The Desert Islander | Page 2

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 almost all Anglo-Saxons are--by the opportunity of dispensing food and drink.
"I can tell you my Zigzag idea while I eat," said Constantine, leading the way towards the table at the other end