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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
173
"Here
is
a
jolly
little
sorrow
I
caught
this
morning."
The
joke
pleased
him
and
we
roared,
bellowed.
"That
terrible
forefinger
of
yours,"
he
smiled.
"Like
Cardinal
Richelieu's
eyes--piercing?"
I
suggested
with
appreciation.
(It
is
because
I
tap
him
on
his
shirt
front
in
the
space
between
waistcoat
and
tie
aggressively
for
emphasis
in
conversation.)
"You
must
regard
my
passion
for
painting,"
he
began
once
more,
"as
a
sort
of
dipsomania--I
really
can't
help
myself."
I
jumped
on
him
vehemently,--
"Exactly,
my
pernickety
friend;
it's
something
abnormal
and
unnatural.
When,
for
purposes
of
self-culture,
I
see
a
man
deliberately
lop
off
great
branches
of
himself
so
as
to
divert
his
strength
into
one
limb,
I
know
that
if
he
is
successful
he'll
be
something
as
vulgar
as
a
fat
woman
at
a
country
fair;
and
if
he
is
unsuccessful
he'll
be
just
a
pathetic
mutilation....
You
are
trying
to
pervert
a
natural
instinct.
You
want
to
paint,
I
believe.
Quite
so.
But
when
a
boy
reaches
the
age
of
puberty
he
does
not
grow
a
palette
on
his
chin
but
hair....
Still,
now
you
recognise
it
as
a
bad
habit,
why
need
I
say
more?"
("Why
indeed?")
"It's
a
vice,
and
I'm
very
sorry
for
you,
old
boy.
I'll
do
all
I
can--come
and
have
some
dinner
with
me
to-night."
"Oh!
thank
you
very
much,"
says
my
gentleman,
"but
I'm
not
at
all
sorry
for
myself."
"I
thought
as
much.
So
that
we
are
not
so
very
much
agreed
after
all.
We're
not
shaking
hands
after
the
boxing
contest,
but
scowling
at
each
other
from
the
ropes
and
shaping
for
another
round."
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