AN ISLAND IN THE SEA OF HISTORY 



1107- 



In a few moments Aleskandir Bek 

 took a seat by my side, remarked in 

 broken Russian that he had never before 

 seen a foreigner in Daghestan, and asked 

 if he might be permitted to inquire my 

 business. I told him frankly that I was 

 a vagabond American, traveling for the 

 love of it, seeing strange sights and ming- 

 ling with strange people, in order that I 

 might describe both some day in a book. 

 He laughed pleasantly and said that in 

 Joongootai, at least, I should have some- 

 thing to write about, because he had ar- 

 ranged for that evening, in honor of 

 Prince Djordjadzi, a little Caucasian 

 dancing party, which would give me some 

 idea, perhaps, of Daghestan amusements 

 and social life. 



A CAUCASIAN NIGHT'S KNTERTAINMIiNT 



In the course of an hour, before we 

 had finished our last cup of tea, the 

 piercing notes of a Daghestan fife, min- 

 gled with the muttering of kettle-drums 

 and tambourines, could be heard in the 

 courtyard, and we all went out on the 

 broad veranda to see the beginning of 

 a Caucasian night's entertainment. The 

 yard was ablaze with torches and iron 

 cressets filled with flaming firebrands, 

 and was crowded with tall, bearded 

 Lesghians, whose silver-mounted pistols, 

 daggers, and cartridge tubes flashed fit 

 fully in the red torchlight as they moved 

 from place to place. 



Near the veranda, in a little group, 

 stood the women, richly dressed in filmy 

 laces and bright-colored Persian silks, 

 with long white veils concealing their 

 hair and hanging down their backs to 

 their red-slippered heels. Overhead was 

 the slender stone minaret of the village 

 mosque, outlined clearly against the dark 

 starry sky, and from its high, circular 

 gallery two white-turbaned mullahs, or 

 Mohammedan priests, looked down curi- 

 ously into the crowded, torch-lighted 

 courtyard. 



In a few moments our host cleared an 

 open space in the center of the yard, 

 shouted to the musicians to strike up, 

 and the dancing began. One of the 

 mountaineers stepped into the ring, laid 

 his right hand, palm outward, against his 



right cheek, extended his left arm at full 

 length, bent down his head, and began to 

 dance rapidly around in a narrow circle, 

 keeping step to the throbbing of the ket- 

 tle-drums and the measured, rhythmical 

 hand-clapping of a hundred spectators. 

 In a moment he was joined by a bright- 

 eyed, graceful young woman, who floated 

 out to meet him from the little group 

 near the veranda, and from whose out- 

 stretched arms hung long, flowing sleeves 

 of pea-green silk to a depth of at least a 

 yard. As she sailed out on tip-toe, with 

 expanded silken wings and downcast, 

 blushing face, she looked — in the esti- 

 mation of Prince Djordjadzi — "like a 

 terrestrial angel just about to take 

 flight !" 



DANCING TO THE: MUSIC Q]? PISTOI^S 



With the appearance of the woman 

 began the exciting part of the dance. 

 The clapping of hands and the roll of the 

 deep-toned kettle-drums almost drowned 

 the shriek of the tormented fife, and now 

 and then both were lost in a crashing 

 fusillade of pistol shots fired into the air 

 by the sympathetic spectators for the 

 purpose of enlivening the proceedings by 

 increasing the noise and enthusiasm. In 

 two or three minutes the young woman 

 glided out of the ring and rejoined her 

 companions ; her partner touched his hat 

 and also retired, and a second couple 

 took their places, the clapping of hands 

 and pistol firing going on as before (see 

 page 1131). 



Dancing, interspersed with peculiar 

 native games and musical improvisa- 

 tions, which were full of humorous per- 

 sonal hits and excited shouts of laughter, 

 continued until a late hour of the night, 

 when an elaborate Asiatic supper was 

 served on the earthen, rug-covered floor 

 of the stone-walled house. Finally, at 2 

 o'clock in the morning, we went to bed 

 on the broad divan and fell asleep listen- 

 ing to a serenade sung by the women of 

 the village under our windows with the 

 monotonous refrain of "Hai ! Hai ! An- 

 nan-nan-nan-nai ! An-nan-nai ! " (the 

 Caucasian equivalent of "La! La! La- 

 la-la-la-la! La-la-la!"). 



