ARCHAG
The
LITTLE ARMENIAN
Translated from the French of
CHARLES H. SCHNAPPS
BY
MARGARET P. WATERMAN
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 Fifth Avenue
Copyright 1920, by E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A Day at School 1
II. An Interesting Journey 12
III. The Highland Farm 23
IV. Nizam's Wedding 46
V. Central Turkey College 54
VI. A Visit to the Turkish Bath 76
VII. Archag's First Trousers 87
VIII. An Accident 100
IX. Friends in Need 114
X. The Armenian Nation 123
XI. On the Mountain 134
XII. An Expulsion from College 146
XIII. The Holidays 155
XIV. The Story of Rupen 176
XV. The Death of Samouil 186
XVI. The Students Present a Tragedy 205
XVII. At Aleppo 214
XVIII. Archag in Society 223
XIX. Long Live the Constitution! 231
XX. The Valley of the Shadow of Death 243
XXI. The Martyrdom of the Armenians 254
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Archag Rides Towards Mount Ararat Frontispiece
PAGE
Happy Armenia 7
Kurds 35
Beneath the Castle at Aintab 61
The Araba 93
A Mother and Her Children 127
Little Armenians 163
The Hospital Courtyard 201
A Student and His Teacher 237
The frontispiece is from a drawing in colors by Margaret Ely Webb.
The black and white drawings are by B. F. Williamson from photographs
taken in Armenia by Charlotte F. Grant.
A LETTER TO THE ONE WHO READS THIS BOOK
Dear Schoolmate:
This new story in our series is about a people whose name you
heard often during the Great War; perhaps you even sent some of
your own pennies across the ocean to help them; for no one, not
gallant little Belgium itself, suffered more in the war than did the
Armenians. We sometimes think of them as the Belgians of the East,
for their resistance delayed the advance of Turkish battalions, just
as Belgium's brave stand prevented the first onrush of the Germans;
and the Turkish revenge has been more horrible than the German.
The bulletins of the Near East Relief Committee, which raised money
for food and clothing and medicine and helpers in Western Asia,
tell us how the Turks tried to annihilate the Armenians, and how,
among the four million Armenians, Syrians, Jews, Greeks, and Persians
who survived, four hundred thousand were orphans. In those first
four months after the armistice, they were still dying every day,
by hundreds, of starvation and disease, they were homeless and
naked. Miss B. S. Papazian, an Armenian, has written a little book
about her people, "The Tragedy of Armenia," in which she says: "The
Armenians of Turkey to the number of about a million, old and young,
rich and poor, and of both sexes, had been collectively drowned,
burned, bayoneted, starved, bastinadoed, or otherwise tortured to
death, or else deported on foot, penniless and without food, to the
burning Arabian deserts." The whole story of their sufferings is
too terrible for children to read; yet, American children are not
willing to shut their eyes and ears to the sorrows of their brothers
and sisters, whether in France or Belgium, or close at home in our
American city slums, or far over seas in Asia Minor. I wonder how
many boys and girls who read this letter, adopted a French orphan, or
gave a little refugee a merry Christmas? And how many had a share in
feeding and clothing and educating some little forlorn Armenian child?
But this story of Archag, and his life at the missionary school,
is not in our Schoolmate Series merely because Armenians are a
persecuted people whom American children ought to love and to succor;
it is here also because there are a good many Armenians in America,
and more are coming, whose children will be American citizens in
another twenty years. The Armenians, like our own Puritan forefathers,
came here to escape religious persecution; so those of us who happen
to be descended from the early settlers in New England ought to
have a strong fellow-feeling for this other race of Christians who
have suffered for the sake of their religion and have hoped to find
religious freedom here with us.
