No More Learning

‘But Mr Verrall — the Police officer? Surely he’s not on it? ’



‘Yes, madam, he have departed. ’ He waved his hand towards the train, now receding
rapidly in a cloud of rain and steam.


‘But the train wasn’t due to start yet! ’

‘No, madam. Not due to start for another ten minutes. ’

‘Then why has it gone? ’

The stationmaster waved his topi apologetically from side to side. His dark, squabby face
looked quite distressed.

‘I know, madam, I know! MOST unprecedented! But the young Military Police officer
have positively COMMANDED me to start the train! He declare that all is ready and he
do not wish to be kept waiting. I point out the irregularity. He say he do not care about
irregularity. I expostulate. He insist. And in short — ’

He made another gesture. It meant that Verrall was the kind of man who would have his
way, even when it came to starting a train ten minutes early. There was a pause. The two
Indians, imagining that they saw their chance, suddenly rushed forward, wailing, and
offered some grubby notebooks for Mrs Lackersteen’s inspection.

‘What DO these men want? ’ cried Mrs Lackersteen distractedly.

‘They are grass-wallahs, madam. They say that Lieutenant Verrall have departed owing
them large sums of money. One for hay, the other for corn. Of mine it is no affair. ’

There was a hoot from the distant train. It rolled round the bend, like a black-behinded
caterpillar that looks over its shoulder as it goes, and vanished. The stationmaster ’s wet
white trousers flapped forlornly about his legs. Whether Verrall had started the train early
to escape Elizabeth, or to escape the grass-wallahs, was an interesting question that was
never cleared up.

They made their way back along the road, and then struggled up the hill in such a wind
that sometimes they were driven several paces backwards. When they gained the veranda
they were quite out of breath. The servants took their streaming raincoats, and Elizabeth



shook some of the water from her hair. Mrs Lackersteen broke her silence for the first
time since they had left the station:

‘WELL! Of all the unmannerly — of the simply ABOMINABLE. . . ! ’

Elizabeth looked pale and sickly, in spite of the rain and wind that had beaten into her
face. But she would betray nothing.

‘I think he might have waited to say good-bye to us,’ she said coldly.

‘Take my word for it, dear, you are thoroughly well rid of him! . . . As I said from the
start, a most ODIOUS young man! ’

Some time later, when they were sitting down to breakfast, having bathed and got into
dry clothes, and feeling better, she remarked:

‘Let me see, what day is this? ’

‘Saturday, Aunt. ’

‘Ah, Saturday. Then the dear padre will be arriving this evening. How many shall we be
for the service tomorrow? Why, I think we shall ALL be here! How very nice! Mr Flory
will be here too. I think he said he was coming back from the jungle tomorrow. ’ She
added almost lovingly, ‘DEAR Mr Flory! ’


CHAPTER 24

It was nearly six o’clock in the evening, and the absurd bell in the six-foot tin steeple of
the church went clank-clank, clank-clank! as old Mattu pulled the rope within. The rays
of the setting sun, refracted by distant rainstonns, flooded the maidan with a beautiful,
lurid light. It had been raining earlier in the day, and would rain again. The Christian



community of Kyauktada, fifteen in number, were gathering at the church door for the
evening service.

Flory was already there, and Mr Macgregor, grey topi and all, and Mr Francis and Mr
Samuel, frisking about in freshly laundered drill suits — for the six-weekly church service
was the great social event of their lives. The padre, a tall man with grey hair and a
refined, discoloured face, wearing pince-nez, was standing on the church steps in his
cassock and surplice, which he had put on in Mr Macgregor’s house. He was smiling in
an amiable but rather helpless way at four pink-cheeked Karen Christians who had come
to make their bows to him; for he did not speak a word of their language nor they of his.
There was one other Oriental Christian, a mournful, dark Indian of uncertain race, who
stood humbly in the background. He was always present at the church services, but no
one knew who he was or why he was a Christian. Doubtless he had been captured and
baptized in infancy by the missionaries, for Indians who are converted when adults
almost invariably lapse.

Flory could see Elizabeth coming down the hill, dressed in lilac-colour, with her aunt and
uncle. He had seen her that morning at the Club — they had had just a minute alone
together before the others came in. He had only asked her one question.

‘Has Verrall gone — for good? ’

‘Yes. ’

There had been no need to say any more. He had simply taken her by the arms and drawn
her towards him. She came willingly, even gladly — there in the clear daylight, merciless
to his disfigured face. For a moment she had clung to him almost like a child. It was a
though he had saved her or protected her from something. He raised her face to kiss her,
and found with surprise that she was crying. There had been no time to talk then, not
even to say, ‘Will you marry me? ’ No matter, after the service there would be time
enough. Perhaps at his next visit, only six weeks hence, the padre would marry them.

