income. How can you be attractive to a girl when you’ve
got no money? You can’t wear decent clothes, you can’t take her out to dinner or to the
theatre or away for week-ends, you can’t carry a cheery, interesting atmosphere about
with you. And it’s rot to say that kind of thing doesn’t matter. It does. If you haven’t got
money there isn’t even anywhere where you can meet. Rosemary and I never meet except
in the streets or in picture galleries. She lives in some foul women’s hostel, and my bitch
of a landlady won’t allow women in the house. Wandering up and down beastly wet
streets — that’s what Rosemary associates me with. Don’t you see how it takes the gilt off
everything? ’

Ravelston was distressed. It must be pretty bloody when you haven’t even the money to
take your girl out. He tried to nerve himself to say something, and failed. With guilt, and
also with desire, he thought of Hermione’s body, naked like a ripe warm fruit. With any
luck she would have dropped in at the flat this evening. Probably she was waiting for him
now. He thought of the unemployed in Middlesbrough. Sexual starvation is awful among
the unemployed. They were nearing the flat. He glanced up at the windows. Yes, they
were lighted up. Hermione must be there. She had her own latchkey.

As they approached the flat Gordon edged closer to Ravelston. Now the evening was
ending, and he must part from Ravelston, whom he adored, and go back to his foul lonely



bedroom. And all evenings ended in this way; the return through the dark streets to the
lonely room, the womanless bed. And Ravelston would say ‘Come up, won’t you? ’ and
Gordon, in duty bound, would say, ‘No. ’ Never stay too long with those you love —
another commandment of the moneyless.

They halted at the foot of the steps. Ravelston laid his gloved hand on one of the iron
spearheads of the railing.

‘Come up, won’t you? ’ he said without conviction.

‘No, thanks. It’s time I was getting back. ’

Ravelston’s fingers tightened round the spearhead. He pulled as though to go up, but did
not go. Uncomfortably, looking over Gordon’s head into the distance, he said:

‘I say, Gordon, look here. You won’t be offended if I say something? ’

‘What? ’

‘I say, you know, I hate that business about you and your girl. Not being able to take her
out, and all that. It’s bloody, that kind of thing. ’

‘Oh, it’s nothing really.