The Armenian Church, for which Armenians suffer martyrdom in our
enlightened twentieth century, is one of the most ancient of the
Churches of Christendom. Its founder was St. Gregory, called the
Illuminator, who received a heavenly vision and built a little chapel,
in A. D. 303, on the spot on which the vision came to him. It was this
Gregory who converted King Tiridates of Armenia to Christianity, and
it was King Tiridates who proclaimed Christianity the State religion
of Armenia, some years before the Emperor Constantine made it the
state religion of Rome. The Armenian Church is a democratic church,
for the clergy in the villages are appointed and paid by their own
congregations, and often in poor places the priest and his wife work
in the fields with the peasants. The Armenian's Church is the true
home of his spirit. He has no country of his own, for the region
which we think of as Armenia was, before the Great War, divided among
three nations, Russia, Turkey, and Persia, and arbitrarily ruled by
them. The Armenians were a subject people; but in their religion they
were free, and they have endured torture and death for the sake of
this dear freedom.
According to one of their own writers, Aram Raffi, the name "Armenia"
first appears in the fifth century before Christ, but the Armenians
themselves have a name of their own, which they like. They call
themselves "Hai," and their country "Hayastan," because they have
a tradition that they are descended from "Haik," the son of Torgom,
great-grandson of Japheth, Noah's son. If you will look at your map
of Asia Minor, you will find that Mount Ararat, on which Noah's
Ark rested after the flood went down, is at the meeting place of
the three divisions of Armenia, the Russian division, the Persian,
and the Turkish; and it is not strange that with this beautiful snow
mountain soaring over their enslaved country, the Armenians should
trace their ancestry back so directly to Noah.
It was during the latter part of the last century that the Turkish
Government set the Kurds on to massacre the Armenians. The massacres
of 1895-96, the massacre at Van in 1908, and those at Adana and in
Cilicia, in 1909, were all carried out by the consent of the Turkish
authorities. And because of these persecutions the Armenians began
to leave Asia Minor for America.
The Kurds, who committed the atrocities under the instigation of the
Turks, are a semi-nomad race, living part of the year in tents; a
picturesque, wild, ungovernable people, practicing a sort of highway
robbery as a trade, and a sort of Mohammedanism as a religion. The
Armenians, on the other hand, are farmers and merchants, thrifty,
intelligent, peaceful, eager for education, and, as you have read,
devoted Christians. It is not strange that two peoples so different
in habits and temperament should find it difficult to live together,
as neighbors; and the Turks, who are jealous of the intelligence and
industry and ability of the Armenians, and hate them also for their
Christianity, have not scrupled to stir up the Kurds against them. What
is still worse, they have compelled the Armenians to live unarmed among
their armed and fierce Kurdish enemies. We sometimes hear the Armenians
called cowardly, but if we had to live unarmed among a hostile race
who carried good modern rifles, we, too, might be called cowards.
No; we need not think of Armenians simply as a down-trodden and
feeble folk, who have run away helplessly from danger, and to whom
Americans must be compassionate and charitable. They have something
to give us, as well. Their diligence is a good gift; they work hard,
and they are intelligent in their work. Their faithfulness to God is
the best of gifts. And they have a great love of education. This gift,
if there were no other, would win for them a place in the Schoolmate
Series. In a book called "Travel and Politics in Armenia," by Noel and
Harold Buxton, published in 1914, which you may like to read some day,
we get a vivid idea of the love of the Armenians for their schools. The
authors say:
"There is a remarkable contrast between the villages of Armenians
and the villages of Kurds. We had traveled for days in a Kurdish
district, a waste of bare, sandy hills, with never a tree or any sign
of cultivation. Our halting-place for lunch proved to be an Armenian
village, and luscious melons were put before us, which the arid soil
produces in abundance as soon as a little irrigation is applied to
it. While we sat in the Khan (inn), the local schoolmaster appeared--a
wonder still more remarkable than the melons, for whoever heard of
a school in a Kurdish village? We seemed to be suddenly transported
to a center of civilization. This educational activity is beyond all
praise. Here was a man of some ability, prepared to live a lonely
life in an isolated village, for the sake of his nation and the
younger generation."
