No More Learning

In there, stowed away in his right-hand inner pocket, was an object
whose very existence he partly doubted. It was a stout blue envelope with an American
stamp; in the envelope was a cheque for fifty dollars; and the cheque was made out to
‘Gordon Comstock’!

He could feel the square shape of the envelope outlined against his body as clearly as
though it had been red hot. All the morning he had felt it there, whether he touched it or
whether he did not; he seemed to have developed a special patch of sensitiveness in the
skin below his right breast. As often as once in ten minutes he had taken the cheque out
of its envelope and anxiously examined it. After all, cheques are tricky things. It would
be frightful if there turned out to be some hitch about the date or the signature. Besides,
he might lose it — it might even vanish of its own accord like fairy gold.

The cheque had come from the Californian Review, that American magazine to which,
weeks or months ago, he had despairingly sent a poem. He had almost forgotten about the
poem, it had been so long away, until this morning their letter had come sailing out of the
blue. And what a letter! No English editor ever writes letters like that. They were ‘very
favorably impressed’ by his poem. They would ‘endeavor’ to include it in their next
number. Would he ‘favor’ them by showing them some more of his work? (Would he?
Oh, boy! — as Flaxman would say. ) And the cheque had come with it. It seemed the most
monstrous folly, in this year of blight 1934, that anyone should pay fifty dollars for a



poem. However, there it was; and there was the cheque, which looked perfectly genuine
however often he inspected it.

He would have no peace of mind till the cheque was cashed — for quite possibly the bank
would refuse it — but already a stream of visions was flowing through his mind. Visions
of girls’ faces, visions of cobwebby claret bottles and quart pots of beer, visions of a new
suit and his overcoat out of pawn, visions of a week-end at Brighton with Rosemary,
visions of the crisp, crackling five pound note which he was going to give to Julia. Above
all, of course, that fiver for Julia. It was almost the first thing he had thought of when the
cheque came. Whatever else he did with the money, he must give Julia half of it. It was
only the barest justice, considering how much he had ‘borrowed’ from her in all these
years. All the morning the thought of Julia and the money he owed her had been cropping
up in his mind at odd moments. It was a vaguely distasteful thought, however. He would
forget about it for half an hour at a time, would plan a dozen ways of spending his ten
pounds to the uttermost farthing, and then suddenly he would remember about Julia.
Good old Julia! Julia should have her share. A fiver at the very least. Even that was not a
tenth of what he owed her. For the twentieth time, with a faint malaise, he registered the
thought: five quid for Julia.

The bank made no trouble about the cheque. Gordon had no banking account, but they
knew him well, for Mr McKechnie banked there. They had cashed editors’ cheques for
Gordon before. There was only a minute’s consultation, and then the cashier came back.

‘Notes, Mr Comstock? ’

‘One five pound, and the rest pounds, please. ’

The flimsy luscious fiver and the five clean pound notes slid rustling under the brass rail.
And after them the cashier pushed a little pile of half-crowns and pennies. In lordly style
Gordon shot the coins into his pocket without even counting them. That was a bit of
backsheesh. He had only expected ten pounds for fifty dollars. The dollar must be above
par. The five pound note, however, he carefully folded up and stowed away in the
American envelope. That was Julia’s fiver. It was sacrosanct. He would post it to her
presently.



He did not go home for dinner. Why chew leathery beef in the aspidistral dining-room
when he had ten quid in pocket — five quid, rather? (He kept forgetting that half the
money was already mortgaged to Julia. ) For the moment he did not bother to post Julia’s
five pounds. This evening would be soon enough. Besides, he rather enjoyed the feeling
of it in his pocket. It was queer how different you felt with all that money in your pocket.
Not opulent, merely, but reassured, revivified, reborn. He felt a different person from
what he had been yesterday. He WAS a different person. He was no longer the
downtrodden wretch who made secret cups of tea over the oil stove at 31 Willowbed
Road. He was Gordon Comstock, the poet, famous on both sides of the Atlantic.
Publications: Mice (1932), London Pleasures (1935). He thought with perfect confidence
of London Pleasures now. In three months it should see the light. Demy octavo, white
buckram covers. There was nothing that he did not feel equal to now that his luck had
turned.