Ellis and Westfield and the new Military Policeman were approaching from the Club,
where they had been having a couple of quick ones to last them through the service. The
Forest Officer who had been sent to take Maxwell’s place, a sallow, tall man, completely



bald except for two whisker-like tufts in front of his ears, was following them. Flory had
not time to say more than ‘Good evening’ to Elizabeth when she arrived. Mattu, seeing
that everyone was present, stopped ringing the bell, and the clergyman led the way inside,
followed by Mr Macgregor, with his topi against his stomach, and the Lackersteens and
the native Christians. Ellis pinched Flory’ s elbow and whispered boozily in his ear:

‘Come on, line up. Time for the snivel-parade. Quick march! ’

He and the Military Policeman went in behind the others, ann-in-arm, with a dancing
step — the policeman, till they got inside, wagging his fat behind in imitation of a pwe-
dancer. Flory sat down in the same pew as these two, opposite Elizabeth, on her right. It
was the first time that he had ever risked sitting with his birthmark towards her. ‘Shut
your eyes and count twenty-five’, whispered Ellis as they sat down, drawing a snigger
from the policeman. Mrs Lackersteen had already taken her place at the hannonium,
which was no bigger than a writing-desk. Mattu stationed himself by the door and began
to pull the punkah — it was so arranged that it only flapped over the front pews, where the
Europeans sat. Flo came nosing up the aisle, found Flory’s pew and settled down
underneath it. The service began.

Flory was only attending intermittently. He was dimly aware of standing and kneeling
and muttering ‘Amen’ to interminable prayers, and of Ellis nudging him and whispering
blasphemies behind his hymn book. But he was too happy to collect his thoughts. Hell
was yielding up Eurydice. The yellow light flooded in through the open door, gilding the
broad back of Mr Macgregor’s silk coat like cloth-of-gold. Elizabeth, across the narrow
aisle, was so close to Flory that he could hear every rustle of her dress and feel, as it
seemed to him, the warmth of her body; yet he would not look at her even once, lest the
others should notice it. The hannonium quavered bronchitically as Mrs Lackersteen
struggled to pump sufficient air into it with the sole pedal that worked. The singing was a
queer, ragged noise — an earnest booming from Mr Macgregor, a kind of shamefaced
muttering from the other Europeans, and from the back a loud, wordless lowing, for the
Karen Christians knew the tunes of the hymns but not the words.

They were kneeling down again. ‘More bloody knee-drill,’ Ellis whispered. The air
darkened, and there was a light patter of rain on the roof; the trees outside rustled, and a



cloud of yellow leaves whirled past the window. Flory watched them through the chinks
of his lingers. Twenty years ago, on winter Sundays in his pew in the parish church at
home, he used to watch the yellow leaves, as at this moment, drifting and fluttering
against leaden skies. Was it not possible, now, to begin over again as though those grimy
years had never touched him? Through his fingers he glanced sidelong at Elizabeth,
kneeling with her head bent and her face hidden in her youthful, mottled hands. When
they were married, when they were married! What fun they would have together in this
alien yet kindly land! He saw Elizabeth in his camp, greeting him as he came home tired
from work and Ko STa hurried from the tent with a bottle of beer; he saw her walking in
the forest with him, watching the hornbills in the peepul trees and picking nameless
flowers, and in the marshy grazing-grounds, tramping through the cold-weather mist after
snipe and teal. He saw his home as she would remake it. He saw his drawing-room,
sluttish and bachelor-like no longer, with new furniture from Rangoon, and a bowl of
pink balsams like rosebuds on the table, and books and water-colours and a black piano.
Above all the piano! His mind lingered upon the piano — symbol, perhaps because he was
unmusical, of civilized and settled life. He was delivered for ever from the sub-life of the
past decade — the debaucheries, the lies, the pain of exile and solitude, the dealings with
whores and moneylenders and pukka sahibs.

The clergyman stepped to the small wooden lectern that also served as a pulpit, slipped
the band from a roll of sermon paper, coughed, and announced a text. ‘In the name of the
Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen. ’

‘Cut it short, for Christ’s sake,’ murmured Ellis.

Flory did not notice how many minutes passed. The words of the sermon flowed
peacefully through his head, an indistinct burbling sound, almost unheard. When they
were married, he was still thinking, when they were married —

Hullo! What was happening?

