No More Learning

Until the afternoon Gordon felt sick and weak. He had had no chance to shave, and his
face was hatefully scrubby. At first he merely sat on the comer of the plank bed, at the
end nearest the door, as far away from the W. C. as he could get, and took no notice of the
other prisoners. They bored and disgusted him; later, as his headache wore off, he
observed them with a faint interest. There was a professional burglar, a lean worried-
looking man with grey hair, who was in a terrible stew about what would happen to his
wife and kids if he were sent to jail. He had been arrested for ‘loitering with intent to
enter’ — a vague offence for which you generally get convicted if there are previous
convictions against you. He kept walking up and down, flicking the fingers of his right
hand with a curious nervous gesture, and exclaiming against the unfairness of it. There
was also a deaf mute who stank like a ferret, and a small middle-aged Jew with a fur-
collared overcoat, who had been buyer to a large firm of kosher butchers. He had bolted
with twenty-seven pounds, gone to Aberdeen, of all places, and spent the money on tarts.
He too had a grievance, for he said his case ought to have been tried in the rabbi’s court
instead of being turned over to the police. There was also a publican who had embezzled
his Christmas club money. He was a big, hearty, prosperous-looking man of about thirty-
five, with a loud red face and a loud blue overcoat — the sort of man who, if he were not a
publican, would be a bookie. His relatives had paid back the embezzled money, all except
twelve pounds, but the club members had decided to prosecute. There was something in
this man’s eyes that troubled Gordon. He carried everything off with a swagger, but all
the while there was that blank, staring look in his eyes; he would fall into a kind of
reverie at every gap in the conversation. It was somehow rather dreadful to see him.
There he was, still in his smart clothes, with the splendour of a publican’s life only a



month or two behind him; and now he was ruined, probably for ever. Like all London
publicans he was in the claw of the brewer, he would be sold up and his furniture and
fittings seized, and when he came out of jail he would never have a pub or a job again.

The morning wore on with dismal slowness. You were allowed to smoke — matches were
forbidden, but the constable on duty outside would give you a light through the trap in the
door. Nobody had any cigarettes except the publican, who had his pockets full of them
and distributed them freely. Prisoners came and went. A ragged dirty man who claimed to
be a coster ‘up’ for obstruction was put into the cell for half an hour. He talked a great
deal, but the others were deeply suspicious of him; when he was taken out again they all
declared he was a ‘split’. The police, it was said, often put a ‘split’ into the cells,
disguised as a prisoner, to pick up infonnation. Once there was great excitement when the
constable whispered through the trap that a murderer, or would-be murderer, was being
put into the cell next door. He was a youth of eighteen who had stabbed his ‘tart’ in the
belly, and she was not expected to live. Once the trap opened and the tired, pale face of a
clergyman looked in. He saw the burglar, said wearily, ‘YOU here again, Jones? ’ and
went away again. Dinner, so-called, was served out at about twelve o’clock. All you got
was a cup of tea and two slices of bread and marg. You could have food sent in, though,
if you could pay for it. The publican had a good dinner sent in in covered dishes; but he
had no appetite for it, and gave most of it away. Ravelston was still hanging about the
court, waiting for Gordon’s case to come on, but he did not know the ropes well enough
to have food sent in to Gordon. Presently the burglar and the publican were taken away,
sentenced, and brought back to wait till the Black Maria should take them off to jail.
They each got nine months. The publican questioned the burglar about what prison was
like. There was a conversation of unspeakable obscenity about the lack of women there.

Gordon’s case came on at half past two, and it was over so quickly that it seemed
preposterous to have waited all that time for it. Afterwards he could remember nothing
about the court except the coat of arms over the magistrate’s chair. The magistrate was
dealing with the drunks at the rate of two a minute. To the tune of ‘John-Smith-drunk six-
shillings-move-on-NEXT! ’ they filed past the railings of the dock, precisely like a crowd
taking tickets at a booking-office. Gordon’s case, however, took two minutes instead of
thirty seconds, because he had been disorderly and the sergeant had to testify that Gordon
had struck him on the ear and called him a bastard. There was also a mild sensation



in the court because Gordon, when questioned at the police station, had described himself
as a poet. He must have been very drunk to say a thing like that. The magistrate looked at
him suspiciously.

‘I see you call yourself a POET. ARE you a poet? ’

‘I write poetry,’ said Gordon sulkily.

‘Hm! Well, it doesn’t seem to teach you to behave yourself, does it? You will pay five
pounds or go to prison for fourteen days. NEXT! ’

And that was all. Nevertheless, somewhere at the back of the court a bored reporter had
pricked up his ears.

