No More Learning

Go on, now; say it. “Yes! ”’
‘Anyone would think you were teaching a parrot to talk, Gordon. ’

‘Oh, damn! Don’t make jokes about it. ’

It was not much use arguing. Presently they came out into the street and walked on,
southward. Somehow, from Rosemary’s swift, neat movements, from her general air of a
girl who knows how to look after herself and who yet treats life mainly as a joke, you
could make a good guess at her upbringing and her mental background. She was the
youngest child of one of those huge hungry families which still exist here and there in the
middle classes. There had been fourteen children all told — the father was a country
solicitor. Some of Rosemary’s sisters were married, some of them were schoolmistresses
or running typing bureaux; the brothers were fanning in Canada, on tea-plantations in
Ceylon, in obscure regiments of the Indian Anny. Like all women who have had an
eventful girlhood, Rosemary wanted to remain a girl. That was why, sexually, she was so
immature. She had kept late into life the high-spirited sexless atmosphere of a big family.
Also she had absorbed into her very bones the code of fair play and live-and-let-live. She
was profoundly magnanimous, quite incapable of spiritual bullying. From Gordon, whom
she adored, she put up with almost anything. It was the measure of her magnanimity that
never once, in the two years that she had known him, had she blamed him for not
attempting to earn a proper living.

Gordon was aware of all this. But at the moment he was thinking of other things. In the
pallid circles of light about the lamp-posts, beside Rosemary’s smaller, trimmer figure, he
felt graceless, shabby, and dirty. He wished very much that he had shaved that morning.
Furtively he put a hand into his pocket and felt his money, half afraid — it was a recurrent
fear with him — that he might have dropped a coin. However, he could feel the milled



edge of a form, his principal coin at the moment. Four and fourpence left. He couldn’t
possibly take her out to supper, he reflected. They’d have to trail dismally up and down
the streets, as usual, or at best go to a Lyons for a coffee. Bloody! How can you have any
fim when you’ve got no money? He said broodingly:

‘Of course it all comes back to money. ’

This remark came out of the blue. She looked up at him in surprise.

‘What do you mean, it all comes back to money? ’

‘I mean the way nothing ever goes right in my life. It’s always money, money, money
that’s at the bottom of everything. And especially between me and you. That’s why you
don’t really love me. There’s a sort of film of money between us. I can feel it every time I
kiss you. ’

‘Money! What HAS money got to do with it, Gordon? ’

‘Money’s got to do with everything. If I had more money you’d love me more. ’

‘Of course, I wouldn’t! Why should I? ’

‘You couldn’t help it. Don’t you see that if I had more money I’d be more worth loving?
Look at me now! Look at my face, look at these clothes I’m wearing, look at everything
else about me. Do you suppose I’d be like that if I had two thousand a year? If I had more
money I should be a different person. ’

‘If you were a different person I shouldn’t love you. ’

‘That’s nonsense, too. But look at it like this. If we were married would you sleep with
me? ’


‘What questions you do ask! Of course I would. Otherwise, where would be the sense of
being married? ’


‘Well then, suppose I was decently well off, WOULD you marry me? ’



‘What’s the good of talking about it, Gordon? You know we can’t afford to marry. ’

‘Yes, but IF we could. Would you? ’

‘I don’t know. Yes, I would, I dare say. ’

‘There you are, then! That’s what I said — money! ’

‘No, Gordon, no! That’s not fair! You’re twisting my words round. ’

‘No, I’m not. You’ve got this money-business at the bottom of your heart. Every
woman’s got it. You wish I was in a GOOD job now, don’t you? ’

‘Not in the way you mean it. I’d like you to be earning more money — yes. ’

‘And you think I ought to have stayed on at the New Albion, don’t you? You’d like me to
go back there now and write slogans for Q. T. Sauce and Truweet Breakfast Crisps.
Wouldn’t you? ’

