Evening Star Newspaper, December 8, 1929, Page 102

e s - o S T e g e e i s THE SUNDAY STAR, WASfIINGTON, D. C, DECEMBER 8 1929 T'he Dancer of Samarkand—2y _Acimed A4bdulla Love Born in a Moment ILasrs T hrough the Years. And Here Is Real Adveniure, Too. OM-TOMS thumped. Cymbals clashed. One-siringed guitars thrummed and sobbed. Desperately, frantically, the savage COriental music swelled; then breke off suddenly on a high note, as Katya, the gypsy dancer, gave a throaty cry, “Hai!” and disappeared in the wings of the cabaret stage with a silken swish of her skirts, her left foot stabbing straight info the air in sn impudent farewell kick. « Came thundercus applause. Russians vied with Tartars and Turkomans to see who would make the most noise, could show the greatest enthusiasm. The Eurcpeans clapped hands and pounded on the floor with their walking-sticks and shouted “Bravo! Bravo! Bravissimo!” while the Asiatics yelled gutturally and rattled crocked daggers in silver scabbards. At the other end of the cabarét the Seven Alabam’ Chocolaiz Drops—recently and very expensively imported, with Grand Duke Boris Pavlovitch, the governor general, fcoting the bill—blared out a hiccoughy jazz. But saxo- phone and clarinet had no chance against the tumult, the insistent demands—"Eunccre! En- core! Encore! Encore!” in Russian and Polish and French and half the languag:s of Tentral Asia. A hodgepodge of (ongues—a hodgepodge of races. For this was Samarkand. Samarkand during the glittering, decadent, cynical yvears before the World War. Before Central Asia, its murky, sleepy depths stirred by the war's Bolshevist aftermath, began to bubble and ferment ominously. finally to boil over into the making of history—history fully as bloody as in the forgotten epoch when the Tartars of the Golden Horde had gallcped cut of the vellow, britt'e stepps, spurring their shaggy ponies to the loot of a shuddering Europe. T<OR CENTURIES Samarkand had bzen the capital of th: Grand Khans of the Golden Horde. Here they had reigned in violent and strange-hued pomp. Here the princes of the house of Romanoff had made yearly pilgrimage to bring tribute of red gold, to kiss the upturned tocs of grease-smeared, rawhide Tartar boots and swear fealty to the heathen. But the Golden Horde was no more. The wild riders of the stepps had returned to the steppe, shepherds, no longer conquerors, Prince Shamyl Al, last descendant of the Grand Khan:—he was sitting tonight in the front row of the cabaret—wore a monocle, had his clcthes made by Mr. Poole of London, and spoke Tartar with a Russian and Russian with a French accent. The Romanoff, by the same token, had become the Ak-Padshah, the White Father who lorded it over Central Asia—a land, Just before the war, growing steadily more cos- mopolitan. Most typical was this cabaret, called “Le Grand Bi-Ba-Bo"” *for no reason anybody had ever been able to find out. For it was framed on the left by the squat, gray barrack of a regiment of Russian grenadiers, while cn the right the ancient mosque of Kassim-ibn- Abbas. High Tartary's patron saint, stabbed at the sky with seven lance-sharp. mauve-and- orchid-tiled minarets: and it was a homesick and probably not very sober American globe- trotter who. dreaming cof New York and the Great White Way, had outraged both Christian barrack and Moeslem mosque by designing— and incidentally paying for-—the large electric sign above the door. Nightly it stammered through the dusk with flickering bulbs of crimson and orange and pea- cock green. Nightly, in a kind of arrogant challenge, it spelled out just the cne word— “Katya.” Nightly, inside, Katya danced across the boards and brought down tha hcuse. Thus. again, this evening. Applause, roaring, thumping, dcafening. Insistent, clamorous, “Encore!” “Encore! Encore!’ echoed Basil Webb of His Britannic Majesty's consular service. He turned to Prince Shamyl Ali, last de- scendant of the Grand Khans of th: Golden Horde. who had returned that morning from Paris. where he had spent a number of years attached to the T:ar's embassy. “How do you like the little gypsy? Not half dusty, €h what?"” “She is iovely,” replied the other. He was young, not older than 27: handsome in a startling way, only the high cheek-bones shewing his Tartar plood. His gold-rimmed " monocle was doubtless snobbish, foppish, slightly theatrical. But most women, and a * good many men, were willing to forgive him after theyv had looked into his brown, deep-set, amazingly frank eyss: th2 eyes of a dreamer, a passimate and reckless idealist—perhaps a fanatic. “The sort of chap,” Basil Webb, who had “been his classmate at Eton, used to describe him. “who should nave lived in the picturesque . ¢ld days when a proper cavalier surged about with frilled lace at