They go on to tell us of the school system, which is voluntary
and without Government aid. There is--or perhaps since the War,
one should say was--a National Committee for Education which sat at
Constantinople; the teachers were paid by the Committee, and there
were School inspectors for each district, in Turkish Armenia. Pupils
who could afford it paid for their schooling, but those who were poor
were not kept out by their poverty. Does not this sound very modern,
and American, and democratic? Surely, these are people who will make
good Americans.
And going to school in Armenia was an exciting adventure, before the
War. Listen to the story which the Buxtons tell of a Secondary Boys'
School founded more than fifty years ago at Varag, by an Armenian
Bishop, a pioneer in modern education in Armenia:
"At the time of the massacres (1909) masters and boys had to fly
to the mountains, and while they were absent, the buildings were
completely destroyed by fire. Nevertheless, an entire reconstruction
was undertaken. The Church, which happily was not destroyed,
occupies one side of the courtyard and the new buildings occupy the
other three; a second courtyard is now nearing completion (1914). A
second attempt was made less than three years ago to despoil this
institution. The attacking party, about a hundred strong, was
repelled by five Armenian revolutionaries, aided no doubt by the
'young blood' of the college. Now (1914) there are seventy boys and
seven teachers, all laymen. The system is pre-eminently practical. The
pupils are destined for teaching, and since it is considered part
of a village schoolmaster's duty in Armenia to be able to assist
peasants in agricultural matters, thorough instruction is given
in fruit, vegetable, and poultry culture, dairy work, and general
gardening. The school grounds form a delightful oasis of irrigated
lands in the midst of surrounding desert. The school printing press
was stolen by the Government and the compositor abducted; but a more
modern machine has taken its place. Every boy takes his share, out
of school hours, in carpentry and house-work. The court-yard forms
a fine play-ground, and here, having mentioned Boy Scouts, I found
myself surrounded by an ardent crowd, thirsting for scout lore,
and begging to be enrolled at once as 'tenderfeet.'"
What may have been the fate of this boys' school at Varag, since 1914,
I dread to imagine. As it was a native school, there is no mention
of it, so far as I know, in the reports of American Missionary
Schools. We can only hope that some of those seventy boys and their
seven masters still live, and will one day take heart to build up
the old school again.
Besides the native schools, there are the schools and colleges
established in Asia Minor by American Missionaries, and to these also
the Armenians flock. The author of "Archag" has laid some of the
scenes of his story in one of these famous missionary schools, the
Central Turkey College at Aintab, and has given us a lively picture
of the ardent young Armenians at their games and their studies. Ever
since "Tom Brown at Rugby," school stories have been the fashion,
and it is reassuring to see how curiously akin schoolboys are, all
the world over, whether they be English lads at Rugby, or Oriental
youngsters at Aintab. Beneath their fezzes and zoubouns, our Armenian
hero and his friends are genuine boys at heart, with a boy's sense
of honor and love of good sport. The picture of the school, too, is
one for Americans to be proud of, with its devoted teachers, its high
intellectual standards, and its Christian atmosphere. And its record
during the War has been very fine. In the Report of the American
Board of Missions, 1918, I read that the four missionaries who were
able to stay there "have all been carrying a heavy burden for, unlike
many of our stations to the north which were practically depopulated,
Aintab has had an ever-increasing number of refugees to care for. At
times the attitude of the local officials was distinctly hostile and
the danger of further massacre was great, but the opportune arrival
of a British force on December 15, 1918, saved the day and already
there are signs of recovery. Christian services are being attended
by great crowds. The Mission paper, Rahnuma, is being published by
the College press, and has practically become the official organ of
the British Commander. Schools will doubtless open soon."
