ARMENIAN LITERATURE
COMPRISING
POETRY, DRAMA, FOLK-LORE, AND CLASSIC TRADITIONS
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH FOR THE FIRST TIME
WITH A SPECIAL INTRODUCTION BY
ROBERT ARNOT, M.A.
REVISED EDITION
1904
SPECIAL INTRODUCTION
The literature of ancient Armenia that is still extant is meagre in
quantity and to a large extent ecclesiastical in tone. To realize its
oriental color one must resort entirely to that portion which deals with
the home life of the people, with their fasts and festivals, their
emotions, manners, and traditions. The ecclesiastical character of much
of the early Armenian literature is accounted for by the fact that
Christianity was preached there in the first century after Christ, by
the apostles Thaddeus and Bartholomew, and that the Armenian Church is
the oldest national Christian Church in the world.
It is no doubt owing to the conversion of the entire Armenian nation
under the passionate preaching of Gregory the Illuminator that most of
the literary products, of primitive Armenia--the mythological legends
and chants of heroic deeds sung by bards--are lost. The Church would
have none of them. Gregory not only destroyed the pagan temples, but he
sought to stamp out the pagan literature--the poetry and recorded
traditions that celebrated the deeds of gods and goddesses and of
national heroes. He would have succeeded, too, had not the romantic
spirit of the race clung fondly to their ballads and folk-lore.
Ecclesiastical historiographers in referring to those times say quaintly
enough, meaning to censure the people, that in spite of their great
religious advantages the Armenians persisted in singing some of their
heathen ballads as late as the twelfth century. Curiously enough, we owe
the fragments we possess of early Armenian poetry to these same
ecclesiastical critics. These fragments suggest a popular poesy,
stirring and full of powerful imagery, employed mostly in celebrating
royal marriages, religious feasts, and containing dirges for the dead,
and ballads of customs--not a wide field, but one invaluable to the
philologist and to ethnological students.
The Christian chroniclers and critics, however, while preserving but
little of the verse of early Armenia, have handed down to us many
legends and traditions, though they relate them, unfortunately, with
much carelessness and with a contempt for detail that is often
exasperating to one seeking for instructive parallelisms between the
heroic legends of different nations. Evidently the only object of the
ecclesiastical chroniclers in preserving these legends was to invest
their descriptions of the times with a local color. Even Moses of
Chorene, who by royal command collected many of these legends, and in
his sympathetic treatment of them evinces poetic genius and keen
literary appreciation, fails to realize the importance of his task.
After speaking of the old Armenian kings with enthusiasm, and even
condoning their paganism for the sake of their virility, he leaves his
collection in the utmost disorder and positively without a note or
comment. In the face of such difficulties, therefore, it has been hard
to present specimens of early Armenian folk-lore and legends that shall
give the reader a rightful idea of the race and the time.
As Armenia was the highroad between Asia and Europe, these old stories
and folk-plays show the influence of migrating and invading people. The
mythology of the Chaldeans and Persians mingles oddly with traditions
purely Armenian. This is well shown in the story of David of Sassun,
given in this volume. David was the local hero of the place where Moses
of Chorene was born and probably spent his declining years, after years
of literary labor and study in Athens and Alexandria. The name of the
district was Mush, and close by the monastery in which Moses was buried
lies the village of Sassun.
David's history is rich in personal incident, and recalls to the reader
the tales related of the Persian Izdubar, the Chaldeo-Babylonian Nimrod,
and the Greek Heracles. He is as much the hero of the tale as is Joseph
Andrews in Fielding's classic of that name. His marvellous strength is
used as handily for a jest as for some prodigious victory over man or
monster. He is drawn for us as a bold, reckless fellow, with a
rollicking sense of humor, which, in truth, sits but awkwardly upon the
intense devotion to the Cross and its demands with which Moses or some
later redactor has seen fit to burden this purely pagan hero. David is
very human in spite of his blood-stained club and combative instincts,
and his kindliness and bonhomie awake in us a passing disappointment at
his untimely demise.
