No More Learning

He was coming back to the fold, repentant. He seemed to be
walking faster than usual. There was a peculiar sensation, an actual physical sensation, in
his heart, in his limbs, all over him. What was it? Shame, misery, despair? Rage at being
back in the clutch of money? Boredom when he thought of the deadly future? He dragged
the sensation forth, faced it, examined it. It was relief.

Yes, that was the truth of it. Now that the thing was done he felt nothing but relief; relief
that now at last he had finished with dirt, cold, hunger, and loneliness and could get back
to decent, fully human life. His resolutions, now that he had broken them, seemed
nothing but a frightful weight that he had cast off. Moreover, he was aware that he was
only fulfilling his destiny. In some corner of his mind he had always known that this
would happen. He thought of the day when he had given them notice at the New Albion;
and Mr Erskine’s kind, red, beefish face, gently counselling him not to chuck up a ‘good’
job for nothing. How bitterly he had sworn, then, that he was done with ‘good’ jobs for
ever! Yet it was foredoomed that he should come back, and he had known it even then.
And it was not merely because of Rosemary and the baby that he had done it. That was
the obvious cause, the precipitating cause, but even without it the end would have been
the same; if there had been no baby to think about, something else would have forced his
hand. For it was what, in his secret heart, he had desired.

After all he did not lack vitality, and that moneyless existence to which he had
condemned himself had thrust him ruthlessly out of the stream of life. He looked back
over the last two frightful years. He had blasphemed against money, rebelled against
money, tried to live like an anchorite outside the money-world; and it had brought him
not only misery, but also a frightful emptiness, an inescapable sense of futility. To abjure
money is to abjure life. Be not righteous over much; why shouldst thou die before thy
time? Now he was back in the money-world, or soon would be. Tomorrow he would go
up to the New Albion, in his best suit and overcoat (he must remember to get his overcoat



out of pawn at the same time as his suit), in homburg hat of the correct gutter-crawling
pattern, neatly shaved and with his hair cut short. He would be as though bom anew. The
sluttish poet of today would be hardly recognizable in the natty young business man of
tomorrow. They would take him back, right enough; he had the talent they needed. He
would buckle to work, sell his soul, and hold down his job.

And what about the future? Perhaps it would turn out that these last two years had not left
much mark upon him. They were merely a gap, a small setback in his career. Quite
quickly, now that he had taken the first step, he would develop the cynical, blinkered
business mentality. He would forget his fine disgusts, cease to rage against the tyranny of
money — cease to be aware of it, even — cease to squirm at the ads for Bovex and
Breakfast Crisps. He would sell his soul so utterly that he would forget it had ever been
his. He would get married, settle down, prosper moderately, push a pram, have a villa and
a radio and an aspidistra. He would be a law-abiding little cit like any other law-abiding
little cit — a soldier in the strap-hanging army. Probably it was better so.

He slowed his pace a little. He was thirty and there was grey in his hair, yet he had a
queer feeling that he had only just grown up. It occurred to him that he was merely
repeating the destiny of every human being. Everyone rebels against the money-code, and
everyone sooner or later surrenders. He had kept up his rebellion a little longer than most,
that was all. And he had made such a wretched failure of it! He wondered whether every
anchorite in his dismal cell pines secretly to be back in the world of men. Perhaps there
were a few who did not. Somebody or other had said that the modern world is only
habitable by saints and scoundrels. He, Gordon, wasn’t a saint. Better, then, to be an
unpretending scoundrel along with the others. It was what he had secretly pined for; now
that he had acknowledged his desire and surrendered to it, he was at peace.

He was making roughly in the direction of home. He looked up at the houses he was
passing. It was a street he did not know. Oldish houses, mean-looking and rather dark, let
off in flatlets and single rooms for the most part. Railed areas, smoke-grimed bricks,
whited steps, dingy lace curtains. ‘Apartments’ cards in half the windows, aspidistras in
nearly all. A typical lower-middle-class street. But not, on the whole, the kind of street
that he wanted to see blown to hell by bombs.



He wondered about the people in houses like those. They would be, for example, small
clerks, shop-assistants, commercial travellers, insurance touts, tram conductors. Did
THEY know that they were only puppets dancing when money pulled the strings? You
bet they didn’t. And if they did, what would they care? They were too busy being born,
being married, begetting, working, dying. It mightn’t be a bad thing, if you could manage
it, to feel yourself one of them, one of the ruck of men. Our civilization is founded on
greed and fear, but in the lives of common men the greed and fear are mysteriously
transmuted into something nobler. The lower-middle-class people in there, behind their
lace curtains, with their children and their scraps of furniture and their aspidistras — they
lived by the money-code, sure enough, and yet they contrived to keep their decency. The
money-code as they interpreted it was not merely cynical and hoggish. They had their
standards, their inviolable points of honour. They ‘kept themselves respectable’ — kept
the aspidistra flying. Besides, they were ALIVE. They were bound up in the bundle of
life. They begot children, which is what the saints and the soul-savers never by any
chance do.