But if schools and schoolboys are much alike, the world over, vacations
in Armenia are very different from American holidays. No boys' camps
for Archag and his friends! Their adventures are much more thrilling
than your summer hikes and canoeings. There are no patriot-outlaws
in our mountains. But I must stop, or I shall be telling you Archag's
story, and that would not be fair. Only this, let me say: our author,
like all good story-tellers, uses his imagination to make his story
come alive; he embroiders, as the French say, upon his facts; but if
you will read in the "New York Evening Post," for Saturday, November
29, 1919, the account of Antranik, the Armenian patriot who came
to this country to ask help for his countrymen, you will find that
fiction is no more romantic than fact, in Asia Minor; and you will
find Antranik,--this very same hero, I think,--mentioned in our story.
Read the story, dear Schoolmate, and make friends with these Armenian
boys, who suffer so steadfastly for their country and their God.
Affectionately yours,
Florence Converse.
ARCHAG
The
LITTLE ARMENIAN
CHAPTER I
A DAY AT SCHOOL
The boys had just finished a grammar lesson, and as a reward for paying
attention their master was reading them a bit of history. Jousif hodja
(schoolmaster) was a tall young man of twenty, very slight, and frail
in appearance, with dreamy black eyes. Perfect silence reigned in
the smoky old schoolroom while he read in a strong, clear voice:
"The day of battle had come at last! [1] Our men, commanded by Vartan
the Mamigonian, had pitched their tents that night on the plain
of Avarair. The snowy peak of Ararat was just becoming visible in
the early light of dawn, when a sentinel burst into Vartan's tent,
crying: 'The Persians! The Persians! they are coming!' The chief
went out from his tent and climbed a hill around which we had made
our camp. His piercing eye quickly distinguished a black mass moving
slowly, like surging waves, along the Tabriz road. From time to time
the silence of the plain was broken by a dull threatening sound like
the distant rumbling of thunder.... Vartan was fighting in the thick
of the fray; he seemed all unconscious of his wounds and of the blood
streaming from them; in despair he saw his soldiers, overpowered by
numbers, fast giving way. The ground was strewn with the dead bodies
of Armenians; the cries of the wounded were drowned by the yells of
the Persians. Vartan, with several brave followers, had made his way
almost up to Khan Mustapha, general of the hostile forces, when a
Kurd rushed upon him and dealt him a violent blow with his scimitar,
striking the back of his neck. Stunned by the shock, the Mamigonian
sank to earth, and was immediately surrounded by a dozen devils;
one cut off his legs, another, leaning over him with a grimace,
thrust his cutlass into the breast of the ill-starred hero----"
"But I don't want him to die," sobbed a boy of twelve. "Oh, master,
why did God let him?"
Some of the older boys began to laugh, but Jousif hodja sternly
silenced them, and going to the child, said to him:
"Come, Archag, quiet yourself; envy our Vartan, if you will, admire
him, but don't give him pity. His martyr's death has sustained and
fortified thousands of Armenians; even to-day, after so many centuries
of oppression and sorrow, to whom should we lift our eyes if not
to our national hero? We all love him, and in the hour of danger we
shall fight and die as worthy sons of Vartan."
At these words the child gradually became quiet, dried his tears
and said:
"I want to follow his example."
The master stroked Archag's black curls; then, the bell having
already rung, he dismissed his pupils with the benediction. In the
twinkling of an eye the boys had put on their pretty red slippers,
strapped up their books, and were running through the streets of Van,
shouting, and chattering like a flock of sparrows. Archag was among
the first to scamper out; he ran like a shot as far as the Cathedral,
then turning at the back of the Bishop's house, he followed a lane
which led to the shore of the lake.
His parents lived outside the city in one of those flat-roofed
dwellings so common in Asia Minor. His father owned a great deal of
livestock, herds of sheep and goats, as well as droves of horses and
camels; Archag breathed a sigh of content as he caught sight of his
father's house at a turn of the road. A young girl of sixteen was
coming to meet him; it was his sister Nizam, who made a great pet of
him. He threw his arms about her neck, and asked in a wheedling tone:
"Tell me, have you been making something good for my supper?"
"Fie! you greedy boy," replied the young girl. "You think of nothing
but eating. Tell me instead what you did at school to-day."
