The Desert Islander | Page 2

come." He paused, drawing
long pleased breaths through his large nose. This, he felt, was a
distinctly self-made line of talk; it set him apart from all previous
deserting légionnaires.
Mr. White evidently thought so too. He gave a short grunting laugh.
"That's better," he said.
"These English," thought Constantine lovingly. "They are the next best
thing to being originals, for they admire originals." "I like you," he
added extravagantly, aloud. "I like the English. I am so glad I found an
Englishman to beg of instead of an American--though an American
would have been much richer than you are, I expect. Still, to a beggar a
little is enough. I dislike Americans; I dislike their women's wet
finger-nails."
"Wet finger-nails?" exclaimed Mr. White. "Oh, you mean their
manicure polishes. Yes ... they do always have wet finger-nails ... ha,
ha ... so they do. I should never have thought of that myself."
"Of course not," said Constantine, genuinely surprised. "I thought of it.
Why should you have thought of it?" After a moment he added, "I am
not a gramophone."

Mr. White thought that he had said, "Have you got a gramophone?" and
replied at once with some pleasure, "Yes, I have--it is a very precious
companion. Are you musical? But of course you are, being Russian. I
should be very lonely without my daily ration of Chopin. Would you
like some music while the servants are getting you something to eat?"
"I should like some music," said Constantine, "but I should not like to
hear a gramophone. I will play you some music--some unique and only
music on a unique and only instrument."
"Thank you very much," said Mr. White, peering doubtfully through
his glasses at the cigar-box balalaika. "What good English you speak,"
he added, trying to divert his guest's attention from his musical purpose.
"But all Russians, of course, are wonderful linguists."
"I will play you my music," said Constantine. "But first I must tell you
that I do not like you to say to me, 'Being Russian you are musical' or
'All Russians speak good English.' To me it seems so stupid to see me
as one of many."
"Each one of us is one of many," sighed Mr. White patiently.
"You, perhaps--but I, not," said Constantine. "When you notice my
English words instead of my thoughts it seems to me that you are
listening wrongly--you are listening to sounds only, in the same way as
you listen to your senseless gramophone---"
"But you haven't heard my gramophone," interrupted Mr. White, stung
on his darling's behalf.
"What does it matter what sounds a man makes--what words he uses?
Words are common to all men; thoughts belong to one man only."
Mr. White considered telling his guest to go to hell, but he said instead,
"You're quite a philosopher, aren't you?"
"I am not quite an anything," said Constantine abruptly. "I am me. All
people who like Chopin also say, 'You're quite a philosopher.'"

"Now you're generalizing, yourself," said Mr. White, clinging to his
good temper. "Exactly what you've just complained of my doing."
"Some people are general," said Constantine. "Now I will play you my
music, and you will admit that it is not one of many musics."
He sang a song with Russian words which Mr. White did not
understand. As a matter of fact, such was Constantine's horror of
imitating that the words of his song were just a list of the names of the
diseases of horses, learned while Constantine was a veterinary surgeon
in the Ukraine. His voice was certainly peculiar to himself; it was
hoarse--so hoarse that one felt as if a light cough or a discreet blowing
of that long nose would clear the hoarseness away; it was veiled, as
though heard from behind an intervening stillness; yet with all its
hoarseness and unsonorousness, it was flexible, alive, and exciting. His
instrument had the same quality of quiet ugliness and oddity; it was
almost enchanting. It was as if an animal--say, a goat--had found a way
to control its voice into a crude goblin concord.
"That's my music," said Constantine. "Do you like it?"
"Frankly," said Mr. White, "I prefer Chopin."
"On the gramophone?"
"On the gramophone."
"Yet one is a thing you never heard before and will never hear
again--and the other is a machine that makes the same sound for
millions."
"I don't care."
Constantine chewed his upper lip for a minute, thinking this over. Then
he shook himself. "Nevertheless, I like you," he said insolently. "You
are almost a person. Would you like me to tell you about my life, or
would you rather I explained to you my idea about Zigzags?"

"I would rather see you eat a good meal," said Mr. White, roused to a
certain cordiality--as