Evening Star Newspaper, December 8, 1929, Page 103

for all his repulsive appearance, somehow very much the aristocrat. He turned to his aide-de-camp. “Sure about why Prince Shamyl Ali is coming to see me?"” “Quite. Katya's maid overheard and seni word. You know—she is in our pay.” For several minutes, without speaking, Boris paced up and down the room. He stopped in front of his aide-de-camp. “I shall prevent this marriage.” “I fail to see how you can.” “I am the governor general.” “All the same, if you step beyond the law, well, you are not precisely persona grata in Moscow these days. Certain of your recent escapades——" “I know. My beloved cousin, the Tsar, is so tremendously bourgeois in his inhibitions. On the other hand, suppose Prince Shamyl Al should insult me—very gravely?” “Why should he? He is not a fool.” “Live and learn,” smiled th: Grand Duke, as Shamyl was ushered in. He bowed deeply, clicking his heels, Imperial Highness!” “How are you, Prince?” Came an exchange of words, courtly and banal. Yet, somehow, the air seemed charged with an undercurrent of tragic suspense. Von Bardeleben suppressed a groan. He liked Shamyl. He looked at him and shrugged his shoulders as if to tell him that, happen’ what might, it was not his fault. Suddenly Shamyl decided to come to the point. *Katya——" he began. “A delightful little gypsy!’ interrupted Boris. “You know her?” “Katya,” Shamyl said, in a low, steady voice, “has promised to be my wife.” “Bozhe moy!” exclaimed the Grand Duke. *“I am really glad about 'this marriage. I ap- prove of it—on racial grounds.” “Racial grounds,” echoed the other, wonder- ingly. h “Precisely. For you are a Tartar and Katya is a gypsy. You belong both to the yellow race—ah, the inferior race. Of course, I would have objected had you wished to marry a Rus- sian woman—a white woman.” “Allah!” The single cry broke from Shamyl's lips. High, almost squeaky, grotesque and ter- rible. It was a trap. A trap meant to crush him. He knew it. But this insult, this deadly insult, to his pride, his ancient race—mo! No, he could not permit it. Thus thoughts flashed through his brain in the few seconds it took him to clear the width of the room—to raise his right hand to strike Boris across the cheek, Came silence. Silence of death. The Grand Duke’s face was like a carved mask. Then he spoke: “You are hot-blooded, Prince. I have an idea that Siberia will be the right climate to cool you off a bit.” He addressed his aide-de-camp: “Call the guard!” A minute or two later, soldiers appeared. A sweep of the bearded faces on the threshold, Huge fur caps pulled deeply over broad fore- heads. Green uniforms. A young officer, nar- row-waisted, gold-belted. The gleam of a sword. Bilack holes of rifle barrels leveled in a straight, threatening line. , The Grand Duke's rasping order: this man—in the name of the Tsar!™ And the last descendant of the Grand Khans of the Golden Horde was marched off by a file of Slav soldiers who smelled regrettably of vodka and cabbage soup. “Your “Arrest QO ON the next morning, “High Treason!® the papers headlined the event, “Struck the Grand Duke!” Prince Shamyl Ali started on his first lap toward the frozen north, the mines, Off_he marched, in irons, while right and left the ankle irons of other prisoners clanked punc- tuation marks to his black thoughts; while from the serried, manacled ranks rose a great chorus, swelling, bloating the bitter hymn of the per- secuted: “Slazamy zalit meer bezbhzrejny Vsya nasha jizn—tyajoly Trood! No dyen nastanyett neysbejny Nyomoleemo grozny sood. . . .” (The pitiful world is drowned in tears. Our whole life is but blood-stained strife, The fateful day of reckoning will come, ‘The day of merciless judgment. . . .) ‘The song vanished into the distance; van- ished with the coming of night, night that, in Samarkand, in Le Grand Bo-Ba-Bo cabaret, was greeted, as always, with the popping of champagne corks, light phrases, hectic gayety, and loud shouts of “Bravo,!” “Bravo!” “Bravis- simo!” as Katya whirled across the stage in the abandon of her dance. “Encore! Encore!” Pounding walking-sticks. Clapping hands. “Encore!” cried the Grand Duke, who was seated in the front row. Katya stepped close to the footlights. Sud- denly her hand reached into her waist-shawl; came out with a revolver, There was a shot—and Boris fell sideways, his blood trickling slowly, dyeing his white shirt with splotches of rich erimson. Tumult. Horror. Hysteria. A tragedy crystallized, the next morning, into a newspaper headline. It read like this: ATTEMPT AGAINST GRAND DUKE'S LIFE. BULLET NARROWLY MISSES HEART. RECOVERY EXPECTED. People shrugged their shoulders. “Nitchevo—that's the way it goes!” they commented with Slav resignation, while a day or two later there was Katya trudging off to the North amidst the convicts' clanking ranks. Siberia swallowed her as it had swallowed Shamyl. A few months—and she was forgotten. SO SPRING passed into Autumn, Autumn into Summer, Summer into Winter. Again the cycle of seasons began, ended, re-began, and then—overnight it seémed—war came; crashing like an iron fist into the teeth of a happy, stupid, purblind world. Rattling daggers.” R 8 1920 “Mademoiselle,” he said, bowing over her hand, “a good many things were offered you tonight. But one thing was missing.” Gray years. Bitter years. Corruption and treason reaped as they had sown., The Tsar's armies were beaten; the Tsar was deposed. And the revolution mno longer a frightened, pale dream, but a stark fact. It rolled on, from Moscow and Petrograd, east, north, south, west. It