his throat and rapier at hip, .1eady to fight no end of duels and write no “end of rather corkin’ poetry because of a wo- man’s smile.” Prince Shamyl Ali. last descendant of the Grand Khan—he was sittin monocle, had his clothes made by Mr. Poole of London, and He smiled now as his friend repeated: “She is lovely, lovely!” With utter seriousness, he added: “I would give the revenue of ten of my villages for the sake of one of her kisses.” “My word!” mocked the Englishman. *“You are a romantic blighter, aren't you? And by the way,” lowering his voice, “I wouldnt ex- press my amorous intentions quite so freely if I were you.” “Oh-~—" Shamyl gave a self-conscious little laugh. “I am not ashamed of my emotions.” “Emotions? I was referring to your neck. The general state of your health. You see,” as Shamyl looked up, astonished, “there’s Grand Duke Boris. ’ “I am not afraid of him!” Shamyl flered up. “I amm——"" “Spare me your family tree. I know. Once the Grand Khans ruled the roost hereabouts. But, if. you will pardon me, today your people play rather second fiddle. The Romanoffs are ace-high. Boris is governor general and—— " The rest of his sentence was swallowed in another roaring avalanche of sound as the audience reiterated its cries of “Bravo! Encore! Encore!"” Then, quickly, sharply, silence. For the gypsy had come back. She spoke a word to the Tartar musicians who squatted in a corner of the stage. They bent over their instruments with an abandon of haunting, minor harmonies, while Katya began her dance with a slow, gliding movement, a dreamy smile on her lips. SUDDENLY. savagely, the music peaked to a high note. As suddenly, as savagely, the gypsy jerked into a whirl. Faster and faster. Her short, wide skirt swept 'round and 'round like a wheel. Her little heels made a hissing noise as they tapped the floor. Her scarf assumed fantastic, ever-changing forms, surg- ing in a foamy cloud of purple-shaded rose, standing out straight like a sword. A perfume pungent, mysterious, hovered about her like a butterfly. Jeweled anklets and bracelets jingled and clashed with every step. Shamyl could hear the staccato beating of his own heart. He leaned forward. He stared. This, he thought, was the dance of all the East, with its grace and its cruelty, its softness and its strength and its cloying sweetness. He forgot French monocle and English clothes; forgot Europe. “Yah makhi alum, soz-i-mun,” he cried in his native Tartar. *“Oh, moon of delight and burner of my soul!" Whirling past, clcse to the footlights, Katya heard. She smiled, spoke blurred, breathless words: “Zu aynah shasheen"—"“Ah, hawk-eye! I like you!” Suddenly, she gave a shril!, high-pitched yell. “Hai!"” The music stopped ab:ruptly. The dance was over. She salaamed, touching the fioor with the tips of her henna-stained fingers. Then she stood straight and still, death-still as the desert moon. And an enormous huc<h, like a pall, drecpped over the cabaret; and was shat- tered a few moments later, as again there came deafening applause—as hands clapped, walking sticks pounded, daggers rattled—as flowers, gloves, money, jewels were thrown on the stage. Tumult and excitement continued crescendo long after Katya had left; Icng after the Negro musicians had again commenced blaring out their jazz. The scene was Russian. It was Asiatic. It was barbaric, gorgeous, exaggerated. Basil Webb turned to Shamyl. “I shall introduce myself to Katya,” said Shamyl. b 3 - 30 215 Vg A T ATt My “No use getting in a mess with the Grand Duke because of a passing fanecy.” “You are wrong,” interrupted the Tartar. “You see—I love her.” And, in a curiously even voice, he added: “I shall marry her.” “You're mad! Stark, raving mad!” “I was never more sane in my life—nor more determined.” “Have it your own way. No use arguing with you when you get idealistic. Only—I re- peat—there is still the Grand Duke to reckon with.” “And I repeat that I am not afraid of him.” They had reached the outer lobby, and Shamy! continued: “I shall talk the matter over with him—quite frankly.’ “Good Heavens!” “Why not? After all, we're both civilized.” “Like my foot you are!” angrily countered Basil Webb. “And Boris—why, the man is a savage. He's like some incredible villain out of some incredible melodrama. If you knew him as I do!” 2 “I kncw my own selt—which is enough.” And so, a few minutes later, Prince Shamyl was ushered into Katya's dressing room and found her yet more lovely without her stage make-up, her small, oval features resembling an eighteenth century miniature, with the short, straight nose, the tiny ears, the beautifu! mouth, the steel-gray eyes that charmingly blended arrogance and a certain demure wist- fulness. “Mademciselle,” he said, bowing over her hand, “a good many things were offered you tonight. Flowers. Gloves. Jewels. But one thing is missing.” He stood with his eyes lowered. “And—1 take it—you came here to offer it, Monsieur le Prince?” “With your permission. You will accept?” “Tell me first what it is.” “My heart. My friendship and tenderness and passion and devotion.’ KAT\’A looked at him. She was young—and being a gypsy of ancient, primitive race. But life—since an Odessa impresario had seen her. a mere child, dance in her little native Central Asian village and had bought her from her parents for a handful of rubles—had changed her; had given to her, instead, international fame, a fair measure of rather diamond-hard civilization, silk next to the skin, a bank ac- count, an extraordinary collection of jewelry. Today she was a glittering cosmopolitan, and she was more than perfectly self-possessed. But this man interested her. Romantic? Extravagant? how, he seemed honest. Ingenuously, disarm- ingly ‘honest. So were his eyes honest—and frank. She liked his eyes. She liked his voice, his slow smile. And, at that moment, the knowledge came to her that she had met men who had fascinated her, but never, until to- night, had she met a single man whom she really liked. Liking—she thought—what a wonderful thing it was! Why—a little embarrassed, therefore, with faint self-irony—it was such a clean and simple emotion. So warm it was, so white and close. “Monsieur le Prince,” she replied, “you said it exactly as if you meant it.” “I do mean it.” “Is it the latest Paris craze?” “What?" “This naive way of—oh—Aflirting, to use a general term?” He spoke rather stiffly. “I was not flirting.” “What would you call it?” “A proposal of marriage.” “Again—you say it as if you mean 1t.” Yes. But, some- g tonight in the front row of the cabaret—wore a spoke Tartar with a Russian accent. “Again—I do mean it.” “How can you? You know nothing about me. Nething!” 2 His answer was: “There are, in a man's life, certain ultimate things—and just one ulti- mate woman. When a man finds this ultimate woman he feels it instinctively, and he does not pass on—unless he is a fool,’ “At times the man who does not pass on is the fool.” “Pardon?” “You have been so decent and honest—if I may use such bourgeois words to describe an aristocrat—that I, too, shall be honest. I felt a liking for you. at least, I thought I did, when I saw you in the audience. Now I am sure I like you. and——" “Yes?” He stepped forward, eagerly. “I know what you are going to tell me. But I want to know only one thing. Tell me—you love the Grand Duke?” “No." She stared at him with warm, dusky eves; stared at him with a double intensity; an in- tensity of sensation, and an intensity of per- ception. “This man,” she thought—*“is it not strange? I did not know him half an hour back. And now—why--I love him—Ilove every word of his lips—every gesture of his hands—nice hands, s0 strong, so—reliable!"” Aloud she asked: “How—ecan you love me?” “I am a conceited man,” he explained. “Conceited? You? No, no!” “I am. really"—he smiled—"“in a way. I would rather be a woeman’'s last love than her first. Thus—don't you see?—she has more of a basis of eomparison.” She walked up to him; put her hands on his shoulders. *“Yes,” just above her breath, “T believe you—you do love me!" “On my soul and body—I do!" “And I"—suddenly, passionately—“on my soul and body—I love you! And do you know why? Because you are a fine, true, clean gen- tleman. Ah" in a headlong whisper, “no man’s voice or word has ever turned my eyes to a second look or stirred my blood to a quicker beat till today—till I met you. On my soul and body—I love you, love you, love you!” Then, for many minutes, they sat side by side, hand in hand, and they had nothing whatever to say to each other. After all, what was there to say? They loved each other. It was enough. Long since, the cabaret had emptied of per- formers and audience when, at last, they left. MORK ING was near. The moon was sinking into the far Tartar steppe. The storm of stars had melted to a pale dawn that was drawing the sweetness from field and garden, “When?" asked Shamyl. “My engagement here is over the end of the month. I shal) meet you in Paris.” “Too long to wait. Let us marry here in Samarkand—at once.” “Better wait till we get to Paris.” “Why, dear?" “Boris will be furious. ernor general.” “I realize that. And I had already made up my mind to tell him—quite frankly. After all, I, tco, am not without influence.” But the would have worried if, the next day, she could have seen Grand Duke Boris closeted with his aide-de-camp, Baron Karl Karlo- vitch von Bardeleben. Boris was heavy se¢t. bwad-shouldered, with the face of a weary, ciss'gated mastiff, blood- shot, strained eves, dyeply lined cheeks; yet, And h2 is the gov-