He strolled into the Prince of Wales for a bite of food. A cut off the joint and two veg. ,
one and twopence, a pint of pale ale ninepence, twenty Gold Flakes a shilling. Even after
that extravagance he still had well over ten pounds in hand — or rather, well over five
pounds. Beer-warmed, he sat and meditated on the things you can do with five pounds. A
new suit, a week-end in the country, a day-trip to Paris, five rousing drunks, ten dinners
in Soho restaurants. At this point it occurred to him that he and Rosemary and Ravelston
must certainly have dinner together tonight. Just to celebrate his stroke of luck; after all,
it isn’t every day that ten pounds — five pounds — drops out of the sky into your lap. The
thought of the three of them together, with good food and wine and money no object took
hold of him as something not to be resisted. He had just a tiny twinge of caution. Mustn’t
spend ALL his money, of course. Still, he could afford a quid — two quid. In a couple of
minutes he had got Ravelston on the pub phone.

‘Is that you, Ravelston? I say, Ravelston! Look here, you’ve got to have dinner with me
tonight. ’

From the other end of the line Ravelston faintly demurred. ‘No, dash it! You have dinner
with ME. ’ But Gordon overbore him. Nonsense! Ravelston had got to have dinner with
HIM tonight. Unwillingly, Ravelston assented. All right, yes, thanks; he’d like it very
much. There was a sort of apologetic misery in his voice. He guessed what had happened.



Gordon had got hold of money from somewhere and was squandering it immediately; as
usual, Ravelston felt he hadn’t the right to interfere. Where should they go? Gordon was
demanding. Ravelston began to speak in praise of those jolly little Soho restaurants where
you get such a wonderful dinner for half a crown. But the Soho restaurants sounded
beastly as soon as Ravelston mentioned them. Gordon wouldn’t hear of it. Nonsense!
They must go somewhere decent. Let’s do it all regardless, was his private thought; might
as well spend two quid — three quid, even. Where did Ravelston generally go?
Modigliani’s, admitted Ravelston. But Modigliani’s was very — but no! not even over the
phone could Ravelston frame that hateful word ‘expensive’. How remind Gordon of his
poverty? Gordon mightn’t care for Modigliani’s, he euphemistically said. But Gordon
was satisfied. Modigliani’s? Right you are — half past eight. Good! After all, if he spent
even three quid on the dinner he’d still have two quid to buy himself a new pair of shoes
and a vest and a pair of pants.

He had fixed it up with Rosemary in another five minutes. The New Albion did not like
their employees being rung up on the phone, but it did not matter once in a way. Since
that disastrous Sunday journey, five days ago, he had heard from her once but had not
seen her. She answered eagerly when she heard whose voice it was. Would she have
dinner with him tonight? Of course! What fun! And so in ten minutes the whole thing
was settled. He had always wanted Rosemary and Ravelston to meet, but somehow had
never been able to contrive it. These things are so much easier when you’ve got a little
money to spend.

The taxi bore him westward through the darkling streets. A three-mile journey — still, he
could afford it. Why spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar? He had dropped that notion of
spending only two pounds tonight. He would spend three pounds, three pounds ten —
four pounds if he felt like it. Slap up and regardless — that was the idea. And, oh! by the
way! Julia’s fiver. He hadn’t sent it yet. No matter. Send it first thing in the morning.
Good old Julia! She should have her fiver.

How voluptuous were the taxi cushions under his bum! He lolled this way and that. He
had been drinking, of course — had had two quick ones, or possibly three, before coming
away. The taxi-driver was a stout philosophic man with a weather-beaten face and a
knowing eye. He and Gordon understood one another. They had palled up in the bar



where Gordon was having his quick ones. As they neared the West End the taximan drew
up, unbidden, at a discreet pub on a corner. He knew what was in Gordon’s mind. Gordon
could do with a quick one. So could the taximan. But the drinks were on Gordon — that
too was understood.