The clergyman had stopped short in the middle of a word. He had taken off his pince-nez
and was shaking them with a distressed air at someone in the doorway. There was a
fearful, raucous scream.



‘Pike-san pay-like! Pike-san pay-like! ’


Everyone jumped in their seats and turned round. It was Ma Hla May. As they turned she
stepped inside the church and shoved old Mattu violently aside. She shook her fist at
Flory.

‘Pike-san pay-like! Pike-san pay-like! Yes, THAT’S the one I mean — Flory, Flory! (She
pronounced it Porley. ) That one sitting in front there, with the black hair! Turn round and
face me, you coward! Where is the money you promised me? ’

She was shrieking like a maniac. The people gaped at her, too astounded to move or
speak. Her face was grey with powder, her greasy hair was tumbling down, her longyi
was ragged at the bottom. She looked like a screaming hag of the bazaar. Flory’ s bowels
seemed to have turned to ice. Oh God, God! Must they know — must Elizabeth know —
that THAT was the woman who had been his mistress? But there was not a hope, not the
vestige of a hope, of any mistake. She had screamed his name over and over again. Flo,
hearing the familiar voice, wriggled from under the pew, walked down the aisle and
wagged her tail at Ma Hla May. The wretched woman was yelling out a detailed account
of what Flory had done to her.

‘Fook at me, you white men, and you women, too, look at me! Fook how he has ruined
me! Fook at these rags I am wearing! And he is sitting there, the liar, the coward,
pretending not to see me! He would let me starve at his gate like a pariah dog. Ah, but I
will shame you! Turn round and look at me! Fook at this body that you have kissed a
thousand times — look — look — ’

She began actually to tear her clothes open — the last insult of a base-born Burmese
woman. The harmonium squeaked as Mrs Fackersteen made a convulsive movement.
People had at last found their wits and began to stir. The clergyman, who had been
bleating ineffectually, recovered his voice, ‘Take that woman outside! ’ he said sharply.

Flory’s face was ghastly. After the first moment he had turned his head away from the
door and set his teeth in a desperate effort to look unconcerned. But it was useless, quite
useless. His face was as yellow as bone, and the sweat glistened on his forehead. Francis



and Samuel, doing perhaps the first useful deed of their lives, suddenly sprang from their
pew, grabbed Ma Hla May by the arms and hauled her outside, still screaming.

It seemed very silent in the church when they had finally dragged her out of hearing. The
scene had been so violent, so squalid, that everyone was upset by it. Even Ellis looked
disgusted. Flory could neither speak nor stir. He sat staring fixedly at the altar, his face
rigid and so bloodless that the birth-mark seemed to glow upon it like a streak of blue
paint. Elizabeth glanced across the aisle at him, and her revulsion made her almost
physically sick. She had not understood a word of what Ma Hla May was saying, but the
meaning of the scene was perfectly clear. The thought that he had been the lover of that
grey-faced, maniacal creature made her shudder in her bones. But worse than that, worse
than anything, was his ugliness at this moment. His face appalled her, it was so ghastly,
rigid and old. It was like a skull. Only the birthmark seemed alive in it. She hated him
now for his birthmark. She had never known till this moment how dishonouring, how
unforgivable a thing it was.

Like the crocodile, U Po Kyin had struck at the weakest spot. For, needless to say, this
scene was U Po Kyin’s doing. He had seen his chance, as usual, and tutored Ma Hla May
for her part with considerable care. The clergyman brought his sermon to an end almost
at once. As soon as it was over Flory hurried outside, not looking at any of the others. It
was getting dark, thank God. At fifty yards from the church he halted, and watched the
others making in couples for the Club. It seemed to him that they were hurrying. Ah, they
would, of course! There would be something to talk about at the Club tonight! Flo rolled
belly-upwards against his ankles, asking for a game. ‘Get out, you bloody brute! ’ he said,
and kicked her.
Elizabeth had stopped at the church door. Mr Macgregor, happy chance,
seemed to be introducing her to the clergyman. In a moment the two men went on in the
direction of Mr Macgregor’ s house, where the clergyman was to stay for the night, and
Elizabeth followed the others, thirty yards behind them. Flory ran after her and caught up
with her almost at the Club gate.

‘Elizabeth! ’


She looked round, saw him, turned white, and would have hurried on without a word. But
his anxiety was too great, and he caught her by the wrist.