If we except some ecclesiastical writings, these fragments preserved by
Moses of Chorene and others comprehend all that is left to us of the
literature of Armenia antedating the Persian invasion. After the Persian
flood of fire and sword had rolled over this Asiatic Poland, the
stricken Christian Church revived. A monk named Mesrob set to work to
revive the spirit of literature. His difficulties were great. It was not
alone the resuscitating of a dead literary desire, but it entailed also
the providing of a vehicle of expression, namely an alphabet, so deeply
had the Persian domination imprinted itself upon the land. As might be
expected, the primary results of the revival were didactic, speculative,
or religious in character. Mysticism at that time flourished in the
monasteries, and the national spirit--the customs, habits, joys, and
emotions of the people--had not yet found re-expression in script. The
Church became the dominant power in literature, and if it is true on the
one hand that the Armenian people lost intellectual independence, it is
also true on the other that they gained that religious zeal and strength
which enabled them as an entity--a united race--to survive the fatal day
of Avarair, where, under the shadow of hoary Ararat, the Armenian
Marathon was fought and lost, and Vartan, their national hero, died. All
sorts of traditions cluster still around the battlefield of Avarair. A
species of red flower grows there that is nowhere else to be found, and
it is commonly believed that this red blossom sprang originally from the
blood of the slain Armenian warriors. On the plain of Avarair is also
found a small antelope with a pouch upon its breast secreting musk--a
peculiarity gained, they say, from feeding on grass soaked with the
blood of Armenia's sons. And at Avarair, too, it is said that the lament
of the nightingales is ever, "Vartan, Vartan." The story of these times
is preserved in fragments in the religious chronicles of Lazarus of
Pharb and of Eliseus. When, during the Persian domination, Armenia
became entirely shut off from the avenues of Greek culture, and was left
unaided in her struggle for national existence, the light of literature
again sank to a feeble gleam. There was, indeed, a faint revival in the
tenth century, and again a second and a stronger renaissance in the
twelfth under the impulse given by Nerses, and by his namesake, the
Patriarch. But this revival, like the former, was not general in
character. It was mostly a revival of religious mysticism in literature,
not of the national spirit, though to this epoch belong the choicest
hymnological productions of the Armenian Church.
There are no chronicles extant that can be called purely Armenian. The
oldest chronicles that we have of Armenia--and there are many--wander
off into the histories of other people--of the Byzantines, for instance,
and even of the Crusaders. The passages that deal with Armenia are
devoted almost entirely to narrating the sufferings of the Armenians
under the successive invasions of pagans and Mahometans, and the efforts
made to keep the early Christian faith--forming almost a national book
of martyrs, and setting forth a tragic romance of perpetual struggle.
These records cannot be called Armenian literature in a real sense, for
in many cases they were not written by Armenians, but they picture in
vivid fashion the trials suffered by Armenians at the hands of invading
nations, and the sacrifices made to preserve a national existence. They
picture, in pages bristling with horrible detail, the sacrifices and
sufferings of a desperate people, and in them we see Armenia as the
prophet saw Judea, "naked, lying by the wayside, trodden under foot by
all nations." These chronicles have an interest all their own, but they
lack literary beauty, and not being, in themselves, Armenian literature,
have not been included in the selections made as being purely
representative of the race and land.
The examples of Armenian proverbs and folk-lore included in this volume
show, as is usual, the ethnological relationship that is so easily
traced between the fables of _Aesop_, of Bidpai, of Vartan, and of
Loqman. It may be said with truth that in the folk-lore and fables of
all nations can be traced kinship of imagination, with a variety of
application that differs with the customs and climate of the people. But
the Armenian is especially rich in a variety of elements. We meet
enchantments, faculties, superstitions, and abstract ideas personified,
which are supposed to attach miraculous meanings to the most ordinary
events. Dreams, riddles, and the like--all are there. The one strange
personification is the Dew. The Dew is a monster, half demon, half
human; sometimes harmless, sometimes malevolent; mortal, indeed, but
reaching a good or, shall we say, an evil old age. The Dew figures in
nearly all Armenian fairy-tales.
The Armenian proverbs exhibit the persistent capacity of the Armenians
during a time of _Sturm und Drang_ to embody, in pithy, wise, and
sometimes cynical form, the wisdom drawn from their own experience and
from that of the ages. It is possible that the cynical vein discernible
in some of these proverbs is a result of the intense and continued
national trials. Take, for instance, this proverb, "If a brother were a
good thing, God would have provided himself with one." Can anything be
more cynical?