The aspidistra is the tree of life, he thought suddenly.

He was aware of a lumpish weight in his inner pocket. It was the manuscript of London
Pleasures. He took it out and had a look at it under a street lamp. A great wad of paper,
soiled and tattered, with that peculiar, nasty, grimed-at-the-edges look of papers which
have been a long time in one’s pocket. About four hundred lines in all. The sole fruit of
his exile, a two years’ foetus which would never be born. Well, he had finished with all
that. Poetry! POETRY, indeed! In 1935.

What should he do with the manuscript? Best thing, shove it down the W. C. But he was a
long way from home and had not the necessary penny. He halted by the iron grating of a
drain. In the window of the nearest house an aspidistra, a striped one, peeped between the
yellow lace curtains.

He unrolled a page of London Pleasures. In the middle of the labyrinthine scrawlings a
line caught his eye. Momentary regret stabbed him. After all, parts of it weren’t half bad!
If only it could ever be finished! It seemed such a shame to shy it away after all the work



he had done on it. Save it, perhaps? Keep it by him and finish it secretly in his spare
time? Even now it might come to something.


No, no! Keep your parole. Either surrender or don’t surrender.

He doubled up the manuscript and stuffed it between the bars of the drain. It fell with a
plop into the water below.

Vicisti, O aspidistra!


Chapter 12

Ravelston wanted to say good-bye outside the registry office, but they would not hear of
it, and insisted on dragging him off to have lunch with them. Not at Modigliani’s,
however. They went to one of those jolly little Soho restaurants where you can get such a
wonderful four-course lunch for half a crown. They had garlic sausage with bread and
butter, fried plaice, entrecote aux pornmes firites, and a rather watery caramel pudding;
also a bottle of Medoc Superieur, three and sixpence the bottle.

Only Ravelston was at the wedding. The other witness was a poor meek creature with no
teeth, a professional witness whom they picked up outside the registry office and tipped
half a crown. Julia hadn’t been able to get away from the teashop, and Gordon and
Rosemary had only got the day off from the office by pretexts carefully manoeuvred a
long time ahead. Nobody knew they were getting married, except Ravelston and Julia.
Rosemary was going to go on working at the studio for another month or two. She had
preferred to keep her marriage a secret until it was over, chiefly for the sake of her
innumerable brothers and sisters, none of whom could afford wedding presents. Gordon,
left to himself, would have done it in a more regular manner. He had even wanted to be
married in church. But Rosemary had put her foot down to that idea.



Gordon had been back at the office two months now. Four ten a week he was getting. It
would be a tight pinch when Rosemary stopped working, but there was hope of a rise
next year. They would have to get some money out of Rosemary’s parents, of course,
when the baby was due to arrive. Mr Clew had left the New Albion a year ago, and his
place had been taken by a Mr Warner, a Canadian who had been five years with a New
York publicity firm. Mr Warner was a live wire but quite a likeable person. He and
Gordon had a big job on hand at the moment. The Queen of Sheba Toilet Requisites Co.
were sweeping the country with a monster campaign for their deodorant, April Dew.
They had decided that B. O. and halitosis were worked out, or nearly, and had been
racking their brains for a long time past to think of some new way of scaring the public.
Then some bright spark suggested, What about smelling feet? That field had never been
exploited and had immense possibilities. The Queen of Sheba had turned the idea over to
the New Albion. What they asked for was a really telling slogan; something in the class
of ‘Night-starvation’ — something that would rankle in the public consciousness like a
poisoned arrow. Mr Warner had thought it over for three days and then emerged with the
unforgettable phrase ‘P. P. ’ ‘P. P. ’ stood for Pedic Perspiration. It was a real flash of
genius, that. It was so simple and so arresting. Once you knew what they stood for, you
couldn’t possibly see those letters ‘P. P. ’ without a guilty tremor. Gordon had searched for
the word ‘pedic’ in the Oxford Dictionary and found that it did not exist. But Mr Warner
has said, Hell! what did it matter, anyway? It would put the wind up them just the same.
The Queen of Sheba had jumped at the idea, of course.

