No More Learning

Literary associations of the wrong kind (Coleridge was rumoured to have lived
there for six weeks in the summer of 1821) hung heavy upon it. You could not look at its
antique decaying houses, standing back from the road in dank gardens under heavy trees,
without feeling an atmosphere of outmoded ‘culture’ envelop you. In some of those
houses, undoubtedly, Browning Societies still flourished, and ladies in art serge sat at the
feet of extinct poets talking about Swinburne and Walter Pater. In spring the gardens



were sprinkled with purple and yellow crocuses, and later with harebells, springing up in
little Wendy rings among the anaemic grass; and even the trees, it seemed to Gordon,
played up to their environment and twisted themselves into whimsy Rackhamesque
attitudes. It was queer that a prosperous hack critic like Paul Doring should live in such a
place. For Doring was an astonishingly bad critic. He reviewed novels for the Sunday
Post and discovered the great English novel with Walpolean regularity once a fortnight.
You would have expected him to live in a flat on Hyde Park Corner. Perhaps it was a
kind of penance that he had imposed upon himself, as though by living in the refined
discomfort of Coleridge Grove he propitiated the injured gods of literature.

Gordon came round the corner, turning over in his mind a line from London Pleasures.
And then suddenly he stopped short. There was something wrong about the look of the
Dorings’ gate. What was it? Ah, of course! There were no cars waiting outside.

He paused, walked on a step or two, and stopped again, like a dog that smells danger. It
was all wrong. There OUGHT to be some cars. There were always quite a lot of people at
the Dorings’ parties, and half of them came in cars. Why had nobody else arrived? Could
he be too early? But no! They had said half past three and it was at least twenty to four.

He hastened towards the gate. Already he felt practically sure that the party HAD been
put off. A chill like the shadow of a cloud had fallen across him. Suppose the Dorings
weren’t at home! Suppose the party had been put off! And this thought, though it
dismayed him, did not strike him as in the least improbable. It was his special bugbear,
the especial childish dread he carried about with him, to be invited to people’s houses and
then find them not at home. Even when there was no doubt about the invitation he always
half expected that there would be some hitch or other. He was never quite certain of his
welcome. He took it for granted that people would snub him and forget about him. Why
not, indeed? He had no money. When you have no money your life is one long series of
snubs.

He swung the iron gate open. It creaked with a lonely sound. The dank mossy path was
bordered with chu nk s of some Rackhamesque pinkish stone. Gordon inspected the house-
front narrowly. He was so used to this kind of thing. He had developed a sort of Sherlock
Holmes technique for finding out whether a house was inhabited or not. Ah! Not much



doubt about it this time. The house had a deserted look. No smoke coming from the
chimneys, no windows lighted. It must be getting darkish indoors — surely they would
have lighted the lamps? And there was not a single footmark on the steps; that settled it.
Nevertheless with a sort of desperate hope he tugged at the bell. An old-fashioned wire
bell, of course. In Coleridge Grove it would have been considered low and unliterary to
have an electric bell.

Clang, clang, clang! went the bell.

Gordon’s last hope vanished. No mistaking the hollow clangour of a bell echoing through
an empty house. He seized the handle again and gave it a wrench that almost broke the
wire. A frightful, clamorous peal answered him. But it was useless, quite useless. Not a
foot stirred within. Even the servants were out. At this moment he became aware of a lace
cap, some dark hair, and a pair of youthful eyes regarding him furtively from the
basement of the house next door. It was a servant-girl who had come out to see what all
the noise was about. She caught his eye and gazed into the middle distance. He looked a
fool and knew it. One always does look a fool when one rings the bell of an empty house.
And suddenly it came to him that that girl knew all about him — knew that the party had
been put off and that everyone except Gordon had been told of it — knew that it was
because he had no money that he wasn’t worth the trouble of telling. SHE knew. Servants
always know.