‘You anticipated my thoughts,’ said Gordon, climbing out.

‘Yes, sir. ’

‘I could just about do with a quick one. ’

‘Thought you might, sir. ’

‘And could you manage one yourself, do you think? ’

‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ said the taximan.

‘Come inside,’ said Gordon.

They leaned matily on the brass-edged bar, elbow to elbow, lighting two of the taximan’ s
cigarettes. Gordon felt witty and expansive. He would have liked to tell the taximan the
history of his life. The white-aproned bannan hastened towards them.

‘Yes sir? ’ said the barman.

‘Gin,’ said Gordon.

‘Make it two,’ said the taximan.

More matily than ever, they clinked glasses.

‘Many happy returns,’ said Gordon.

‘Your birthday today, sir? ’

‘Only metaphorically. My re-birthday, so to speak. ’


‘I never had much education,’ said the taximan.



‘I was speaking in parables,’ said Gordon.


‘English is good enough for me,’ said the taximan.

‘It was the tongue of Shakespeare,’ said Gordon.

‘Literary gentleman, are you, sir, by any chance? ’

‘Do I look as moth-eaten as ah that? ’

‘Not moth-eaten, sir. Only intellectual-like. ’

‘You’re quite right. A poet. ’

‘Poet! It takes ah sorts to make a world, don’t it now? ’ said the taximan.

‘And a bloody good world it is,’ said Gordon.

His thoughts moved lyrically tonight. They had another gin and presently went back to
the taxi ah but arm in arm, after yet another gin. That made five gins Gordon had had this
evening. There was an ethereal feeling in his veins; the gin seemed to be flowing there,
mingled with his blood. He lay back in the corner of the seat, watching the great blazing
skysigns swim across the bluish dark. The evil red and blue of the Neon lights pleased
him at this moment. How smoothly the taxi glided! More like a gondola than a car. It was
having money that did that. Money greased the wheels. He thought of the evening ahead
of him; good food, good wine, good talk — above ah, no worrying about money. No
damned niggling with sixpences and ‘We can’t afford this’ and ‘We can’t afford that! ’
Rosemary and Ravelston would try to stop him being extravagant. But he would shut
them up. He’d spend every penny he had if he felt like it. Ten whole quid to bust! At
least, five quid.
The thought of Julia passed flickeringly through his mind and
disappeared again.

He was quite sober when they got to Modigliani’s. The monstrous commissionaire, like a
great glittering waxwork with the minimum of joints, stepped stiffly forward to open the
taxi door. His grim eye looked askance at Gordon’s clothes. Not that you were expected
to ‘dress’ at Modigliani’s. They were tremendously Bohemian at Modigliani’s, of course;



but there are ways and ways of being Bohemian, and Gordon’s way was the wrong way.
Gordon did not care. He bade the taximan an affectionate farewell, and tipped him half a
crown over his fare, whereat the commissionaire’s eye looked a little less grim. At this
moment Ravelston emerged from the doorway. The commissionaire knew Ravelston, of
course. He lounged out on to the pavement, a tall distinguished figure, aristocratically
shabby, his eye rather moody. He was worrying already about the money this dinner was
going to cost Gordon.

‘Ah, there you are, Gordon! ’

‘Hullo, Ravelston! Where’s Rosemary? ’

‘Perhaps she’s waiting inside. I don’t know her by sight, you know. But I say, Gordon,
look here! Before we go in, I wanted — ’

‘Ah, look, there she is! ’

She was coming towards them, swift and debonair. She threaded her way through the
crowd with the air of some neat little destroyer gliding between large clumsy cargo-boats.
And she was nicely dressed, as usual. The sub-shovel hat was cocked at its most
provocative angle. Gordon’s heart stirred. There was a girl for you! He was proud that
Ravelston should see her. She was very gay tonight. It was written all over her that she
was not going to remind herself or Gordon of their last disastrous encounter. Perhaps she
laughed and talked just a little too vivaciously as Gordon introduced them and they went
inside. But Ravelston had taken a liking to her immediately. Indeed, everyone who met
her did take a liking to Rosemary. The inside of the restaurant overawed Gordon for a
moment. It was so horribly, artistically smart. Dark gate-leg tables, pewter candlesticks,
pictures by modern French painters on the walls. One, a street scene, looked like a
Utrillo. Gordon stiffened his shoulders. Damn it, what was there to be afraid of? The five
pound note was tucked away in its envelope in his pocket. It was Julia’s five pounds, of
course; he wasn’t going to spend it. Still, its presence gave him moral support. It was a
kind of talisman. They were making for the corner table — Ravelston’s favourite table — at
the far end. Ravelston took Gordon by the arm and drew him a little back, out of
Rosemary’s hearing.