On the other side of the court there was a room where a police sergeant sat with a large
ledger, entering up the drunks’ fines and taking payment. Those who could not pay were
taken back to the cells. Gordon had expected this to happen to himself. He was quite
resigned to going to prison. But when he emerged from the court it was to find that
Ravelston was waiting there and had already paid his fine for him. Gordon did not
protest. He allowed Ravelston to pack him into a taxi and take him back to the flat in
Regent’s Park. As soon as they got there Gordon had a hot bath; he needed one, after the
beastly contaminating grime of the last twelve hours. Ravelston lent him a razor, lent him
a clean shirt and pyjamas and socks and underclothes, even went out of doors and bought
him a toothbrush. He was strangely solicitous about Gordon. He could not rid himself of
a guilty feeling that what had happened last night was mainly his own fault; he ought to
have put his foot down and taken Gordon home as soon as he showed signs of being
drunk. Gordon scarcely noticed what was being done for him. Even the fact the Ravelston
had paid his fine failed to trouble him. For the rest of that afternoon he lay in one of the
annchairs in front of the fire, reading a detective story. About the future he refused to
think. He grew sleepy very early. At eight o’clock he went to bed in the spare bedroom
and slept like a log for nine hours.

It was not till next morning that he began to think seriously about his situation. He woke
in the wide caressing bed, softer and warmer than any bed he had ever slept in, and began
to grope about for his matches. Then he remembered that in places like this you didn’t



need matches to get a light, and felt for the electric switch that hung on a cord at the
bedhead. Soft light flooded the room. There was a syphon of soda water on the bed-table.
Gordon discovered that even after thirty-six hours there was still a vile taste in his mouth.
He had a drink and looked about him.

It was a queer feeling, lying there in somebody else’s pyjamas in somebody else’s bed.
He felt that he had no business there — that this wasn’t the sort of place where he
belonged. There was a sense of guilt in lying here in luxury when he was ruined and
hadn’t a penny in the world. For he was ruined right enough, there was no doubt about
that. He seemed to know with perfect certainty that his job was lost. God knew what was
going to happen next. The memory of that stupid dull debauch rolled back upon him with
beastly vividness. He could recall everything, from his first pink gin before he started out
to Dora’s peach-coloured garters. He squirmed when he thought of Dora. WHY does one
do these things? Money again, always money! The rich don’t behave like that. The rich
are graceful even in their vices. But if you have no money you don’t even know how to
spend it when you get it. You just splurge it frantically away, like a sailor in a bawdy-
house his first night ashore.

He had been in the clink, twelve hours. He thought of the cold faecal stench of that cell at
the police court. A foretaste of future days. And everyone would know that he had been
in the clink. With luck it might be kept from Aunt Angela and Uncle Walter, but Julia
and Rosemary probably knew already. With Rosemary it didn’t matter so much, but Julia
would be ashamed and miserable. He thought of Julia. Her long thin back as she bent
over the tea-caddy; her good, goose-like, defeated face. She had never lived. From
childhood she had been sacrificed to him — to Gordon, to ‘the boy’. It might be a hundred
quid he had ‘borrowed’ from her in all these years; and then even five quid he couldn’t
spare her. Five quid he had set aside for her, and then spent it on a tart!

He turned out the light and lay on his back, wide awake. At this moment he saw himself
with frightful clarity. He took a sort of inventory of himself and his possessions. Gordon
Comstock, last of the Comstocks, thirty years old, with twenty-six teeth left; with no
money and no job; in borrowed pyjamas in a borrowed bed; with nothing before him
except cadging and destitution, and nothing behind him except squalid fooleries. His total
wealth a puny body and two cardboard suitcases full of worn-out clothes.



At seven Ravelston was awakened by a tap on his door. He rolled over and said sleepily,
‘Hullo? ’ Gordon came in, a dishevelled figure almost lost in the borrowed silk pyjamas.
Ravelston roused himself, yawning. Theoretically he got up at the proletarian hour of
seven. Actually he seldom stirred until Mrs Beaver, the charwoman, arrived at eight.
Gordon pushed the hair out of his eyes and sat down on the foot of Ravelston’s bed.

