The Journal of a Disappointed Man

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.