He turned and made for the gate. Under the servant’s eye he had to stroll casually away,
as though this were a small disappointment that scarcely mattered. But he was trembling
so with anger that it was difficult to control his movements. The sods! The bloody sods!
To have played a trick like that on him! To have invited him, and then changed the day
and not even bothered to tell him! There might be other explanations — he just refused to
think of them. The sods, the bloody sods! His eye fell upon one of the Rackhamesque
chu nk s of stone. How he’d love to pick that thing up and bash it through the window! He
grasped the rusty gate-bar so hard that he hurt his hand and almost tore it. The physical
pain did him good. It counteracted the agony at his heart. It was not merely that he had
been cheated of an evening spent in human company, though that was much. It was the
feeling of helplessness, of insignificance, of being set aside, ignored — a creature not
worth worrying about. They’d changed the day and hadn’t even bothered to tell him. Told



everybody else, but not him. That’s how people treat you when you’ve no money! Just
wantonly, cold-bloodedly insult you. It was likely enough, indeed, that the Dorings’ had
honestly forgotten, meaning no harm; it was even possible that he himself had mistaken
the date. But no! He wouldn’t think of it. The Dorings’ had done it on purpose. Of
COURSE they had done it on purpose! Just hadn’t troubled to tell him, because he had no
money and consequently didn’t matter. The sods!

He walked rapidly away. There was a sharp pain in his breast. Human contact, human
voices! But what was the good of wishing? He’d have to spend the evening alone, as
usual. His friends were so few and lived so far away. Rosemary would still be at work;
besides, she lived at the back of beyond, in West Kensington, in a women’s hostel
guarded by female dragons. Ravelston lived nearer, in the Regent’s Park district. But
Ravelston was a rich man and had many engagements; the chances were always against
his being at home. Gordon could not even ring him up, because he hadn’t the necessary
two pennies; only three halfpence and the Joey. Besides, how could he go and see
Ravelston when he had no money? Ravelston would be sure to say ‘Let’s go to a pub,’ or
something! He couldn’t let Ravelston pay for his drinks. His friendship with Ravelston
was only possible on the understanding that he paid his share of everything.

He took out his single cigarette and lighted it. It gave him no pleasure to smoke, walking
fast; it was a mere reckless gesture. He did not take much notice of where he was going.
All he wanted was to tire himself, to walk and walk till the stupid physical fatigue had
obliterated the Dorings’ snub. He moved roughly southward — through the wastes of
Camden Town, down Tottenham Court Road. It had been dark for some time now. He
crossed Oxford Street, threaded through Covent Garden, found himself in the Strand, and
crossed the river by Waterloo Bridge. With night the cold had descended. As he walked
his anger grew less violent, but his mood could not fundamentally improve. There was a
thought that kept haunting him — a thought from which he fled, but which was not to be
escaped. It was the thought of his poems. His empty, silly, futile poems! How could he
ever have believed in them? To think that actually he had imagined, so short a time ago,
that even London Pleasures might one day come to something! It made him sick to think
of his poems now. It was like remembering last night’s debauch. He knew in his bones
that he was no good and his poems were no good. London Pleasures would never be
finished. If he lived to be a thousand he would never write a line worth reading. Over and



over, in self-hatred, he repeated those four stanzas of the poem he had been making up.
Christ, what tripe! Rhyme to rhyme — tinkle, tinkle, tinkle! Hollow as an empty biscuit
tin. THAT was the kind of muck he had wasted his life on.

He had walked a long way, five or seven miles perhaps. His feet were hot and swollen
from the pavements. He was somewhere in Lambeth, in a slummy quarter where the
narrow, puddled street plunged into blackness at fifty yards’ distance. The few lamps,
mist-ringed, hung like isolated stars, illumining nothing save themselves. He was getting
devilishly hungry. The coffee-shops tempted him with their steamy windows and their
chalked signs: ‘Good Cup of Tea, 2d. No Urns Used. ’ But it was no use, he couldn’t
spend his Joey. He went under some echoing railway arches and up the alley on to
Hungerford Bridge. On the miry water, lit by the glare of skysigns, the muck of East
London was racing inland. Corks, lemons, barrel-staves, a dead dog, hunks of bread.
Gordon walked along the Embankment to Westminster. The wind made the plane trees
rattle. Sharply the menacing wind sweeps over. He winced. That tripe again! Even now,
though it was December, a few poor draggled old wrecks were settling down on the
benches, tucking themselves up in sort of parcels of newspaper. Gordon looked at them
callously. On the bum, they called it. He would come to it himself some day. Better so,
perhaps? He never felt any pity for the genuine poor. It is the black-coated poor, the
middle-middle class, who need pitying.