‘No, I wouldn’t. I NEVER said that. ’

‘You thought it, though. It’s what any woman would think. ’

He was being horribly unfair, and he knew it. The one thing Rosemary had never said,
the thing she was probably quite incapable of saying, was that he ought to go back to the
New Albion. But for the moment he did not even want to be fair. His sexual
disappointment still pricked him. With a sort of melancholy triumph he reflected that,
after all, he was right. It was money that stood between them. Money, money, all is
money! He broke into a half-serious tirade:

‘Women! What nonsense they make of all our ideas! Because one can’t keep free of
women, and every woman makes one pay the same price. “Chuck away your decency and
make more money” — that’s what women say. “Chuck away your decency, suck the
blacking off the boss’s boots, and buy me a better fur coat than the woman next door. ”
Every man you can see has got some blasted woman hanging round his neck like a
mermaid, dragging him down and down — down to some beastly little semi-detached villa



in Putney, with hire-purchase furniture and a portable radio and an aspidistra in the
window. It’s women who make all progress impossible. Not that I believe in progress,’
he added rather unsatisfactorily.

‘What absolute NONSENSE you do talk, Gordon! As though women were to blame for
everything! ’

‘They are to blame, finally. Because it’s the women who really believe in the money-
code. The men obey it; they have to, but they don’t believe in it. It’s the women who
keep it going. The women and their Putney villas and their fur coats and their babies and
their aspidistras. ’

‘It is NOT the women, Gordon! Women didn’t invent money, did they? ’

‘It doesn’t matter who invented it, the point is that it’s women who worship it. A
woman’s got a sort of mystical feeling towards money. Good and evil in a women’s mind
mean simply money and no money. Look at you and me. You won’t sleep with me,
simply and solely because I’ve got no money. Yes, that IS the reason. (He squeezed her
ann to silence her. ) You admitted it only a minute ago. And if I had a decent income
you’d go to bed with me tomorrow. It’s not because you’re mercenary. You don’t want
me to PAY you for sleeping with me. It’s not so crude as that. But you’ve got that deep-
down mystical feeling that somehow a man without money isn’t worthy of you. He’s a
weakling, a sort of half-man — that’s how you feel. Hercules, god of strength and god of
money — you’ll find that in Lempriere. It’s women who keep all mythologies going.
Women! ’

‘Women! ’ echoed Rosemary on a different note. ‘I hate the way men are always talking
about WOMEN. “Women do this,” and “WOMEN do that” — as though all women were
exactly the same! ’

‘Of course all women are the same! What does any woman want except a safe income
and two babies and a semi-detached villa in Putney with an aspidistra in the window? ’

‘Oh, you and your aspidistras! ’


‘On the contrary, YOUR aspidistras. You’re the sex that cultivates them. ’



She squeezed his arm and burst out laughing. She was really extraordinarily good-
natured. Besides, what he was saying was such palpable nonsense that it did not even
exasperate her. Gordon’s diatribes against women were in reality a kind of perverse joke;
indeed, the whole sex-war is at bottom only a joke. For the same reason it is great fun to
pose as a feminist or an anti-feminist according to your sex. As they walked on they
began a violent argument upon the eternal and idiotic question of Man versus Woman.
The moves in this argument — for they had it as often as they met — were always very
much the same. Men are brutes and women are soulless, and women have always been
kept in subjection and they jolly well ought to be kept in subjection, and look at Patient
Griselda and look at Lady Astor, and what about polygamy and Hindu widows, and what
about Mother Pankhurst’s piping days when every decent woman wore mousetraps on
her garters and couldn’t look at a man without feeling her right hand itch for a castrating
knife? Gordon and Rosemary never grew tired of this kind of thing. Each laughed with
delight at the other’s absurdities. There was a merry war between them. Even as they
disputed, ann in arm, they pressed their bodies delightedly together. They were very
happy. Indeed, they adored one another. Each was to the other a standing joke and an
object infinitely precious. Presently a red and blue haze of Neon lights appeared in the
distance. They had reached the beginning of the Tottenham Court Road. Gordon put his
ann round her waist and turned her to the right, down a darkish side-street. They were so
happy together that they had got to kiss. They stood clasped together under the lamp-post,
still laughing, two enemies breast to breast. She rubbed her cheek against his.