‘Gordon, look here! ’


‘What? ’

‘Look here, you’re going to have dinner with ME tonight. ’

‘Bosh! This is on me. ’

‘I do wish you would. I hate to see you spending all that money. ’

‘We won’t talk about money tonight,’ said Gordon.

‘Fifty-fifty, then,’ pleaded Ravelston.

‘It’s on me,’ said Gordon firmly.

Ravelston subsided. The fat, white-haired Italian waiter was bowing and smiling beside
the comer table. But it was at Ravelston, not at Gordon, that he smiled. Gordon sat down
with the feeling that he must assert himself quickly. He waved away the menu which the
waiter had produced.

‘We must settle what we’re going to drink first,’ he said.

‘Beer for me,’ said Ravelston, with a sort of gloomy haste. ‘Beer’s the only drink I care
about. ’

‘Me too,’ echoed Rosemary.

‘Oh, rot! We’ve got to have some wine. What do you like, red or white? Give me the
wine list,’ he said to the waiter.

‘Then let’s have a plain Bordeaux. Medoc or St Julien or something,’ said Ravelston.

‘I adore St Julien,’ said Rosemary, who thought she remembered that St Julien was
always the cheapest wine on the list.



Inwardly, Gordon damned their eyes. There you are, you see! They were in league
against him already. They were trying to prevent him from spending his money. There
was going to be that deadly, hateful atmosphere of ‘You can’t afford it’ hanging over
everything. It made him all the more anxious to be extravagant. A moment ago he would
have compromised on Burgundy. Now he decided that they must have something really
expensive — something fizzy, something with a kick in it. Champagne? No, they’d never
let him have champagne. Ah!

‘Have you got any Asti? ’ he said to the waiter.

The waiter suddenly beamed, thinking of his corkage. He had grasped now that Gordon
and not Ravelston was the host. He answered in the peculiar mixture of French and
English which he affected.

‘Asti, sir? Yes, sir. Very nice Asti! Asti Spumanti. Tres fin! Tres vif! ’

Ravelston’s worried eye sought Gordon’s across the table. You can’t afford it! his eye
pleaded.

‘Is that one of those fizzy wines? ’ said Rosemary.

‘Very fizzy, madame. Very lively wine. Tres vif! Pop! ’ His fat hands made a gesture,
picturing cascades of foam.

‘Asti,’ said Gordon, before Rosemary could stop him

Ravelston looked miserable. He knew that Asti would cost Gordon ten or fifteen shillings
a bottle. Gordon pretended not to notice. He began talking about Stendhal — association
with Duchesse de Sanseverina and her ‘force vin d’Asti’. Along came the Asti in a pail of
ice — a mistake, that, as Ravelston could have told Gordon. Out came the cork. Pop! The
wild wine foamed into the wide flat glasses. Mysteriously the atmosphere of the table
changed. Something had happened to all three of them. Even before it was drunk the
wine had worked its magic. Rosemary had lost her nervousness, Ravelston his worried
preoccupation with the expense, Gordon his defiant resolve to be extravagant. They were
eating anchovies and bread and butter, fried sole, roast pheasant with bread sauce and
chipped potatoes; but principally they were drinking and talking. And how brilliantly