He walked up to Trafalgar Square. Hours and hours to kill. The National Gallery? Ah,
shut long ago, of course. It would be. It was a quarter past seven. Three, four, five hours
before he could sleep. He walked seven times round the square, slowly. Four times
clockwise, three times widdershins. His feet were sore and most of the benches were
empty, but he would not sit down. If he halted for an instant the longing for tobacco
would come upon him. In the Charing Cross Road the teashops called like sirens. Once
the glass door of a Lyons swung open, letting out a wave of hot cake-scented air. It
almost overcame him. After all, why NOT go in? You could sit there for nearly an hour.
A cup of tea twopence, two buns a penny each. He had fourpence halfpenny, counting the
Joey. But no! That bloody Joey! The girl at the cash desk would titter. In a vivid vision he
saw the girl at the cash desk, as she handled his threepenny-bit, grin sidelong at the girl
behind the cake-counter. They’d KNOW it was your last threepence. No use. Shove on.
Keep moving.



In the deadly glare of the Neon lights the pavements were densely crowded. Gordon
threaded his way, a small shabby figure, with pale face and unkempt hair. The crowd slid
past him; he avoided and was avoided. There is something horrible about London at
night; the coldness, the anonymity, the aloofness. Seven million people, sliding to and
fro, avoiding contact, barely aware of one another’s existence, like fish in an aquarium
tank. The street swarmed with pretty girls. By scores they streamed past him, their faces
averted or unseeing; cold nymph-creatures, dreading the eyes of the male. It was queer
how many of them seemed to be alone, or with another girl. Far more women alone than
women with men, he noted. That too was money. How many girls alive wouldn’t be
manless sooner than take a man who’s moneyless?

The pubs were open, oozing sour whiffs of beer. People were trickling by ones and twos
into the picture -houses. Gordon halted outside a great garish picture-house, under the
weary eye of the commissionaire, to examine the photographs. Greta Garbo in The
Painted Veil. He yearned to go inside, not for Greta’s sake, but just for the warmth and
the softness of the velvet seat. He hated the pictures, of course, seldom went there even
when he could afford it. Why encourage the art that is destined to replace literature?
But
still, there is a kind of soggy attraction about it. To sit on the padded seat in the warm
smoke-scented darkness, letting the flickering drivel on the screen gradually overwhelm
you — feeling the waves of its silliness lap you round till you seem to drown, intoxicated,
in a viscous sea — after all, it’s the kind of drug we need. The right drug for friendless
people. As he approached the Palace Theatre a tart on sentry-go under the porch marked
him down, stepped forward, and stood in his path. A short, stocky Italian girl, very
young, with big black eyes. She looked agreeable, and, what tarts so seldom are, merry.
For a moment he checked his step, even allowing himself to catch her eye. She looked up
at him, ready to break out into a broad-lipped smile. Why not stop and talk to her? She
looked as though she might understand him. But no! No money! He looked away and
side-stepped her with the cold haste of a man whom poverty makes virtuous. How furious
she’d be if he stopped and then she found he had no money! He pressed on. Even to talk
costs money.

Up Tottenham Court Road and Camden Road it was a dreary drudge. He walked slower,
dragging his feet a little. He had done ten miles over pavements. More girls streamed
past, unseeing. Girls alone, girls with youths, girls with other girls, girls alone. Their



cruel youthful eyes went over him and through him as though he had not existed. He was
too tired to resent it. His shoulders surrendered to their weariness; he slouched, not trying
any longer to preserve his upright carriage and his you-be-damned air. They flee from me
that someone did me seek. How could you blame them? He was thirty, moth-eaten, and
without charm. Why should any girl ever look at him again?

He reflected that he must go home at once if he wanted any food — for Ma Wisbeach
refused to serve meals after nine o’clock. But the thought of his cold womanless bedroom
sickened him. To climb the stairs, light the gas, flop down at the table with hours to kill
and nothing to do, nothing to read, nothing to smoke — no, NOT endurable. In Camden
Town the pubs were full and noisy, though this was only Thursday. Three women, red-
armed, squat as the beer mugs in their hands, stood outside a pub door, talking. From
within came hoarse voices, fag-smoke, the fume of beer. Gordon thought of the Crichton
Arms. Flaxman might be there. Why not risk it? A half of bitter, threepence halfpenny.
He had fourpence halfpenny counting the Joey. After all, a Joey IS legal tender.