‘I say, Ravelston, this is bloody. I’ve been thinking things over. There’s going to be hell
to pay. ’

‘What? ’

‘I shall lose my job. McKechnie can’t keep me on after I’ve been in the clink. Besides, I
ought to have been at work yesterday. Probably the shop wasn’t opened all day. ’

Ravelston yawned. ‘It’ll be all right, I think. That fat chap — what’s his name?
Flaxman — rang McKechnie up and told him you were down with flu. He made it pretty
convincing. He said your temperature was a hundred and three. Of course your landlady
knows. But I don’t suppose she’d tell McKechnie. ’

‘But suppose it’s got into the papers! ’

‘Oh, lord! I suppose that might happen. The char brings the papers up at eight. But do
they report drunk cases? Surely not? ’

Mrs Beaver brought the Telegraph and the Herald. Ravelston sent her out for the Mail
and the Express. They searched hurriedly through the police-court news. Thank God! it
hadn’t ‘got into the papers’ after all. There was no reason why it should, as a matter of
fact. It was not as if Gordon had been a racing motorist or a professional footballer.
Feeling better, Gordon managed to eat some breakfast, and after breakfast Ravelston
went out. It was agreed that he should go up to the shop, see Mr McKechnie, give him
further details of Gordon’s illness, and find out how the land lay. It seemed quite natural
to Ravelston to waste several days in getting Gordon out of his scrape. All the morning
Gordon hung about the flat, restless and out of sorts, smoking cigarettes in an endless
chain. Now that he was alone, hope had deserted him. He knew by profound instinct that



Mr McKechnie would have heard about his arrest. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could
keep dark. He had lost his job, and that was all about it.

He lounged across to the window and looked out. A desolate day; the whitey-grey sky
looked as if it could never be blue again; the naked trees wept slowly into the gutters.
Down a neighbouring street the cry of the coal-man echoed mournfully. Only a fortnight
to Christmas now. Jolly to be out of work at this time of year! But the thought, instead of
frightening him, merely bored him. The peculiar lethargic feeling, the stuffy heaviness
behind the eyes, that one has after a fit of drunkenness, seemed to have settled upon him
pennanently. The prospect of searching for another job bored him even more than the
prospect of poverty. Besides, he would never find another job. There are no jobs to be
had nowadays. He was going down, down into the sub- world of the unemployed — down,
down into God knew what workhouse depths of dirt and hunger and futility. And chiefly
he was anxious to get it over with as little fuss and effort as possible.

Ravelston came back at about one o’clock. He pulled his gloves off and threw them into a
chair. He looked tired and depressed. Gordon saw at a glance that the game was up.

‘He’s heard, of course? ’ he said.

‘Everything, I’m afraid. ’

‘How? I suppose that cow of a Wisbeach woman went and sneaked to him? ’

‘No. It was in the paper after all. The local paper. He got it out of that. ’

‘Oh, hell! I’d forgotten that. ’

Ravelston produced from his coat pocket a folded copy of a bi-weekly paper. It was one
that they took in at the shop because Mr McKechnie advertised in it — Gordon had
forgotten that. He opened it. Gosh! What a splash! It was all over the middle page.

BOOKSELLER’S ASSISTANT FINED


MAGISTRATE’S SEVERE STRICTURE



‘DISGRACEFUL FRACAS’


There were nearly two columns of it. Gordon had never been so famous before and never
would be again. They must have been very hard up for a bit of news. But these local
papers have a curious notion of patriotism. They are so avid for local news that a bicycle-
accident in the Harrow Road will occupy more space than a European crisis, and such
items of news as ‘Hampstead Man on Murder Charge’ or ‘Dismembered Baby in Cellar
in Camberwell’ are displayed with positive pride.

Ravelston described his interview with Mr McKechnie. Mr McKechnie, it seemed, was
torn between his rage against Gordon and his desire not to offend such a good customer
as Ravelston. But of course, after such a thing like that, you could hardly expect him to
take Gordon back.
These scandals were bad for trade, and besides, he was justly angry at
the lies Flaxman had told him over the phone. But he was angriest of all at the thought of
HIS assistant being drunk and disorderly. Ravelston said that the drunkenness seemed to
anger him in a way that was peculiar. He gave the impression that he would almost have
preferred Gordon to pinch money out of the till. Of course, he was a teetotaller himself.
Gordon had sometimes wondered whether he wasn’t also a secret drinker, in the
traditional Scottish style. His nose was certainly very red. But perhaps it was snuff that
did it. Anyway, that was that. Gordon was in the soup, full fathom five.

‘I suppose the Wisbeach will stick to my clothes and things,’ he said. ‘I’m not going
round there to fetch them. Besides, I owe her a week’s rent. ’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll see to your rent and everything. ’

‘My dear chap, I can’t let you pay my rent! ’

‘Oh, dash it! ’ Ravelston’ s face grew faintly pink. He looked miserably into the distance,
and then said what he had to say all in a sudden burst: ‘Look here, Gordon, we must get
this settled. You’ve just got to stay here till this business has blown over. I’ll see you
through about money and all that. You needn’t think you’re being a nuisance, because
you’re not. And anyway, it’s only till you get another job. ’



Gordon moved moodily away from him, his hands in his pockets. He had foreseen all
this, of course. He knew that he ought to refuse, he WANTED to refuse, and yet he had
not quite the courage.