The poems are of later origin. Since the twelfth century, when
literature burst the bonds imposed upon it by ecclesiastical domination,
the poetic spirit of the Armenians has found expression. It is rich in
oriental passion and imagery, brilliant in expression, and intensely
musical. But through all the poems we are reminded of the melancholy
strain that pervaded the exiles of Jerusalem when "by the waters of
Babylon" they "sat down and wept." The apostrophe to Araxes reminds us
of the trials of Armenia, of her exiled sons, of her wasted land, and of
the perpetual fast she ever keeps in mourning for her children.
The comedy of "The Ruined Family" and the pathetic story of "The Vacant
Yard" are also of the post-monastic era. In the comedy we gain an
insight into the jealousy and the pride of life that pervaded then as
now the middle walks of life. Its Ibsenesque quality is very striking.
The persistent and human struggle of the mother to gain a high position
in life for her daughter through marriage, and the agonizing of the
father to get together a suitable dower for his daughter, together with
the worldly-wise comments and advice of the old aunt, are so true to
modern life that one realizes anew the sameness of human nature in all
climes and ages.
"The Vacant Yard" gives us a charming picture of Armenian life. The
people are depicted with an impartial pen, subject to the minor crosses
and humors of fate, having their ups and downs just as we do to-day, but
the intense local color that pervades the story holds one to the closing
line.
As a people the Armenians cannot boast of as vast a literature as the
Persians, their one-time conquerors, but that which remains of purely
Armenian prose, folk-lore, and poetry tells us of a poetic race, gifted
with imaginative fire, sternness of will, and persistency of adherence
to old ideas, a race that in proportion to their limited production in
letters can challenge comparison with any people.
[Signature: Robert Arnot]
CONTENTS
PROVERBS AND FOLK-LORE
THE VACANT YARD
ARMENIAN POEMS
A Plaint
Spring in Exile
Fly, Lays of Mine
The Woe of Araxes
The Armenian Maiden
One of a Thousand
Longing
DAVID OF SASSUN
THE RUINED FAMILY
* * * * *
PROVERBS AND FOLK-LORE
[_Translated by F.B. Collins, B.S._]
* * * * *
PROVERBS AND FOLK-LORE
I know many songs, but I cannot sing.
When a man sees that the water does not follow him, he follows the
water.
When a tree falls there is plenty of kindling wood.
He who falls into the water need have no fear of rain.
A good swimmer finds death in the water.
Strong vinegar bursts the cask.
Dogs quarrel among themselves, but against the wolf they are united.
God understands the dumb.
Only he who can read is a man.
The chick shows itself in the egg, the child in the cradle.
What a man acquires in his youth serves as a crutch in his old age.
One wit is good; two wits are better.
Begin with small things, that you may achieve great.
A devil with experience is better than an angel without.
What the great say, the humble hear.
He who steals an egg will steal a horse also.
Turn the spit, so that neither meat nor roasting-iron shall burn.
One can spoil the good name of a thousand.
What manner of things thou speakest of, such shalt thou also hear.
The grandfather ate unripe grapes, and the grandson's teeth were set on
edge.
One bad deed begets another.
Go home when the table is set, and to church when it is almost over.
A devil at home, a parson abroad.
God created men and women: who, then, created monks?
Poor and proud.
In dreams the hungry see bread and the thirsty water.
Ere the fat become lean, the lean are already dead.
Wish for a cow for your neighbor, that God may give you two.
What is play to the cat is death to the mouse.
Unless the child cries, the mother will not suckle it.
A fish in the water is worth nothing.
Gold is small but of great worth.
At home the dog is very brave.
Observe the mother ere you take the daughter.
If you lose half and then leave off, something is gained.
The good mourn for what was taken away, the wolf for what was left
behind.
Only a bearded man can laugh at a beardless face.
He descends from a horse and seats himself on an ass.
No other day can equal the one that is past.
When a man grows rich, he thinks his walls are awry.
Make friends with a dog, but keep a stick in your hand.
One should not feel hurt at the kick of an ass.
The blind have no higher wish than to have two eyes.
The thief wants only a dark night.
A thief robbed another thief, and God marvelled at it in heaven.
He who has money has no sense; and he who has sense, no money.
He who begs is shameless, but still more shameless is he who lends not
to him.