He felt dreadfully thirsty already. It had been a mistake to let himself think of beer. As he
approached the Crichton, he heard voices singing. The great garish pub seemed to be
more brightly lighted than usual. There was a concert of something going on inside.
Twenty ripe male voices were chanting in unison:

‘Fo — or REE’S a jorrigoo’ fellow, For REE’S a jorrigoo’ fellow, For REE’S a jorrigoo’
fe — ELL — OW — And toori oori us! ’

At least, that was what it sounded like. Gordon drew nearer, pierced by a ravishing thirst.
The voices were so soggy, so infinitely beery. When you heard them you saw the scarlet
faces of prosperous plumbers. There was a private room behind the bar where the
Buffaloes held their secret conclaves. Doubtless it was they who were singing. They were
giving some kind of commemorative booze to their president, secretary, Grand
Herbivore, or whatever he is called. Gordon hesitated outside the Saloon bar. Better to go
to the public bar, perhaps. Draught beer in the public, bottled beer in the saloon. He went
round to the other side of the pub. The beer-choked voices followed him:


‘With a toori oori ay. An’ a toori oori ay!



‘Fo — or REE’S ajorrigoo’ fellow, For REE’S ajorrigoo’ fellow — ’


He felt quite faint for a moment. But it was fatigue and hunger as well as thirst. He could
picture the cosy room where those Buffaloes were singing; the roaring fire, the big shiny
table, the bovine photographs on the wall. Could picture also, as the singing ceased,
twenty scarlet faces disappearing into pots of beer. He put his hand into his pocket and
made sure that the threepenny-bit was still there. After all, why not? In the public bar,
who would comment? Slap the Joey down on the bar and pass it off as a joke. ‘Been
saving that up from the Christmas pudding — ha, ha! ’ Laughter all round. Already he
seemed to have the metallic taste of draught beer on his tongue.

He fingered the tiny disc, irresolute. The Buffaloes had tuned up again:

‘With a toori oori ay, An’ a toori oori ay!

‘Fo — or REE’S ajorrigoo’ fellow — ’

Gordon moved back to the saloon bar. The window was frosted, and also steamy from the
heat inside. Still, there were chinks where you could see through. He peeped in. Yes,
Flaxman was there.

The saloon bar was crowded. Like all rooms seen from the outside, it looked ineffably
cosy. The fire that blazed in the grate danced, mirrored, in the brass spittoons. Gordon
thought he could almost smell the beer through the glass. Flaxman was propping up the
bar with two fish-faced pals who looked like insurance-touts of the better type. One
elbow on the bar, his foot on the rail, a beer-streaked glass in the other hand, he was
swapping backchat with the blonde cutie barmaid. She was standing on a chair behind the
bar, ranging the bottled beer and talking saucily over her shoulder. You couldn’t hear
what they were saying, but you could guess. Flaxman let fall some memorable witticism.
The fish-faced men bellowed with obscene laughter. And the blonde cutie, tittering down
at him, half shocked and half delighted, wriggled her neat little bum.

Gordon’s heart sickened. To be in there, just to be in there! In the warmth and light, with
people to talk to, with beer and cigarettes and a girl to flirt with! After all, why NOT go
in? You could borrow a bob off Flaxman. Flaxman would lend it to you all right. He



pictured Flaxman’s careless assent — ‘What ho, chappie! How’s life? What? A bob? Sure!
Take two. Catch, chappie! ’ — and the florin flicked along the beer-wet bar. Flaxman was a
decent sort, in his way.

Gordon put his hand against the swing door. He even pushed it open a few inches. The
warm fog of smoke and beer slipped through the crack. A familiar, reviving smell;
nevertheless as he smelled it his nerve failed him. No! Impossible to go in. He turned
away. He couldn’t go shoving in that saloon bar with only fourpence halfpenny in his
pocket. Never let other people buy your drinks for you! The first commandment of the
moneyless. He made off, down the dark pavement.

‘For REE’S a jorrigoo’ fe — ELL — OW — And toori oori us!

‘With a toori oori, ay! An’ a-’

The voices, diminishing with distance, rolled after him, bearing faint tidings of beer.
Gordon took the threepenny-bit from his pocket and sent it skimming away into the
darkness.

