No More Learning

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. Gordon ignored him.

‘I vote we go to the Cafe Imperial,’ he said.

The bill failed to sober him. A little over two quid for the dinner, thirty bob for the wine.
He did not let the others see the bill, of course, but they saw him paying. He threw four
pound notes on to the waiter’s salver and said casually, ‘Keep the change. ’ That left him
with about ten bob besides the fiver. Ravelston was helping Rosemary on with her coat;
as she saw Gordon throw notes to the waiter her lips parted in dismay. She had had no
idea that the dinner was going to cost anything like four pounds. It horrified her to see
him throwing money about like that. Ravelston looked gloomy and disapproving. Gordon
damned their eyes again. Why did they have to keep on worrying? He could afford it,
couldn’t he? He still had that fiver. But by God, it wouldn’t be his fault if he got home
with a penny left!

But outwardly he was quite sober, and much more subdued than he had been half an hour
ago. ‘We’d better have a taxi to the Cafe Imperial,’ he said.

‘Oh, let’s walk! ’ said Rosemary. ‘It’s only a step. ’

‘No, we’ll have a taxi. ’

They got into the taxi and were driven away, Gordon sitting next to Rosemary. He had
half a mind to put his arm round her, in spite of Ravelston’s presence. But at that moment
a swirl of cold night air came in at the window and blew against Gordon’s forehead. It
gave him a shock. It was like one of those moments in the night when suddenly from
deep sleep you are broad awake and full of some dreadful realization — as that you are
doomed to die, for instance, or that your life is a failure. For perhaps a minute he was



cold sober. He knew all about himself and the awful folly he was committing — knew that
he had squandered five pounds on utter foolishness and was now going to squander the
other five that belonged to Julia. He had a fleeting but terribly vivid vision of Julia, with
her thin face and her greying hair, in the cold of her dismal bed-sitting room. Poor, good
Julia! Julia who had been sacrificed to him all her life, from whom he had borrowed
pound after pound after pound; and now he hadn’t even the decency to keep her five
intact! He recoiled from the thought; he fled back into his drunkenness as into a refuge.
Quick, quick, we’re getting sober! Booze, more booze! Recapture that first fine careless
rapture! Outside, the multi-coloured window of an Italian grocery, still open, swam
towards them. He tapped sharply on the glass. The taxi drew up.
Gordon began to climb
out across Rosemary’s knees.

‘Where are you going, Gordon? ’

‘To recapture that first fine careless rapture,’ said Gordon, on the pavement.

‘What? ’

‘It’s time we laid in some more booze. The pubs’ll be shutting in half an hour. ’

‘No, Gordon, no! You’re not to get anything more to drink. You’ve had quite enough
already. ’


‘Wait! ’


He came out of the shop nursing a litre bottle of Chianti. The grocer had taken the cork
out for him and put it in loosely again. The others had grasped now that he was drunk —
that he must have been drinking before he met them. It made them both embarrassed.
They went into the Cafe Imperial, but the chief thought in both their minds was to get
Gordon away and to bed as quickly as possible. Rosemary whispered behind Gordon’s
back, ‘PLEASE don’t let him drink any more! ’ Ravelston nodded gloomily. Gordon was
marching ahead of them to a vacant table, not in the least troubled by the stares everyone
was casting at the wine-bottle which he carried on his arm. They sat down and ordered
coffee, and with some difficulty Ravelston restrained Gordon from ordering brandy as
well. All of them were ill at ease. It was horrible in the great garish cafe, stuffily hot and