spread inexorably, like powder under spark, invading every nook .and corner of the gigantic, amorphous Russian empire. It thundered with the hope and hate of all that motley Slav-Tartar world. It came one day to Samarkand with the thumping of the drums, the dramatic rumble of the guns, and a long line of armed men marching, some in uniforms, some in peasants’ sheepskins, some—so ludicrously, so ominously—in store clothes and bowler hats. “Smyert boyarum!!” shrilled their savage cry —“Death to the oppressors!” And, looking from a palace window upon the street, listening, the shuddering realization came to Grand Duke Boris that here was the end of an epoch, the end, by the same token, to his own life; and he met his destiny as he had lived: cynical, overbearing, and rather brave, . “Why,” he said to his aide-de-camp, shortly before they were both taken out and shot, “I Putting the Grand in Opera. Continued from Second Page man with glasses slipping well over his nose. For some reason he appears like Chick Sale in one of his “rube” impersonaticns, though the face itself is sensitive and dignified. WALKINO suddenly from Broadway into a world of artists dressed in street suits and a stage of scattered settings, it is difficult for a moment to conclude just what opera is under rehearsal. Only an opera-going veteran could tell you. Five or six hours later, illusion returns. The sets are in place and the singers are in costume. The galleries fill first, for the most zealous opera fans are those who occupy the cheaper seats. The more blase holders of box seats in the horseshoe circle arrive when and if they please. About half the time the box holders fail to ar- rive at all. . To tens of thousands of New Yorkers and to millions of visitors, this is the temple of vocal and instrumental art. -But on a given day, midway between the rising and setting of the sun it is a workshop devoted to the manufac- ture of artistic illusions. It is a busy factory where gentlemen in over- alls and great artists and prima donnas work side by side to create the finished product—a successful operatic presentation.’ “So this is grand opera,” you find yourself musing as you pick your way in and out among the tangle of ropes and wires that is every- where. : For there is, of course, no point in using actual scenery and stage sets at a rehearsal. Usually these sets are exceedingly elaborate and to bother to put them in place would only mean extra work for the shifters and the em- ployment of an extra crew. And, incidentally, it costs a lot of money to have scenery shoved around on a New York stage. The men who do it have no blinding illusions about “art for art’s sake.” The wage scale is high and over- time comes higher. After all one hears about the volatile tem- perament of opera stars, you would think that there would be many violent objections to re- hearsing amid such confusion.” Apparently, however, there is not. The girls who go after high C’s in a big way and the boys who make love with impassioned song are as willing as their confreres of the spoken stage to accept the trials and tribulations that go into the making of a production before its opening night. There are, however, others besides Mme. Rethberg who feel that the atmosphere is not conducive to real artistry, and that the best that can be accomplished at rehearsal is a drill in what might be called the mechanics of op- eratic production. It Is doubtful if any one succeeds in actually improving his vocal powers when the “house” is empty. IN the many corridors which fence in the vibrant arena, the mere choral figures stroll arm in arm—troops of young men and troops of young women, gossiping about dates and chattering about dances; discussing the opera season and criticizing some new or old composition. Backstage many of them stand in the cowboy costumes of “The Girl of the Gold- en West”; lads from Milan and from Rome; lads from Vienna and from Berlin; lads from Kansas and from the Ghetto; lassies from Florida and from Ohio and from Naples and from Paris. The strellers are intent upon their own lives, but transplanted into the wings they are pawns of the opera. They come from far and near for a chance to appear upon the Metropolitan stage. Such is the magnet and such is the tradi- tion that the “Met” stands as the final testing ground. ¥ A golden future lies ahead of each one who can prove that his particular personality and vocal ability deserve the rich rewards that the world of opera laviches on its stars. But the prospect of making such artistic dreams come true must appear slight, indeed, to the beginner at his first rehearsal. Many of the younger choral singers, rehears- ing for the first time, have formed what ideas they have of the life of an opera singer from watching finished productions from a gallery seat. All, of course, have had training before they reach the stage of the Metropolitan, but to many the world of opera is an enchanted place—until they step into it. But the story of Marion Talley, the corn- belt girl who made the grade, will not soon pass from average memory. And darkened or brilliantly lighted, the “Met” is a name to be conjured with, Reccizg Too ;’l[dn_y Smmp.»'