At these words a shadow came over the child's face.
"Oh! Nizam, to-day is Vartan's Day, so Jousif hodja read us a
description of the battle of Avarair. Only think! Three thousand
Persians fell upon the Armenians, who had only five hundred soldiers,
and they killed Vartan and all his men. Don't you think our hero must
have been like Jousif hodja?"
Nizam blushed at the name of the schoolmaster; for, to tell the truth,
the two young people were secretly in love.
"Now Archag, stop; what are you talking about? Come along to
supper. Mamma has been making tomato pilaaf for us."
"Pilaaf! [2] how jolly!" and Archag ran gayly toward the house. He
burst into the kitchen like a gust of wind, went to his father, Boghos
[3] Effendi, and kissed his hand, threw his books into a corner,
took off his slippers, [4] and then sat down on the floor between
his mother and his little brother Levon.
At Van, as in other remote towns in Asia Minor, chairs and tables
were still objects of luxury, and were rarely seen. People just sat
down on the floor.
Boghos Effendi was a tall man about forty years of age. Like his
sons, he wore the zouboun, a long robe with a flannel girdle, opening
over white cotton trousers; on his head he wore a turban of yellow
silk. His wife, Hanna badgi, [5] the mother of our little friends,
wore a brown silk dress made in European fashion. Her hair hung down
over her shoulders in two long black braids. We have already made
the acquaintance of pretty Nizam and Levon. Two menservants, Bedros
and Krikor, [6] and an old serving woman named Gulenia, completed
the family circle.
Seated around an earthenware tray, [7] each one, armed with a large
spoon, dipped at will into a dish of pilaaf. On their knees they had,
each one, a large piece of bread piled with olives, but this bread
was quite different from ours; it was thin and flat, rather like a
soft pancake than bread. For ten minutes no sound was heard but the
crunching of jaws and the clatter of spoons (sounds which I would
by no means advise my readers to imitate); then, before standing up,
each rinsed the mouth and fingers again in a bowl of water.
After supper, Archag and Levon ran off together to the stable to say
good-night to their favorite little goat. Because of the terrible
cold which prevails in Asia Minor during several months of the year,
the stables are built under the ground; in this way they have the
advantage of being warm in winter and very cool in summer. Boghos
Effendi had a stable for the horses, one shed for the sheep and another
for the goats. Our two children had brought a handful of salt from the
kitchen, and the pretty Belette seemed to consider it a treat. Levon
amused himself by pulling the long silky hairs of the little animal,
a magnificent Angora goat. They would no doubt have stayed all night
with their horned friends if their mamma had not called them in to
go to bed. And even when called they did not obey very promptly;
it was so delightful in the stable.
When they got back to the house they took a large mattress and a
thick wadded coverlet and spread them on the floor. In one corner of
the room there stood a little altar with a picture of Saint Gregory
the Illuminator, [8] dimly lighted by a night lamp. The two children
knelt down before the picture of their patron saint to say their
prayers. Then they took off their zoubouns and stockings, rolled
themselves up in a quilt, and were soon fast asleep in spite of the
hardness of their bed. The people of the Orient are not accustomed
to iron and wooden beds like ours.
After supper Nizam had gone, as was her habit, to sit on a great
rock high above the house. At her feet was spread the lake, with
its marvelous frame of high mountains whose snow-crowned peaks, now
flushing red in the rays of the setting sun, seemed to be in the
heart of a vast fire. But the young Armenian girl had no eyes for
the beauty of the landscape; she was thinking of her mother whose
delicate health caused her great anxiety.
Twilight falls rapidly in the Orient, and now the jackals were
yelping, and the dogs were howling in reply, and the moon, a pale
yellow crescent, was reflected in the dark waters of the lake. Aroused
from her reverie by the growing darkness, Nizam hurried back to the
house, where her parents were waiting for her that they might close
the doors. Orientals go to bed soon after the sun, and before long
perfect stillness reigned in the solitary house.