deafeningly noisy with the jabber of several hundred voices, the clatter of plates and
glasses, and the intermittent squalling of the band. All three of them wanted to get away.
Ravelston was still worrying about the expense, Rosemary was worried because Gordon
was drunk, Gordon was restless and thirsty. He had wanted to come here, but he was no
sooner here than he wanted to escape. Drunken half was clamouring for a bit of fun. And
drunken half wasn’t going to be kept in check much longer. Beer, beer! cried drunken
half. Gordon hated this stuffy place. He had visions of a pub taproom with great oozy
barrels and quart pots topped with foam. He kept an eye on the clock. It was nearly half
past ten and the pubs even in Westminster would shut at eleven. Mustn’t miss his beer!
The bottle of wine was for afterwards, when the pubs were shut. Rosemary was sitting
opposite him, talking to Ravelston, uncomfortably but with a sufficient pretence that she
was enjoying herself and there was nothing the matter. They were still talking in a rather
futile way about Shakespeare. Gordon hated Shakespeare. As he watched Rosemary
talking there came over him a violent, perverse desire for her. She was leaning forward,
her elbows on the table; he could see her small breasts clearly through her dress. It came
to him with a kind of shock, a catch of breath, which once again almost sobered him, that
he had seen her naked. She was his girl! He could have her whenever he wanted her! And
by God, he was going to have her tonight! Why not? It was a fitting end to the evening.
They could find a place easily enough; there are plenty of hotels round Shaftesbury
Avenue where they don’t ask questions if you can pay the bill. He still had his fiver. He
felt her foot under the table, meaning to imprint a delicate caress upon it, and only
succeeded in treading on her toe. She drew her foot away from him.

‘Let’s get out of this,’ he said abruptly, and at once stood up.

‘Oh, let’s! ’ said Rosemary with relief.

They were in Regent Street again. Down on the left Piccadilly Circus blazed, a horrible
pool of light. Rosemary’s eyes turned towards the bus stop opposite.

‘It’s half past ten,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I’ve got to be back by eleven. ’

‘Oh, rot! Let’s look for a decent pub. I mustn’t miss my beer. ’


‘Oh, no, Gordon! No more pubs tonight. I couldn’t drink any more. Nor ought you. ’



‘It doesn’t matter. Come this way. ’


He took her by the arm and began to lead her down towards the bottom of Regent Street,
holding her rather tight as though afraid she would escape. For the moment he had
forgotten about Ravelston. Ravelston followed, wondering whether he ought to leave
them to themselves or whether he ought to stay and keep an eye on Gordon. Rosemary
hung back, not liking the way Gordon was pulling at her arm.

‘Where are you taking me, Gordon? ’

‘Round the corner, where it’s dark. I want to kiss you. ’

‘I don’t think I want to be kissed. ’

‘Of course you do. ’


‘No! ’


‘Yes! ’


She let him take her. Ravelston waited on the comer by the Regent Palace, uncertain
what to do. Gordon and Rosemary disappeared round the corner and were almost
immediately in darker, narrower streets. The appalling faces of tarts, like skulls coated
with pink powder, peered meaningly from several doorways. Rosemary shrank from
them. Gordon was rather amused.

‘They think you’re one of them,’ he explained to her.

He stood his bottle on the pavement, carefully, against the wall, then suddenly seized her
and twisted her backwards. He wanted her badly, and he did not want to waste time over
preliminaries. He began to kiss her face all over, clumsily but very hard. She let him do it
for a moment, but it frightened her; his face, so close to hers, looked pale, strange, and
distracted. He smelt very strongly of wine. She struggled, turning her face away so that
he was only kissing her hair and neck.


‘Gordon, you mustn’t! ’



‘Why mustn’t I? ’


‘What are you doing? ’

‘What do you suppose I’m doing? ’

He shoved her back against the wall, and with the careful, preoccupied movements of a
drunken man, tried to undo the front of her dress. It was of a kind that did not undo, as it
happened. This time she was angry. She struggled violently, fending his hand aside.

‘Gordon, stop that at once! ’

‘Why? ’

‘If you do it again I’ll smack your face. ’

‘Smack my face! Don’t you come the Girl Guide with me. ’

‘Let me go, will you! ’

‘Think of last Sunday,’ he said lewdly.

‘Gordon, if you go on I’ll hit you, honestly I will. ’

‘Not you. ’

He thrust his hand right into the front of her dress. The movement was curiously brutal,
as though she had been a stranger to him. She grasped that from the expression of his
face. She was not Rosemary to him any longer, she was just a girl, a girl’s body. That was
the thing that upset her. She struggled and managed to free herself from him. He came
after her again and clutched her ann. She smacked his face as hard as she could and
dodged neatly out of his reach.

‘What did you do that for? ’ he said, feeling his cheek but not hurt by the blow.