. THE practice that many Americans have of sending stamps to pay for low-priced articles purchased by mail has become a con- siderable burden to the mail-order houses. The Government will not buy the stamps back, and they often have to be sold at a discount as they come in in far larger quantity than the companies can use. One company receives from $500 to $2.000 a day in stamps, on which it has suffered a loss through sale to brokers who must make a profit while still offering the stamps at prices that make for bargains. This sale, however, has been discontinued, as the Government has pointed out that the practice encourages theft of stamps. — R — — ,,A.,,' [ understand that this Bolshevist kommissar pet- son who has succeeded me is in the habit of eating tripe and onions for breakfast. Decid- edly, this is no lkknger a fit world for a gentl_e- man to live in. So much better taste to die. Am I not right, my dear Karl Karlovitch?” “Quit> right, Your Imperial Highness!" re- plied Baron von Bardeleben as he had always replied, loyal to the last. So there were two more graves added to the many, many graves; and this year, too, passed; and Winter came, came Spring; and the revolu- tion, hoarse with shouting, gorged with blood, settled dewn to work. Hard work. Very hard. For so much had been destroyed. Not only matter. But mind. Leaders of thought, of industry, of organization and efficiency, had been killed. Few there were to take their places. Besides, since blood and steel and hate are not good fertilizers, the crops failed. So péople worked harder—and ate less. They worked yet harder, ate yet less,%as throughout the land the jails opened their doors and spewed forth thousands and thousands of men and women, all clamoring for a chance and a crust; as, presently, the Siberian convicts begap- to ar- rive in dro.cs, expecting to find freedom and finding new slavary, expecting to find food and finding famine Thus it was in Orenburg. Thus, too, in Samarkanl. Strange sights there. Topsy turvy. An eminent professor of socioicy cleaning a Kirgiz cameleer’s mud-caked boots—Dbecause he needed the money; a Bokharan nobie running errands because he needed the money; a \.orld- famed expert on Gothic art driving a garba_ - wagen—because he needed the money; and— because he needed the money—the last de- scendant of the Grand Khans of the Golden Horde, who had drifted back with the rest, standing on a street corner, cooking barley cakes stuffed with chopped meat on a little portable stove. Hardly would you have recognized him. He was ne longer foppish and debonair and mon- ocled. Rags were on his back. Rags were wound about his feet. His face was tired and weary and, straight across, a terrible, blood- red scar; the scar of a wound he had received when he had tried to escape from his Siberian prison and a Cossack had lunged at him with a bayonet. Nothing remained of the former Shamyl ex- cept the eyes. They were still the same eyes, brown, deep-set, amazingly frank; the eyes of a dreamer, a passionate and reckless idealist. He earned just enough to keep body and soul togather. Not that he cared. This living—it was an instinctive, automatic gesture. It did not matter. After “all, nothing mattered since there was nothing left to live for—since Katya had disappeared—was, doubtless, dead. Occasionally he would question former come« victs frcm other parts of Siberia. Had they seen Katya, the dancer? They would shake their heags; would reply that they had never even heard her name. A gypsy? Ah—there were so many gypsies! She had tried to kill a Romanoff? So many peopl: had tried to kill this Romanoff or that, so many had been banished to Siberia, so many had perished there! Ah—pityingly—may God help you, little brother! And Shamyl went on eating, sleeping, living, aytomatically; standing on street corners with his portable stove; cooking little barley cakes; selling them. . “scow, Kazan, Novgorod, THEN late one afternoon, as he turned toward the hovel which he shared with seven other people, he passed the mosque of Kassim-ibn- Abbas—it now did duty as headquarters of the local Soviet—and stopped as he saw a crowd; heard a scraping and thumping of native in- struments; heard, a moment later, the clink of small copper coins and loud applause, m Russian and Tartar: “Akh—ona bezpodobna!™ “Prevosskodno!” “Keling yaarim!” “Khuda!” He dropped his stove with a clatter. He ran up. He was conscious, at once, of an extraordi- nary elation. He knew. Yes,'yes . . . he knew « . . as if by some strange alchemy of under- standing. “Bravo! Bravo!" “Hai!" a guttural yell. “Let me through!” through!™ He bored his way into the crowd, using his fists, his elbows, his feet. “Let me through!” His voice trembled. Men struck at him; cursed him. He did no$ care., “Let me through!” His emotion was unbeare able; an agony. “Let me through! Oh!” with a sob, “Broth- ers, comrades—for the love of Allah—let me through!” At last he pushed his way to the front. He saw three old Tartars squatting on the ground, bending over their instruments; saw a woman dancing. A woman in tattered finery; in gaudy, pitiful rags of crimson, orange, purple. A gypsy wo- man who was no longer young, no longer beau- tiful; whose face was wrinkled with tears and suffering, whose eyes were deeply puckered with the swing of the years and the hopeless peering into the naked, snow-clad Siberian wil- derness. So he saw her. So she saw him. He took her in his arms. He kissed her. The crowd whispered, commented. They Jjostled one another in an effort to see. But those two did not hear. There was to them no crowd. no street, no Samarkand. There was only he and she. “Ah,” he whispered, “the world is blue and golden and warm and glorious!” Which was ridiculous. For it was a cold, gray, blustery day. But then, Shamyl was al- ways the passionate, romantic idealist; seelng with the clear eyes of the soul-—not with the dim, stupid eyes of the body. (Copyright, 1929.) he cried. “Let mme