‘Gordon, you are such a dear old ass! I can’t help loving you, scrubby jaw and all. ’

‘Do you really? ’

‘Really and truly. ’

Her arms still round him, she leaned a little backwards, pressing her belly against his with
a sort of innocent voluptuousness.

‘Life IS worth living, isn’t it, Gordon? ’


‘Sometimes. ’



‘If only we could meet a bit oftener! Sometimes I don’t see you for weeks. ’


‘I know. It’s bloody. If you knew how I hate my evenings alone! ’

‘One never seems to have time for anything. I don’t even leave that beastly office till
nearly seven. What do you do with yourself on Sundays, Gordon? ’

‘Oh, God! Moon about and look miserable, like everyone else. ’

‘Why not let’s go out for a walk in the country sometimes. Then we would have all day
together. Next Sunday, for instance? ’

The words chilled him. They brought back the thought of money, which he had
succeeded in putting out of his mind for half an hour past. A trip into the country would
cost money, far more than he could possibly afford. He said in a non-committal tone that
transferred the whole thing to the realm of abstraction:

‘Of course, it’s not too bad in Richmond Park on Sundays. Or even Hampstead Heath.
Especially if you go in the mornings before the crowds get there. ’

‘Oh, but do let’s go right out into the country! Somewhere in Surrey, for instance, or to
Burnham Beeches. It’s so lovely at this time of year, with all the dead leaves on the
ground, and you can walk all day and hardly meet a soul. We’ll walk for miles and miles
and have dinner at a pub. It would be such fun. Do let’s! ’

Blast! The money-business was coming back. A trip even as far as Burnham Beeches
would cost all of ten bob. He did some hurried arithmetic. Five bob he might manage,
and Julia would Tend’ him five; GIVE him five, that was. At the same moment he
remembered his oath, constantly renewed and always broken, not to ‘borrow’ money off
Julia. He said in the same casual tone as before:

‘It WOULD be rather fun. I should think we might manage it. I’ll let you know later in
the week, anyway. ’



They came out of the side-street, still arm in arm. There was a pub on the comer.
Rosemary stood on tiptoe, and, clinging to Gordon’s arm to support herself, managed to
look over the frosted lower half of the window.
‘Look, Gordon, there’s a clock in there. It’s nearly half past nine. Aren’t you getting
frightfully hungry? ’

‘No,’ he said instantly and untruthfully.

‘I am. I’m simply starving. Let’s go and have something to eat somewhere. ’ Money
again! One moment more, and he must confess that he had only four and fourpence in the
world — four and fourpence to last till Friday.

‘I couldn’t eat anything,’ he said. ‘I might manage a drink, I dare say. Let’s go and have
some coffee or something. I expect we’ll find a Lyons open. ’

‘Oh, don’t let’s go to a Lyons! I know such a nice little Italian restaurant, only just down
the road. We’ll have Spaghetti Napolitaine and a bottle of red wine. I adore spaghetti. Do
let’s! ’

His heart sank. It was no good. He would have to own up. Supper at the Italian
Restaurant could not possibly cost less than five bob for the two of them. He said almost
sullenly:

‘It’s about time I was getting home, as a matter of fact. ’

‘Oh, Gordon! Already? Why? ’

‘Oh, well! If you MUST know, I’ve only got four and fourpence in the world. And it’s
got to last till Friday. ’

Rosemary stopped short. She was so angry that she pinched his arm with all her strength,
meaning to hurt him and punish him.

