Evening star., 1926-06-06

l
! the United States, and an up
~ heaval had driven you. penniless
and terrified, to some foreign
| land. Suppose you had never learned
a trade or profession, or even ac-
customed yourself to taking orders.
| Suppose, too, while you had once been
| beautiful woman, you were now.
| because Of your experiences, old and
worn at SO.
Could you settle down to work, say,
| in Paris, on an ordinary working girls
| salary and strive ambitiously for little
| promotions? Or would the eight-ho
| day-day after day-irk you near to
madness. Would the petty routine try
your patience to the limit? And the
seemingly useless orders of unsympa-
| thetic but efficient straw bosses drive
you to sulk or openly revolt? Wouldn I
you forget your work quite frequently
to dream Of better days-and so let
| your job on occasion get away from
you? @
climbed dingy stairway in Har-
lem the other day to see a woman
whose life prompted these supposi-
tions and queries. Whose life-save
that her property was in Russia and
she fed to America,-is more or less
accurately framed by them. I was
prepared for squalor and sadness.
But I wasn't prepared for what hap
pened. 1t was, when came to think
! of 1t later, much more pitiful
In the gloom Of the narrow hallway
I made out a white card on what
seemed a black door. 1t was the card
1 sought. I rang the bell. No sound
of footsteps came from beyond the
door, and the voice which asked-so
suddenly as to be Who
is there?" was tremulous and mysteri-
Gus.
"a friend" I hazarded.
| The door opened about eight inches
and a pale. oval face framed in soft
brown hair. parted Madonna fash
| of a voluminous black shawl, peered
anxiously out. A feeble, wan ray of
! light from a window at the front of
| the fiat fell upon the dark head.
You are the Countess Kapnist?"
| Something between a cry of protest
| and q weary moan vibrated the gloom
Of the hallway. The door was pushed
| swiftly toward me, but I managed to
| hold it open.
WATT" I pleaded. II want only
| to tell you that your $20,000,000 suit
against the Soviet Government has
| been dismissed. I wanted to ask -
| of the stairway, then. II know. I can
| not talk. Go now. Maybe tomorrow.
I cannot talk now, tell you."
A weak but frantically trembling
pressure exerted itself on the door. 1t
seemed to run through my arms. for
| let go the door and stepped back. The
door slammed. Inside, on carpetless
| floor, the rattle Of a running woman's
feet sounded and died away. And the
next day when 1 went back no one an
| swered the bell. A boy playing in the
hall told me the woman there had left
hurriedly that morning.
was not altogether surprised.
| had been told that under the relentless
buffets Of fate this woman had been
bereft at last even Of initiative and
self.confldence. She had become re-
cluse, stunning all strangers, suspi-
cious, sometimes, of friends. Above
all she disliked publicity. She had
moved time after time to avoid prytng
people.
The Countess Sofia Petrovna Kar.
poff Kapnist was dining alone in her
palace in Petrograd, in the famous
street called Kameneostrovsky Pros
pect, the night Of 1917 when the Dol.
shevist rabble swept that section or
the old city with fire and sword. Her
husband had perished with the Rus.
sian armies in Galicia. and she was IN
mourning. Around her in the ancient
hall were the silver, the tapestries, the
treasured canvases of the counts
family, which was one of the ten old
est in the court of the CZar-older by
generations, in fact, than the Roman
off dynasty itself.
The old servants, placing the dishes
before her in grave silence, stood II
the shadows. It was like some very
solitary but sacred ritual. The room
was silent, except for the tinllle Of
the service Suddenly cry and =