‘I’m not going to sponge on you like that,’ he said sulkily.

‘Don’t use such expressions, for God’s sake! Besides, where could you go if you didn’t
stay here? ’

‘I don’t know — into the gutter, I suppose. It’s where I belong. The sooner I get there the
better. ’

‘Rot! You’re going to stay here till you’ve found another job. ’

‘But there isn’t a job in the world. It might be a year before I found a job. I don’t WANT
a job. ’

‘You mustn’t talk like that. You’ll find a job right enough. Something’s bound to turn up.
And for God’s sake don’t talk about SPONGING on me. It’s only an arrangement
between friends. If you really want to, you can pay it all back when you’ve got the
money. ’

‘Yes— WHEN! ’

But in the end he let himself be persuaded. He had known that he would let himself be
persuaded. He stayed on at the flat, and allowed Ravelston to go round to Willowbed
Road and pay his rent and recover his two cardboard suitcases; he even allowed
Ravelston to Tend’ him a further two pounds for current expenses. His heart sickened
while he did it. He was living on Ravelston — sponging on Ravelston. How could there
ever be a real friendship between them again? Besides, in his heart he didn’t want to be
helped. He only wanted to be left alone. He was headed for the gutter; better to reach the
gutter quickly and get it over. Yet for the time being he stayed, simply because he lacked
the courage to do otherwise.

But as for this business of getting a job, it was hopeless from the start. Even Ravelston,
though rich, could not manufacture jobs out of nothing. Gordon knew beforehand that



there were no jobs going begging in the book trade. During the next three days he wore
his shoes out traipsing from bookseller to bookseller. At shop after shop he set his teeth,
marched in, demanded to see the manager, and three minutes later marched out again
with his nose in the air. The answer was always the same — no jobs vacant. A few
booksellers were taking on an extra man for the Christmas rush, but Gordon was not the
type they were looking for. He was neither smart nor servile; he wore shabby clothes and
spoke with the accent of a gentleman. Besides, a few questions always brought it out that
he had been sacked from his last job for drunkenness. After only three days he gave it up.
He knew it was no use. It was only to please Ravelston that he had even been pretending
to look for work.

In the evening he trailed back to the flat, footsore and with his nerves on edge from a
series of snubs. He was making all his journeys on foot, to economize Ravelston’s two
pounds. When he got back Ravelston had just come up from the office and was sitting in
one of the annchairs in front of the fire, with some long galley-proofs over his knee. He
looked up as Gordon came in.

‘Any luck? ’ he said as usual.

Gordon did not answer. If he had answered it would have been with a stream of
obscenities. Without even looking at Ravelston he went straight into his bedroom, kicked
off his shoes, and flung himself on the bed. He hated himself at this moment. Why had he
come back? What right had he to come back and sponge on Ravelston when he hadn’t
even the intention of looking for a job any longer? He ought to have stayed out in the
streets, slept in Trafalgar Square, begged — anything. But he hadn’t the guts to face the
streets as yet. The prospect of warmth and shelter had tugged him back. He lay with his
hands beneath his head, in a mixture of apathy and self-hatred. After about half an hour
he heard the door-bell ring and Ravelston get up to answer it. It was that bitch Hermione
Slater, presumably. Ravelston had introduced Gordon to Hermione a couple of days ago,
and she had treated him like dirt. But a moment later there was a knock at the bedroom
door.


‘What is it? ’ said Gordon.


‘Somebody’s come to see you,’ said Ravelston.



‘To see ME? ’


‘Yes. Come on into the other room. ’

Gordon swore and rolled sluggishly off the bed. When he got to the other room he found
that the visitor was Rosemary. He had been half expecting her, of course, but it wearied
him to see her. He knew why she had come; to sympathize with him, to pity him, to
reproach him — it was all the same. In his despondent, bored mood he did not want to
make the effort of talking to her. All he wanted was to be left alone. But Ravelston was
glad to see her. He had taken a liking to her in their single meeting and thought she might
cheer Gordon up. He made a transparent pretext to go downstairs to the office, leaving
the two of them together.