‘Gordon, you ARE an ass! You’re a perfect idiot! You’re the most unspeakable idiot I’ve
ever seen! ’



‘Why am I an idiot? ’


‘Because what does it matter whether you’ve got any money! I’m asking YOU to have
supper with ME. ’

He freed his arm from hers and stood away from her. He did not want to look her in the
face.

‘What! Do you think I’d go to a restaurant and let you pay for my food? ’

‘But why not? ’

‘Because one can’t do that sort of thing. It isn’t done. ’

‘It “isn’t done”! You’ll be saying it’s “not cricket” in another moment. WHAT “isn’t
done”? ’


‘Letting you pay for my meals. A man pays for a woman, a woman doesn’t pay for a
man. ’

‘Oh, Gordon! Are we living in the reign of Queen Victoria? ’

‘Yes, we are, as far as that kind of thing’s concerned. Ideas don’t change so quickly. ’

‘But MY ideas have changed. ’

‘No, they haven’t. You think they have, but they haven’t. You’ve been brought up as a
woman, and you can’t help behaving like a woman, however much you don’t want to. ’

‘But what do you mean by BEHAVING LIKE A WOMAN, anyway? ’

‘I tell you every woman’s the same when it comes to a thing like this. A woman despises
a man who’s dependent on her and sponges on her. She may say she doesn’t, she may
THINK she doesn’t, but she does. She can’t help it. If I let you pay for my meals YOU’D
despise me. ’



He had turned away. He knew how abominably he was behaving. But somehow he had
got to say these things. The feeling that people — even Rosemary — MUST despise him
for his poverty was too strong to be overcome. Only by rigid, jealous independence could
he keep his self-respect. Rosemary was really distressed this time. She caught his arm and
pulled him round, making him face her. With an insistent gesture, angrily and yet
demanding to be loved, she pressed her breast against him.

‘Gordon! I won’t let you say such things. How can you say I’d ever despise you? ’

‘I tell you you couldn’t help it if I let myself sponge on you. ’

‘Sponge on me! What expressions you do use! How is it sponging on me to let me pay
for your supper just for once! ’

He could feel the small breasts, Finn and round, just beneath his own. She looked up at
him, frowning and yet not far from tears. She thought him perverse, unreasonable, cruel.
But her physical nearness distracted him. At this moment all he could remember was that
in two years she had never yielded to him. She had starved him of the one thing that
mattered. What was the good of pretending that she loved him when in the last essential
she recoiled? He added with a kind of deadly joy:

‘In a way you do despise me. Oh, yes, I know you’re fond of me. But after all, you can’t
take me quite seriously. I’m a kind of joke to you. You’re fond of me, and yet I’m not
quite your equal — that’s how you feel. ’

It was what he had said before, but with this difference, that now he meant it, or said it as
if he meant it. She cried out with tears in her voice:

‘I don’t, Gordon, I don’t! You KNOW I don’t! ’

‘You do. That’s why you won’t sleep with me. Didn’t I tell you that before? ’

She looked up at him an instant longer, and then buried her face in his breast as suddenly
as though ducking from a blow. It was because she had burst into tears. She wept against
his breast, angry with him, hating him, and yet clinging to him like a child. It was the
childish way in which she clung to him, as a mere male breast to weep on, that hurt him



most. With a sort of self-hatred he remembered the other women who in just the same
way had cried against his breast. It seemed the only thing he could do with women, to
make them cry. With his arm round her shoulders he caressed her clumsily, trying to
console her.

‘You’ve gone and made me cry! ’ she whimpered in self-contempt.

‘I’m sorry! Rosemary, dear one! Don’t cry, PLEASE don’t cry. ’

‘Gordon, dearest! WHY do you have to be so beastly to me? ’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Sometimes I can’t help it. ’

‘But why? Why? ’

She had got over her crying. Rather more composed, she drew away from him and felt for
something to wipe her eyes. Neither of them had a handkerchief. Impatiently, she wrung
the tears out of her eyes with her knuckles.

