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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
193
I
don't
believe
we
really
love
each
other,
but
we
cling
to
each
other
out
of
ennui
and
discover
in
each
other
a
certain
cold
intellectual
sympathy.
At
the
pay
desk
(Lyons'
is
our
rendezvous)
we
joked
with
the
cashier--a
cheerful,
fat
little
girl,
who
said
to
R----
(indicating
me),--
"He's
a
funny
boy,
isn't
he?"
"Dangerous,"
chirped
R----,
and
we
laughed.
In
the
street
we
met
an
aged,
decrepit
newsvendor--very
dirty
and
ragged--but
his
voice
was
unexpectedly
fruity.
"British
Success,"
he
called,
and
we
stopped
for
the
sake
of
the
voice.
"I'm
not
interested,"
I
said--as
an
appetiser.
"What!
Not....
Just
one
sir:
I
haven't
sold
a
single
copy
yet,
and
I've
a
wife
and
four
children."
"That's
nothing
to
me--I've
three
wives
and
forty
children,"
I
remarked.
"What!"
in
affected
surprise,
turning
to
R----,
"he's
Brigham
Young
from
Salt
Lake
City.
Yes
I
know
it--I've
been
there
myself
and
been
dry
ever
since.
Give
us
a
drink,
sir--just
one."
In
consideration
of
his
voice
we
gave
him
2d.
and
passed
on....
After
giving
a
light
to
a
Belgian
soldier
whose
cigarette
had
gone
out,
farther
along
we
entered
a
queer
old
music
shop
where
they
sell
flageolets,
serpents,
clavichords,
and
harps.
We
had
previously
made
an
appointment
with
the
man
to
have
Schubert's
Unfinished
Symphony
played
to
us,
so
as
to
recall
one
or
two
of
the
melodies
which
we
can't
recall
and
it
drives
us
crazy.
"What
is
that
one
in
the
second
movement
which
goes
like
this?"
and
R----
whistled
a
fragment.
"I
don't
know,"
I
said,
"but
let's
go
in
here
and
ask."
In
the
shop,
a
youth
was
kind
enough
to
say
that
if
we
cared
to
call
next
day,
Madame
A----,
the
harp
player
would
be
home
and
would
be
ready
to
play
us
the
symphony.
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