The Journal of a Disappointed Man

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."