‘Elizabeth! I must — I’ve got to speak to you! ’


‘Let me go, will you! ’

They began to struggle, and then stopped abruptly. Two of the Karens who had come out
of the church were standing fifty yards away, gazing at them through the half-darkness
with deep interest. Flory began again in a lower tone:

‘Elizabeth, I know I’ve no right to stop you like this. But I must speak to you, I must!
Please hear what I’ve got to say. Please don’t run away from me! ’

‘What are you doing? Why are you holding on to my arm? Let me go this instant! ’

‘I’ll let you go — there, look! But do listen to me, please! Answer me this one thing. After
what’s happened, can you ever forgive me? ’

‘Forgive you? What do you mean, FORGIVE you? ’

‘I know I’m disgraced. It was the vilest thing to happen! Only, in a sense it wasn’t my
fault. You’ll see that when you’re calmer. Do you think — not now, it was too bad, but
later — do you think you can forget it? ’

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Forget it? What has it got to do with ME?
I thought it was very disgusting, but it’s not MY business. I can’t think why you’re
questioning me like this at all. ’

He almost despaired at that. Her tone and even her words were the very ones she had
used in that earlier quarrel of theirs. It was the same move over again. Instead of hearing
him out she was going to evade him and put him off — snub him by pretending that he had
no claim upon her.

‘Elizabeth! Please answer me. Please be fair to me! It’s serious this time. I don’t expect
you to take me back all at once. You couldn’t, when I’m publicly disgraced like this. But,
after all, you virtually promised to marry me — ’


‘What! Promised to marry you? WHEN did I promise to marry you? ’



‘Not in words, I know. But it was understood between us. ’


‘Nothing of the kind was understood between us! I think you are behaving in the most
horrible way. I’m going along to the Club at once. Good evening! ’

‘Elizabeth! Elizabeth! Listen. It’s not fair to condemn me unheard. You knew before
what I’d done, and you knew that I’d lived a different life since I met you. What
happened this evening was only an accident. That wretched woman, who, I admit, was
once my — well — ’

‘I won’t listen, I won’t listen to such things! I’m going! ’

He caught her by the wrists again, and this time held her. The Karens had disappeared,
fortunately.

‘No, no, you shall hear me! I’d rather offend you to the heart than have this uncertainty.
It’s gone on week after week, month after month, and I’ve never once been able to speak
straight out to you. You don’t seem to know or care how much you make me suffer. But
this time you’ve got to answer me. ’

She struggled in his grip, and she was surprisingly strong. Her face was more bitterly
angry than he had ever seen or imagined it. She hated him so that she would have struck
him if her hands were free.

‘Let me go! Oh, you beast, you beast, let me go! ’

‘My God, my God, that we should fight like this! But what else can I do? I can’t let you
go without even hearing me. Elizabeth, you MUST listen to me! ’

‘I will not! I will not discuss it! What right have you to question me? Let me go! ’

‘Forgive me, forgive me! This one question. Will you — not now, but later, when this vile
business is forgotten — will you marry me? ’


‘No, never, never! ’



‘Don’t say it like that! Don’t make it final. Say no for the present if you like — but in a
month, a year, five years — ’


‘Haven’t I said no? Why must you keep on and on? ’

‘Elizabeth, listen to me. I’ve tried again and again to tell you what you mean to me — oh,
it’s so useless talking about it! But do try and understand. Haven’t I told you something
of the life we live here? The sort of horrible death-in-life! The decay, the loneliness, the
self-pity? Try and realize what it means, and that you’re the sole person on earth who
could save me from it. ’

‘Will you let me go? Why do you have to make this dreadful scene? ’

‘Does it mean nothing to you when I say that I love you? I don’t believe you’ve ever
realized what it is that I want from you. If you like. I’d marry you and promise never
even touch you with my finger. I wouldn’t mind even that, so long as you were with me.
But I can’t go on with my life alone, always alone. Can’t you bring yourself ever to
forgive me? ’

‘Never, never! I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth. I’d as soon marry
the — the sweeper! ’

She had begun crying now. He saw that she meant what she said. The tears came into his
own eyes. He said again:

‘For the last time. Remember that it’s something to have one person in the world who
loves you. Remember that though you’ll find men who are richer, and younger, and better
in every way than I, you’ll never find one who cares for you so much. And though I’m
not rich, at least I could make you a home. There’s a way of living — civilized, decent — ’

‘Haven’t we said enough? ’ she said more calmly. ‘Will you let me go before somebody
comes? ’

He relaxed his grip on her wrists. He had lost her, that was certain. Like a hallucination,
painfully clear, he saw again their home as he had imagined it; he saw their garden, and
Elizabeth feeding Nero and the pigeons on the drive by the sulphur-yellow phloxes that



grew as high as her shoulder; and the drawing-room, with the water-colours on the walls,
and the balsams in the china bowl mirrored by the table, and the book-shelves, and the
black piano. The impossible, mythical piano — symbol of everything that that futile
accident had wrecked!