They were putting every penny they could spare into the campaign. On every hoarding in
the British Isles huge accusing posters were hammering ‘P. P. ’ into the public mind. All
the posters were identically the same. They wasted no words, but just demanded with
sinister simplicity:

‘P. P. ’

WHAT ABOUT
YOU?

Just that — no pictures, no explanations. There was no longer any need to say what ‘P. P. ’
stood for; everyone in England knew it by this time. Mr Warner, with Gordon to help



him, was designing the smaller ads for the newspapers and magazines. It was Mr Warner
who supplied the bold sweeping ideas, sketched the general lay-out of the ads, and
decided what pictures would be needed; but it was Gordon who wrote most of the
letterpress — wrote the harrowing little stories, each a realistic novel in a hundred words,
about despairing virgins of thirty, and lonely bachelors whose girls had unaccountably
thrown them over, and overworked wives who could not afford to change their stockings
once a week and who saw their husbands subsiding into the clutches of ‘the other
woman’. He did it very well; he did it far better than he had ever done anything else in his
life. Mr Warner gave golden reports of him. There was no doubt about Gordon’s literary
ability. He could use words with the economy that is only learned by years of effort. So
perhaps his long agonizing struggles to be a ‘writer’ had not been wasted after all.

They said good-bye to Ravelston outside the restaurant. The taxi bore them away.
Ravelston had insisted on paying for the taxi from the registry office, so they felt they
could afford another taxi. Warmed with wine, they lolled together, in the dusty May
sunshine that filtered through the taxi window. Rosemary’s head on Gordon’s shoulder,
their hands together in her lap. He played with the very slender wedding ring on
Rosemary’s ring finger. Rolled gold, five and sixpence. It looked all right, however.

‘I must remember to take if off before I go to the studio tomorrow,’ said Rosemary
reflectively.

‘To think we’re really married! Till death do us part. We’ve done it now, right enough. ’
‘Terrifying, isn’t it? ’

‘I expect we’ll settle down all right, though. With a house of our own and a pram and an
aspidistra. ’

He lifted her face up to kiss her. She had a touch of make-up on today, the first he had
ever seen on her, and not too skilfully applied. Neither of their faces stood the spring
sunshine very well. There were fine lines on Rosemary’s, deep seams on Gordon’s.
Rosemary looked twenty-eight, perhaps; Gordon looked at least thirty-five. But
Rosemary had pulled the three white hairs out of her crown yesterday.



‘Do you love me? ’ he said.


‘Adore you, silly. ’

‘I believe you do. It’s queer. I’m thirty and moth-eaten. ’

‘I don’t care. ’

They began to kiss, then drew hurriedly apart as they saw two scrawny upper-middle-
class women, in a car that was moving parallel to their own, observing them with catty
interest.

The flat off the Edgware Road wasn’t too bad.
It was a dull quarter and rather a slummy
street, but it was convenient for the centre of London; also it was quiet, being a blind
alley. From the back window (it was a top floor) you could see the roof of Paddington
Station. Twenty-one and six a week, unfurnished. One bed, one reception, kitchenette,
bath (with geyser), and W. C. They had got their furniture already, most of it on the never-
never. Ravelston had given them a complete set of crockery for a wedding present — a
very kindly thought, that. Julia had given them a rather dreadful ‘occasional’ table,
veneered walnut with a scalloped edge. Gordon had begged and implored her not to give
them anything. Poor Julia! Christmas had left her utterly broke, as usual, and Aunt
Angela’s birthday had been in March. But it would have seemed to Julia a kind of crime
against nature to let a wedding go by without giving a present. God knew what sacrifices
she had made to scrape together thirty bob for that ‘occasional’ table. They were still very
short of linen and cutlery. Things would have to be bought piecemeal, when they had a
few bob to spare.

They ran up the last flight of stairs in their excitement to get to the flat. It was all ready to
inhabit. They had spent their evenings for weeks past getting the stuff in. It seemed to
them a tremendous adventure to have this place of their own. Neither of them had ever
owned furniture before; they had been living in furnished rooms ever since their
childhood. As soon as they got inside they made a careful tour of the flat, checking,
examining, and admiring everything as though they did not know by heart already every
item that was there. They fell into absurd raptures over each separate stick of furniture.
The double bed with the clean sheet ready turned down over the pink eiderdown! The



linen and towels stowed away in the chest of drawers! The gateleg table, the four hard
chairs, the two armchairs, the divan, the bookcase, the red Indian rug, the copper coal-
scuttle which they had picked up cheap in the Caledonian market! And it was all their
own, every bit of it was their own — at least, so long as they didn’t get behind with the
instalments! They went into the kitchenette. Everything was ready, down to the minutest
detail. Gas stove, meat safe, enamel-topped table, plate rack, saucepans, kettle, sink
basket, mops, dishcloths — even a tin of Panshine, a packet of soapflakes, and a pound of
washing soda in a jam-jar. It was all ready for use, ready for life. You could have cooked
a meal in it here and now. They stood hand in hand by the enamel-topped table, admiring
the view of Paddington Station.

