{"product_id":"2940013697461","title":"The Desert Islander","description":"As Constantine stumped in on his hobnailed soles, Mr. White--who was\u003cbr\u003eevidently not a very tactful man--said, \"Oh, are you another deserter\u003cbr\u003efrom the Foreign Legion?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I am Constantine Andreievitch Soloviev,\" said Constantine, surprised.\u003cbr\u003eHe spoke and understood English almost perfectly (his mother had been\u003cbr\u003eEnglish), yet he could not remember ever having heard the word another\u003cbr\u003eapplied to himself. In fact it did not--could not possibly--so apply.\u003cbr\u003eThere was only one of him, he knew.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf course, in a way there was some sense in what this stupid\u003cbr\u003eEnglishman said. Constantine had certainly been a légionnaire in\u003cbr\u003eTonkin up till last Thursday--his narrow pipe-clayed helmet, stiff\u003cbr\u003ekhaki greatcoat, shabby drill uniform, puttees, brass buttons, and\u003cbr\u003einflexible boots were all the property of the French Government. But\u003cbr\u003ethe core--the pearl inside this vulgar, horny shell--was Constantine\u003cbr\u003eAndreievitch Soloviev. That made all the difference.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eConstantine saw that he must take this Didymus of an Englishman in\u003cbr\u003ehand at once and tell him a few exciting stories about his dangerous\u003cbr\u003eadventures between the Tonkin border and this Chinese city. Snakes,\u003cbr\u003etigers, love-crazed Chinese princesses and brigands passed rapidly\u003cbr\u003ethrough his mind, and he chose the last, because he had previously\u003cbr\u003eplanned several impressive things to do if he should be attacked by\u003cbr\u003ebrigands. So now, though he had not actually met a brigand, those\u003cbr\u003eplans would come in useful. Constantine intended to write his\u003cbr\u003eautobiography some day when he should have married a rich wife and\u003cbr\u003esettled down. Not only did his actual life seem to him a very rare one\u003cbr\u003ebut, also, lives were so interesting to make up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eConstantine was a desert islander--a spiritual Robinson Crusoe. He\u003cbr\u003emade up everything himself and he wasted nothing. Robinson Crusoe was\u003cbr\u003ehis favourite book--in fact, almost the only book he had ever read--\u003cbr\u003eand he was proud to be, like his hero, a desert islander. He actually\u003cbr\u003epreferred clothing his spirit in the skins of wild thoughts that had\u003cbr\u003ebeen the prey of his wits and sheltering it from the world's weather\u003cbr\u003ein a leaky hut of his brain's own contriving, to enjoying the good\u003cbr\u003etailoring and housing that dwellers on the mainland call experience\u003cbr\u003eand education. He enjoyed being barbarous, he enjoyed living alone on\u003cbr\u003ehis island, accepting nothing, imitating nothing, believing nothing,\u003cbr\u003eadapting himself to nothing--implacably home-made. Even his tangible\u003cbr\u003epossessions were those of a marooned man rather than of a civilized\u003cbr\u003ecitizen of this well-furnished world. At this moment his only luggage\u003cbr\u003ewas a balalaika that he had made himself out of cigar-boxes, and to\u003cbr\u003ethis he sang songs of his own composition--very imperfect songs. He\u003cbr\u003ewould not have claimed that either his songs or his instrument were\u003cbr\u003ebetter than the songs and instruments made by song-makers and\u003cbr\u003ebalalaika-makers; they were, however, much more rapturously his than\u003cbr\u003eany acquired music could have been and, indeed, in this as in almost\u003cbr\u003eall things, it simply never occurred to him to take rather than make.\u003cbr\u003eThere was no mainland on the horizon of his desert island.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I am not a beggar,\" said Constantine. \"Until yesterday I had sixty\u003cbr\u003epiastres which I had saved by many sacrifices during my service in the\u003cbr\u003eLegion. But yesterday, passing through a dark forest of pines in the\u003cbr\u003etwilight, about twenty versts from here, I met--\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You met a band of brigands,\" said Mr. White. \"Yes, I know you all say\u003cbr\u003ethat.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eConstantine stared at him. He had not lived, a desert islander, in a\u003cbr\u003ecrowded and over-civilized world without meeting many rebuffs, so this\u003cbr\u003eone did not surprise him--did not even offend him. On the contrary,\u003cbr\u003efor a minute he almost loved the uncompromising Mr. White, as a\u003cbr\u003esportsman almost loves the chamois on a peculiarly inaccessible crag.\u003cbr\u003eThis was a friend worth a good deal of trouble to secure, Constantine\u003cbr\u003esaw. He realized at once that the desert islander's line here was to\u003cbr\u003ediscard the brigands and to discard noble independence.","brand":"WDS Publishing","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47152655532272,"sku":"2940013697461","price":1.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0737\/7593\/9824\/files\/2940013697461_p0.jpg?v=1763597398","url":"https:\/\/shop-qa.barnesandnoble.com\/products\/2940013697461","provider":"Barnes \u0026 Noble (DEV)","version":"1.0","type":"link"}