Evening star., 1929-12-08

understand that this BolSheVlSC k0mTnlSSar per-
son who has succeeded me is in the habit OF
eating uripe and onions for breakfast. Dectd-
edly. this is no longer a fit world for a gentle
man to live in. So much better taste to die.
Am not right my dear Karl Karloyitch?"
Quite right Your Imperial Highnessl' re-
piled Baron yon 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-
ton, hoarse with shouting, gorged with blood,
settled down 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 people
worked harder-and ate less. They worked
yet harder ate yet less, uas throughout the land
the jails opened their doors and spewed forth
thousands and thousands of men and women,
all clamoring for chance and crust: as.
presently, the Siberian convicts began to ar
rive in dr.. es, expecting to find freedom and
finding sla2ery, expecting to find food and
finding famine
Thus it was in - ,scow Xazan, NoveoEod,
Orenburg
Thus, too in Samarkani.
Strange sights there Topsy turvy.
An eminent professor of sociology cleaning a
Kirgiz cameleer's mud-caked boots-because he
needed the money; a Bokharan noble running
errands because he needed the money! v.0rld-
famed expert on Gothic art driving a gaTbE
wagcn-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 a little
portable stove.
Hardly would you have recognized him. He
was nc 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 wound he had received
when he had tried to escape from his Siberian
prison and 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
together Not that he cared. This living-it
was an instructive, automatic gesture. 1t did
not matter. After all, nothing mattered since
there was nothing left to live for-sincc Katya
had disappeared-waS, doubtless, dead.
Occasionally he would question former coz
victs frcm other parts of Siberia.
Had they seen Katya, the dancer?
They would shake their heads: would reply
that they had never even heard her name. A
gypsy? Ah-there were so many gypsieS! She
had tried to kill RomanofT? So many people
had tried to kill this Romanof or that, so many
had been banished to Siberia. so many had
perished there! -pityingly-may God help
you little brother!
And Shamyl went on eating. sleeping, living
automatically; standing street corners with
his portable stove; cooking little barley cakes;
selling them.
THEN late one afternoon, as he turned toward
the hovel which he shared with seven other
people, ne 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 scraping and humping of native in