‘I’m not going to stand that sort of thing. I’m going home. You’ll be different tomorrow. ’



‘Rot! You come along with me. You’re going to bed with me. ’


‘Good night! ’ she said, and fled up the dark side street.

For a moment he thought of following her, but found his legs too heavy. It did not seem
worth while, anyway. He wandered back to where Ravelston was still waiting, looking
moody and alone, partly because he was worried about Gordon and partly because he was
trying not to notice two hopeful tarts who were on patrol just behind him. Gordon looked
properly drunk, Ravelston thought. His hair was tumbling down over his forehead, one
side of his face was very pale and on the other there was a red smudge where Rosemary
had slapped him. Ravelston thought this must be the flush of drunkenness.

‘What have you done with Rosemary? ’ he said.

‘She’s gone,’ said Gordon, with a wave of his hand which was meant to explain
everything. ‘But the night’s still young. ’

‘Look here, Gordon, it’s time you were in bed. ’

‘In bed, yes. But not alone. ’

He stood on the kerb gazing out into the hideous midnight-noon. For a moment he felt
quite deathly. His face was burning. His whole body had a dreadful, swollen, fiery
feeling. His head in particular seemed on the point of bursting. Somehow the baleful light
was bound up with his sensations. He watched the skysigns flicking on and off, glaring
red and blue, arrowing up and down — the awful, sinister glitter of a doomed civilization,
like the still blazing lights of a sinking ship. He caught Ravelston’s arm and made a
gesture that comprehended the whole of Piccadilly Circus.

‘The lights down in hell will look just like that. ’

‘I shouldn’t wonder. ’

Ravelston was looking out for a disengaged taxi. He must get Gordon home to bed
without further delay. Gordon wondered whether he was in joy or in agony. That burning,
bursting feeling was dreadful. The sober half of him was not dead yet. Sober half still



knew with ice-cold clarity what he had done and what he was doing. He had committed
follies for which tomorrow he would feel like killing himself. He had squandered five
pounds in senseless extravagance, he had robbed Julia, he had insulted Rosemary. And

tomorrow — oh, tomorrow, we’ll be sober! Go home, go home! cried sober half. to

you! said drunken half contemptuously. Drunken half was still clamouring for a bit of
fun. And drunken half was the stronger. A fiery clock somewhere opposite caught his
eye. Twenty to eleven. Quick, before the pubs are shut! Haro! la gorge m’ard! Once again
his thoughts moved lyrically. He felt a hard round shape under his arm, discovered that it
was the Chianti bottle, and tweaked out the cork. Ravelston was waving to a taxi-driver
without managing to catch his eye. He heard a shocked squeal from the tarts behind.
Turning, he saw with horror that Gordon had up-ended the bottle and was drinking from
it.

‘Hi! Gordon! ’

He sprang towards him and forced his arm down. A gout of wine went down Gordon’s
collar.

‘For God’s sake be careful! You don’t want the police to get hold of you, do you? ’

‘I want a drink,’ complained Gordon.

‘But dash it! You can’t start drinking here. ’

‘Take me to a pub,’ said Gordon.

Ravelston rubbed his nose helplessly. ‘Oh, God! I suppose that’s better than drinking on
the pavement. Come on, we’ll go to a pub. You shall have your drink there. ’

Gordon recorked his bottle carefully. Ravelston shepherded him across the circus,
Gordon clinging to his arm, but not for support, for his legs were still quite steady. They
halted on the island, then managed to find a gap in the traffic and went down the
Haymarket.


In the pub the air seemed wet with beer. It was all a mist of beer shot through with the
sickly tang of whisky. Along the bar a press of men seethed, downing with Faustlike



eagerness their last drinks before eleven should sound its knell. Gordon slid easily
through the crowd. He was not in a mood to worry about a few jostlings and elbowings.
In a moment he had fetched up at the bar between a stout commercial traveller drinking
Guinness and a tall, lean, decayed major type of man with droopy moustaches, whose
entire conversation seemed to consist of ‘What ho! ’ and ‘What, what! ’ Gordon threw half
a crown on to the beer-wet bar.

‘A quart of bitter, please! ’

‘No quart pots here!