He was going home, if you could call it ‘going’. At any rate he was gravitating in that
direction. He did not want to go home, but he had got to sit down. His legs ached and his
feet were bruised, and that vile bedroom was the sole place in London where he had
purchased the right to sit down. He slipped in quietly, but, as usual, not quite so quietly
that Mrs Wisbeach failed to hear him. She gave him a brief nosy glance round the corner
of her door. It would be a little after nine. She might get him a meal if he asked her. But
she would grizzle and make a favour of it, and he would go to bed hungry sooner than
face that.

He started up the stairs. He was half way up the first flight when a double knock behind
made him jump. The post! Perhaps a letter from Rosemary!

Forced from outside, the letter flap lifted, and with an effort, like a heron regurgitating a
flatfish, vomited a bunch of letters on to the mat. Gordon’s heart bounded. There were six
or seven of them. Surely among all that lot there must be one for himself! Mrs Wisbeach,
as usual, had darted from her lair at the sound of the postman’s knock. As a matter of



fact, in two years Gordon had never once succeeded in getting hold of a letter before Mrs
Wisbeach laid hands on it. She gathered the letters jealously to her breast, and then,
holding them up one at a time, scanned their addresses. From her manner you could
gather that she suspected each one of them of containing a writ, an improper love letter,
or an ad for Amen Pills.

‘One for you, Mr Comstock,’ she said sourly, handing him a letter.

His heart shrank and paused in its beat. A long-shaped envelope. Not from Rosemary,
therefore. Ah! It was addressed in his own handwriting. From the editor of a paper, then.
He had two poems ‘out’ at present. One with the Californian Review, the other with the
Primrose Quarterly. But this wasn’t an American stamp. And the Primrose had had his
poem at least six weeks! Good God, supposing they’d accepted it!

He had forgotten Rosemary’s existence. He said ‘Thanks! ’, stuck the letter in his pocket,
and started up the stairs with outward calm, but no sooner was he out of Mrs Wisbeach’s
sight that he bounded up three steps at a time. He had got to be alone to open that letter.
Even before he reached the door he was feeling for his matchbox, but his fingers were
trembling so that in lighting the gas he chipped the mantle. He sat down, took the letter
from his pocket, and then quailed. For a moment he could not nerve himself to open it.
He held it up to the light and felt it to see how thick it was. His poem had been two
sheets. Then, calling himself a fool, he ripped the envelope open. Out tumbled his own
poem, and with it a neat — oh, so neat! — little printed slip of imitation parchment:

The Editor regrets that he is unable to make use of the enclosed contribution.

The slip was decorated with a design of funereal laurel leaves.

Gordon gazed at the thing with wordless hatred. Perhaps no snub in the world is so
deadly as this, because none is so unanswerable. Suddenly he loathed his own poem and
was acutely ashamed of it. He felt it the weakest, silliest poem ever written. Without
looking at it again he tore it into small bits and flung them into the wastepaper basket. He
would put that poem out of his mind for ever. The rejection slip, however, he did not tear
up yet. He fingered it, feeling its loathly sleekness. Such an elegant little thing, printed in
admirable type. You could tell at a glance that it came from a ‘good’ magazine — a snooty



highbrow magazine with the money of a publishing house behind it. Money, money!
Money and culture! It was a stupid thing that he had done. Fancy sending a poem to a
paper like the Primrose! As though they’d accept poems from people like HIM. The mere
fact that the poem wasn’t typed would tell them what kind of person he was. He might as
well have dropped a card on Buckingham Palace. He thought of the people who wrote for
the Primrose; a coterie of moneyed highbrows — those sleek, refined young animals who
suck in money and culture with their mother’s milk. The idea of trying to horn in among
that pansy crowd! But he cursed them all the same. The sods! The bloody sods! ‘The
Editor regrets! ’ Why be so bloody mealy-mouthed about it? Why not say outright, ‘We
don’t want your bloody poems. We only take poems from chaps we were at Cambridge
with. You proletarians keep your distance’? The bloody, hypocritical sods!

At last he crumpled up the rejection slip, threw it away, and stood up. Better get to bed
while he had the energy to undress. Bed was the only place that was warm. But wait.
Wind the clock, set the alarm. He went through the familiar action with a sense of deadly
staleness. His eye fell upon the aspidistra. Two years he had inhabited this vile room; two
mortal years in which nothing had been accomplished. Seven hundred wasted days, all
ending in the lonely bed.