‘You should have a piano,’ he said despairingly.

‘I don’t play the piano. ’

He let her go. It was no use continuing. She was no sooner free of him than she took to
her heels and actually ran into the Club garden, so hateful was his presence to her.
Among the trees she stopped to take off her spectacles and remove the signs of tears from
her face. Oh, the beast, the beast! He had hurt her wrists abominably. Oh, what an
unspeakable beast he was! When she thought of his face as it had looked in church,
yellow and glistening with the hideous birthmark upon it, she could have wished him
dead. It was not what he had done that horrified her. He might have committed a
thousand abominations and she could have forgiven him. But not after that shameful,
squalid scene, and the devilish ugliness of his disfigured face in that moment. It was,
finally, the birthmark that had damned him.

Her aunt would be furious when she heard that she had refused Flory. And there was her
uncle and his leg-pinching — between the two of them, life here would become
impossible. Perhaps she would have to go Home unmarried after all. Black beetles! No
matter. Anything — spinsterhood, drudgery, anything — sooner than the alternative. Never,
never, would she yield to a man who had been so disgraced! Death sooner, far sooner. If
there had been mercenary thoughts in her mind an hour ago, she had forgotten them. She
did not even remember that Verrall had jilted her and that to have married Flory would
have saved her face. She knew only that he was dishonoured and less than a man, and
that she hated him as she would have hated a leper or a lunatic. The instinct was deeper
than reason or even self-interest, and she could no more have disobeyed it than she could
have stopped breathing.

Flory, as he turned up the hill, did not run, but he walked as fast as he could. What he had
to do must be done quickly. It was getting very dark. The wretched Flo, who even now
had not grasped that anything serious was the matter, trotted close to his heels,



whimpering in a self-pitying manner to reproach him for the kick he had given her. As he
came up the path a wind blew through the plaintain trees, rattling the tattered leaves and
bringing a scent of damp. It was going to rain again. Ko S’ la had laid the dinner-table and
was removing some flying beetles that had committed suicide against the petrol-lamp.
Evidently he had not heard about the scene in church yet.

‘The holy one’s dinner is ready. Will the holy one dine now? ’

‘No, not yet. Give me that lamp. ’

He took the lamp, went into the bedroom and shut the door, The stale scent of dust and
cigarette-smoke met him, and in the white, unsteady glare of the lamp he could see the
mildewed books and the lizards on the wall. So he was back again to this — to the old,
secret life — after everything, back where he had been before.

Was it not possible to endure it! He had endured it before. There were palliatives — books,
his garden, drink, work, whoring, shooting, conversations with the doctor.

No, it was not endurable any longer. Since Elizabeth’s coming the power to suffer and
above all to hope, which he had thought dead in him, had sprung to new life. The half-
comfortable lethargy in which he had lived was broken. And if he suffered now, there
was far worse to come. In a little while someone else would marry her. How he could
picture it — the moment when he heard the news! — ‘Did you hear the Lackersteen kid’s
got off at last? Poor old So-and-so — booked for the altar, God help him,’ etc. , etc. And
the casual question — ‘Oh, really? When is it to be? ’ — stiffening one’s face, pretending to
be uninterested. And then her wedding day approaching, her bridal night — ah, not that!
Obscene, obscene. Keep your eyes fixed on that. Obscene. He dragged his tin uniform-
case from under the bed, took out his automatic pistol, slid a clip of cartridges into the
magazine, and pulled one into the breech.

Ko S’la was remembered in his will. There remained Flo. He laid his pistol on the table
and went outside. Flo was playing with Ba Shin, Ko S’la’s youngest son, under the lee of
the cookhouse, where the servants had left the remains of a woodlire. She was dancing
round him with her small teeth bared, pretending to bite him, while the tiny boy, his belly
red in the glow of the embers, smacked weakly at her, laughing, and yet half frightened.



‘Flo! Come here, Flo! ’


She heard him and came obediently, and then stopped short at the bedroom door. She
seemed to have grasped now that there was something wrong. She backed a little and
stood looking timorously up at him, unwilling to enter the bedroom.

‘Come in here! ’

She wagged her tail, but did not move.

‘Come on, Flo! Good old Flo! Come on! ’

Flo was suddenly stricken with terror. She whined, her tail went down, and she shrank
back. ‘Come here, blast you!