they were talking — or so it seemed to them, anyway! They talked about the bloodiness of
modem life and the bloodiness of modern books. What else is there to talk about
nowadays? As usual (but, oh! how differently, now that there was money in his pocket
and he didn’t really believe what he was saying) Gordon descanted on the deadness, the
dreadfulness of the age we live in. French letters and machine-guns! The movies and the
Daily Mail! It was a bone-deep truth when he walked the streets with a couple of coppers
in his pocket; but it was a joke at this moment. It was great fun — it IS fun when you have
good food and good wine inside you — to demonstrate that we live in a dead and rotting
world. He was being witty at the expense of the modern literature; they were all being
witty. With the fine scorn of the unpublished Gordon knocked down reputation after
reputation. Shaw, Yeats, Eliot, Joyce, Huxley, Lewis, Hemingway — each with a careless
phrase or two was shovelled into the dustbin. What fun it all was, if only it could last!
And of course, at this particular moment, Gordon believed that it COULD last. Of the
first bottle of Asti, Gordon drank three glasses, Ravelston two, and Rosemary one.
Gordon became aware that a girl at the table opposite was watching him. A tall elegant
girl with a shell-pink skin and wonderful, almond-shaped eyes. Rich, obviously; one of
the moneyed intelligentsia. She thought him interesting — was wondering who he was.
Gordon found himself manufacturing special witticisms for her benefit. And he WAS
being witty, there was no doubt about that. That too was money. Money greasing the
wheels — wheels of thought as well as wheels of taxis.

But somehow the second bottle of Asti was not such a success as the first. To begin with
there was uncomfortableness over its ordering. Gordon beckoned to the waiter.

‘Have you got another bottle of this? ’

The waiter beamed fatly. ‘Yes, sir! Mais certainement, monsieur! ’

Rosemary frowned and tapped Gordon’s foot under the table. ‘No, Gordon, NO! You’re
not to. ’

‘Not to what? ’


‘Order another bottle. We don’t want it. ’



‘Oh, bosh! Get another bottle, waiter. ’


‘Yes, sir. ’

Ravelston rubbed his nose. With eyes too guilty to meet Gordon’s he looked at his wine
glass. ‘Look here, Gordon. Let ME stand this bottle. I’d like to. ’

‘Bosh! ’ repeated Gordon.

‘Get half a bottle, then,’ said Rosemary.

‘A whole bottle, waiter,’ said Gordon.

After that nothing was the same. They still talked, laughed, argued, but things were not
the same. The elegant girl at the table opposite had ceased watching Gordon. Somehow,
Gordon wasn’t being witty any longer. It is almost always a mistake to order a second
bottle. It is like bathing for a second time on a summer day. However warm the day is,
however much you have enjoyed your first bathe, you are always sorry for it if you go in
a second time. The magic had departed from the wine. It seemed to foam and sparkle
less, it was merely a clogging sourish liquid which you gulped down half in disgust and
half in hopes of getting drunk quicker. Gordon was now definitely though secretly drunk.
One half of him was drunk and the other half sober. He was beginning to have that
peculiar blurred feeling, as though your features had swollen and your fingers grown
thicker, which you have in the second stage of drunkenness. But the sober half of him
was still in command to outward appearance, anyway. The conversation grew more and
more tedious. Gordon and Ravelston talked in the detached uncomfortable manner of
people who have had a little scene and are not going to admit it. They talked about
Shakespeare. The conversation tailed off into a long discussion about the meaning of
Hamlet. It was very dull. Rosemary stifled a yawn. While Gordon’s sober half talked, his
drunken half stood aside and listened. Drunken half was very angry. They’d spoiled his
evening, damn them! with their arguing about that second bottle. All he wanted now was
to be properly drunk and have done with it. Of the six glasses in the second bottle he
drank four — for Rosemary refused more wine. But you couldn’t do much on this weak
stuff. Drunken half clamoured for more drink, and more, and more. Beer by the quart and
the bucket! A real good rousing drink! And by God! he was going to have it later on. He



thought of the five pound note stowed away in his inner pocket. He still had that to blow,
anyway.


The musical clock that was concealed somewhere in Modigliani’s interior struck ten.
‘Shall we shove off? ’ said Gordon.

Ravelston’s eyes looked pleadingly, guiltily across the table. Let me share the bill! his
eyes said.