‘Oh, Gordon, what fun it all is! To have a place that’s really our own and no landladies
interfering! ’

‘What I like best of all is to think of having breakfast together. You opposite me on the
other side of the table, pouring out coffee. How queer it is! We’ve known each other all
these years and we’ve never once had breakfast together. ’

‘Let’s cook something now. I’m dying to use those saucepans. ’

She made some coffee and brought it into the front room on the red lacquered tray which
they had bought in Selfridge’s Bargain Basement. Gordon wandered over to the
‘occasional’ table by the window. Far below the mean street was drowned in a haze of
sunlight, as though a glassy yellow sea had flooded it fathoms deep. He laid his coffee
cup down on the ‘occasional’ table.

‘This is where we’ll put the aspidistra,’ he said.

‘Put the WHAT? ’

‘The aspidistra. ’

She laughed. He saw that she thought he was joking, and added: ‘We must remember to
go out and order it before all the florists are shut. ’


‘Gordon! You don’t mean that? You aren’t REALLY thinking of having an aspidistra? ’



‘Yes, I am. We won’t let ours get dusty, either. They say an old toothbrush is the best
thing to clean them with. ’

She had come over to his side, and she pinched his ann.

‘You aren’t serious, by any chance, are you? ’

‘Why shouldn’t I be? ’

‘An aspidistra! To think of having one of those awful depressing things in here! Besides,
where could we put it? I’m not going to have it in this room, and in the bedroom it would
be worse. Fancy having an aspidistra in one’s bedroom! ’

‘We don’t want one in the bedroom. This is the place for an aspidistra. In the front
window, where the people opposite can see it. ’

‘Gordon, you ARE joking — you must be joking! ’

‘No, I’m not. I tell you we’ve got to have an aspidistra. ’

‘But why? ’

‘It’s the proper thing to have. It’s the first thing one buys after one’s married. In fact, it’s
practically part of the wedding ceremony. ’

‘Don’t be so absurd! I simply couldn’t bear to have one of those things in here. You shall
have a geranium if you really must. But not an aspidistra. ’

‘A geranium’s no good. It’s an aspidistra we want. ’

‘Well, we’re not going to have one, that’s flat. ’

‘Yes, we are. Didn’t you promise to obey me just now? ’

‘No, I did not. We weren’t married in church. ’


‘Oh, well, it’s implied in the marriage service. “Love, honour, and obey” and all that. ’



‘No, it isn’t. Anyway we aren’t going to have that aspidistra. ’


‘Yes, we are. ’

‘We are NOT, Gordon! ’
‘Yes. ’


‘No! ’


‘Yes! ’


‘NO! ’

She did not understand him. She thought he was merely being perverse. They grew
heated, and, according to their habit, quarrelled violently. It was their first quarrel as man
and wife. Half an hour later they went out to the florist’s to order the aspidistra.

But when they were half-way down the first flight of stairs Rosemary stopped short and
clutched the banister. Her lips parted; she looked very queer for a moment. She pressed a
hand against her middle.

‘Oh, Gordon! ’

‘What? ’

‘I felt it move! ’

‘Felt what move? ’

‘The baby. I felt it move inside me. ’


‘You did? ’


A strange, almost terrible feeling, a sort of warm convulsion, stirred in his entrails. For a
moment he felt as though he were sexually joined to her, but joined in some subtle way



that he had never imagined. He had paused a step or two below her. He fell on his knees,
pressed his ear to her belly, and listened.

‘I can’t hear anything,’ he said at last.

‘Of course not, silly! Not for months yet. ’

‘But I shall be able to hear it later on, shan’t I? ’

‘I think so. YOU can hear it at seven months, / can feel it at four. I think that’s how it is. ’
‘But it really did move? You’re sure? You really felt it move? ’

‘Oh, yes. It moved. ’

For a long time he remained kneeling there, his head pressed against the softness of her
belly. She clasped her hands behind his head and pulled it closer. He could hear nothing,
only the blood drumming in his own ear. But she could not have been mistaken.
Somewhere in there, in the safe, warm, cushioned darkness, it was alive and stirring.

Well, once again things were happening in the Comstock family.