They were alone, but Gordon made no move to embrace her. He was standing in front of
the fire, round-shouldered, his hands in his coat pockets, his feet thrust into a pair of
Ravelston’s slippers which were much too big for him. She came rather hesitantly
towards him, not yet taking off her hat or her coat with the lamb-skin collar. It hurt her to
see him. In less than a week his appearance had deteriorated strangely. Already he had
that unmistakable, seedy, lounging look of a man who is out of work. His face seemed to
have grown thinner, and there were rings round his eyes. Also it was obvious that he had
not shaved that day.

She laid her hand on his ann, rather awkwardly, as a woman does when it is she who has
to make the first embrace.

‘Gordon — ’

‘Well? ’

He said it almost sulkily. The next moment she was in his anns. But it was she who had
made the first movement, not he. Her head was on his breast, and behold! she was
struggling with all her might against the tears that almost overwhelmed her. It bored
Gordon dreadfully. He seemed so often to reduce her to tears! And he didn’t want to be
cried over; he only wanted to be left alone — alone to sulk and despair. As he held her
there, one hand mechanically caressing her shoulder, his main feeling was boredom. She



had made things more difficult for him by coming here. Ahead of him were dirt, cold,
hunger, the streets, the workhouse, and the jail. It was against THAT that he had got to
steel himself. And he could steel himself, if only she would leave him alone and not come
plaguing him with these irrelevant emotions.

He pushed her a little way from him. She had recovered herself quickly, as she always
did.

‘Gordon, my dear one! Oh, I’m so sorry, so sorry! ’

‘Sorry about what? ’

‘You losing your job and everything. You look so unhappy. ’

‘I’m not unhappy. Don’t pity me, for God’s sake. ’

He disengaged himself from her arms. She pulled her hat off and threw it into a chair.
She had come here with something definite to say. It was something she had refrained
from saying all these years — something that it had seemed to her a point of chivalry not
to say. But now it had got to be said, and she would come straight out with it. It was not
in her nature to beat about the bush.

‘Gordon, will you do something to please me? ’

‘What? ’

‘Will you go back to the New Albion? ’

So that was it! Of course he had foreseen it. She was going to start nagging at him like all
the others. She was going to add herself to the band of people who worried him and
badgered him to ‘get on’. But what else could you expect? It was what any woman would
say. The marvel was that she had never said it before. Go back to the New Albion! It had
been the sole significant action of his life, leaving the New Albion. It was his religion,
you might say, to keep out of that filthy money- world. Yet at this moment he could not
remember with any clarity the motives for which he had left the New Albion. All he



knew was that he would never go back, not if the skies fell, and that the argument he
foresaw bored him in advance.


He shrugged his shoulders and looked away. ‘The New Albion wouldn’t take me back,’
he said shortly.

‘Yes, they would. You remember what Mr Erskine said. It’s not so long ago — only two
years. And they’re always on the look-out for good copywriters. Everyone at the office
says so. I’m sure they’d give you a job if you went and asked them. And they’d pay you
at least four pounds a week. ’

‘Four pounds a week! Splendid! I could afford to keep an aspidistra on that, couldn’t I? ’
‘No, Gordon, don’t joke about it now. ’

‘I’m not joking. I’m serious. ’

‘You mean you won’t go back to them — not even if they offered you a job? ’

‘Not in a thousand years. Not if they paid me fifty pounds a week. ’

‘But why? Why? ’

‘I’ve told you why,’ he said wearily.

She looked at him helplessly. After all, it was no use. There was this money-business
standing in the way — these meaningless scruples which she had never understood but
which she had accepted merely because they were his. She felt all the impotence, the
resentment of a woman who sees an abstract idea triumphing over common sense. How
maddening it was, that he should let himself be pushed into the gutter by a thing like that!
She said almost angrily:

‘I don’t understand you, Gordon, I really don’t. Here you are out of work, you may be
starving in a little while for all you know; and yet when there’s a good job which you can
have almost for the asking, you won’t take it. ’


‘No, you’re quite right. I won’t. ’



‘But you must have SOME kind of job, mustn’t you? ’


‘A job, but not a GOOD job. I’ve explained that God knows how often. I dare say I’ll get
a job of sorts sooner or later. The same kind of job as I had before. ’

‘But I don’t believe you’re even TRYING to get a job, are you? ’

‘Yes, I am. I’ve been out all today seeing booksellers. ’

‘And you didn’t even shave this morning! ’ she said, changing her ground with feminine
swiftness.

He felt his chin. ‘I don’t believe I did, as a matter of fact. ’

‘And then you expect people to give you a job! Oh, Gordon! ’

‘Oh, well, what does it matter? It’s too much fag to shave every day. ’

‘You’re letting yourself go to pieces,’ she said bitterly.