‘How silly we always are! Now, Gordon, BE nice for once. Come along to the restaurant
and have some supper and let me pay for it. ’

‘No. ’

‘Just this once. Never mind about the old money-business. Do it just to please me. ’

‘I tell you I can’t do that kind of thing. I’ve got to keep my end up. ’

‘But what do you mean, keep your end up? ’

‘I’ve made a war on money, and I’ve got to keep the rules. The first rule is never to take
charity. ’

‘Charity! Oh, Gordon, I DO think you’re silly! ’

She squeezed his ribs again. It was a sign of peace. She did not understand him, probably
never would understand him; yet she accepted him as he was, hardly even protesting



against his unreasonableness. As she put her face up to be kissed he noticed that her lips
were salt. A tear had trickled here. He strained her against him. The hard defensive
feeling had gone out of her body. She shut her eyes and sank against him and into him as
though her bones had grown weak, and her lips parted and her small tongue sought for
his. It was very seldom that she did that. And suddenly, as he felt her body yielding, he
seemed to know with certainty that their struggle was ended. She was his now when he
chose to take her, and yet perhaps she did not fully understand what it was that she was
offering; it was simply an instinctive movement of generosity, a desire to reassure him —
to smooth away that hateful feeling of being unloveable and unloved. She said nothing of
this in words. It was the feeling of her body that seemed to say it. But even if this had
been the time and the place he could not have taken her. At this moment he loved her but
did not desire her. His desire could only return at some future time when there was no
quarrel fresh in his mind and no consciousness of four and fourpence in his pocket to
daunt him.

Presently they separated their mouths, though still clinging closely together.

‘How stupid it is, the way we quarrel, isn’t it Gordon? When we meet so seldom. ’

‘I know. It’s all my fault. I can’t help it. Things rub me up. It’s money at the bottom of it,
always money. ’

‘Oh, money! You let it worry you too much, Gordon. ’

‘Impossible. It’s the only thing worth worrying about. ’

‘But, anyway, we WILL go out into the country next Sunday, won’t we? To Burnham
Beeches or somewhere. It would be so nice if we could. ’

‘Yes, I’d love to. We’ll go early and be out all day. I’ll raise the train fares somehow. ’

‘But you’ll let me pay my own fare, won’t you? ’


‘No, I’d rather I paid them, but we’ll go, anyway. ’



‘And you really won’t let me pay for your supper — just this once, just to show you trust
me? ’


‘No, I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ve told you why. ’

‘Oh, dear! I suppose we shall have to say good night. It’s getting late. ’

They stayed talking a long time, however, so long that Rosemary got no supper after all.
She had to be back at her lodgings by eleven, or the she-dragons were angry. Gordon
went to the top of the Tottenham Court Road and took the tram. It was a penny cheaper
than taking the bus. On the wooden seat upstairs he was wedged against a small dirty
Scotchman who read the football finals and oozed beer. Gordon was very happy.
Rosemary was going to be his mistress. Sharply the menacing wind sweeps over. To the
music of the tram’s booming he whispered the seven completed stanzas of his poem.
Nine stanzas there would be in all. It was GOOD. He believed in it and in himself. He
was a poet. Gordon Comstock, author of Mice. Even in London Pleasures he once again
believed.

He thought of Sunday. They were to meet at nine o’clock at Paddington Station. Ten bob
or so it would cost; he would raise the money if he had to pawn his shirt. And she was
going to become his mistress; this very Sunday, perhaps, if the right chance offered itself.
Nothing had been said. Only, somehow, it was agreed between them.

Please God it kept fine on Sunday! It was deep winter now. What luck if it turned out one
of those splendid windless days — one of those days that might almost be summer, when
you can lie for hours on the dead bracken and never feel cold! But you don’t get many
days like that; a dozen at most in every winter. As likely as not it would rain.