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349
The Journal of a Disappointed Man
·
W. N. P. Barbellion
194
So
this
morning,
before
Madame's
appearance,
this
kind
and
obliging
youth
put
a
gramophone
record
of
it
on,
to
which
we
listened
like
two
intelligent
parrots
with
heads
sideways.
Presently,
the
fat
lady
harpist
appeared
and
asked
us
just
what
we
wanted
to
find
out--a
rather
awkward
question
for
us,
as
we
did
not
want
to
"find
out"
anything
excepting
how
the
tunes
went.
I
therefore
explained
that
as
neither
of
us
had
sisters
or
wives,
and
we
both
wanted,
etc....
so
would
she...?
In
response,
she
smiled
pleasantly
and
played
us
the
second
movement
on
a
shop
piano.
Meanwhile,
Henry
the
boy,
hid
himself
behind
the
instruments
at
the
rear
of
the
shop
and
as
we
signed
to
her
she
would
say,--
"What's
that,
Henry?"
And
Henry
would
duly
answer
from
his
obscurity,
"Wood
wind,"
or
"Solo
oboe,"
or
whatever
it
was,
and
the
lad
really
spoke
with
authority.
In
this
way,
I
began
to
find
out
something
about
the
work.
Before
I
left,
I
presented
her
with
a
copy
of
the
score,
which
she
did
not
possess
and
because
she
would
not
accept
any
sort
of
remuneration.
"Won't
you
put
your
name
on
it?"
she
inquired.
I
pointed
gaily
to
the
words
"Ecce
homo,"
which
I
had
scribbled
across
Schubert's
name
and
said,
"There
you
are."
Madame
smiled
incredulously
and
we
said,
"Good-bye."
It
was
a
beautifully
clement
almost
springlike
day,
and
at
the
street
corner,
in
a
burst
of
joyousness,
we
each
bought
a
bunch
of
violets
of
an
old
woman,
stuck
them
on
the
ends
of
our
walking-sticks,
and
marched
off
with
them
in
triumphant
protest
to
the
B.M.
Carried
over
our
shoulders,
our
flowers
amused
the
police
and
----,
who
scarcely
realised
the
significance
of
the
ritual.
"This
is
my
protest,"
said
R----,
"against
the
war.
It's
like
Oscar
Wilde's
Sunflower."
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