Better lose one's eyes than one's calling.
What the wind brings it will take away again.
A bad dog neither eats himself nor gives to others.
Running is also an art.
Only in the bath can one tell black from white.
Water is sure to find its way.
What does the blind care if candles are dear?
Speak little and you will hear much.
No one is sure that his light will burn till morning.
He who speaks the truth must have one foot in the stirrup.
The more you stone a dog the more he barks.
One blossom does not make a spring.
One hand cannot clap alone.
Strike the iron while it is hot.
Take up a stick, and the thieving dog understands.
Corruption illumines dark paths.
When they laid down the law to the wolf, he said, "Be quiet, or the
sheep will run away."
One hears Ali is dead; but one knows not which one.
The scornful soon grow old.
Who shall work? I and thou. Who shall eat? I and thou.
Stay in the place where there is bread.
If bread tastes good, it is all one to me whether a Jew or a Turk bakes
it.
One loves the rose, another the lilac.
Before Susan had done prinking, church was over.
The simpleton went to the wedding and said, "Indeed, it is much better
here than it is at home."
He sleeps for himself and dreams for others.
The flower falls under the bush.
Not everything round is an apple.
What does an ass know about almonds?
A king must be worthy of a crown.
When you are going in consider first how you are coming out.
What thou canst do to-day leave not until to-morrow.
The rose of winter-time is fire.
The end of strife is repentance.
From the same flower the serpent draws poison and the bees honey.
My heart is no table-cover to be spread over everything.
As long as the wagon is not upset the way is not mended.
The water that drowns me is for me an ocean.
The Armenian has his understanding in his head, the Georgian in his
eyes.
The ass knows seven ways of swimming, but when he sees the water he
forgets them all.
The wound of a dagger heals, but that of the tongue, never.
A good ox is known in the yoke, a good woman at the cradle of her child.
Love ever so well, there is also hate; hate ever so much, there is
always love.
A shrewd enemy is better than a stupid friend.
To rise early is not everything; happy are they who have the help of
God.
A dress that is not worn wears itself out.
I came from the ocean and was drowned in a spoonful of water.
Because the cat could get no meat, he said, "To-day is Friday."
The house that a woman builds God will not destroy; but a woman is
likely to destroy the house that God has built.
The dowry a woman brings into the house is a bell. Whenever you come
near, the clapper strikes in your face.
By asking, one finds the way to Jerusalem.
Which of the five fingers can you cut off without hurting yourself?
The father's kingdom is the son's mite.
Far from the eye, far from the heart.
If a brother was really good for anything, God would have one.
When God gives, He gives with both hands.
A daughter is a treasure which belongs to another.
The world is a pair of stairs: some go up and others go down.
The poor understand the troubles of the poor.
The childless have one trouble, but those who have children have a
thousand.
God turns away his face from a shameless man.
The eyes would not disagree even if the nose were not between them.
Until you see trouble you will never know joy.
You never know a man until you have eaten a barrel of salt with him.
Every man's own trouble is as large as a camel.
The goat prefers one goat to a whole herd of sheep.
The fox has destroyed the world, and the wolf has lost his calling.
The fool throws himself into the stream, and forty wise men cannot pull
him out.
A near neighbor is better than a distant kinsman.
When I have honey, the flies come even from Bagdad.
A guest comes from God.
The guest is the ass of the inn-keeper.
When everything is cheap the customer has no conscience.
* * * * *
THE SHEEP-BROTHER
Once there was a widow and she had a daughter. The widow married a
widower who had by his first wife two children, a boy and a girl. The
wife was always coaxing her husband: "Take the children, do, and lead
them up into the mountains." Her husband could not refuse her, and, lo!
one day he put some bread in his basket, took the children, and set off
for the mountain.
They went on and on and came to a strange place. Then the father said to
the children, "Rest here a little while," and the children sat down to
rest. The father turned his face away and wept bitterly, very bitterly.
Then he turned again to the children and said, "Eat something," and they
ate. Then the boy said, "Father, dear, I want a drink." The father took
his staff, stuck it into the ground, threw his coat over it, and said,
"Come here, my son, sit in the shadow of my coat, and I will get you
some water." The brother and sister stayed and the father went away and
forsook his children. Whether they waited a long time or a short time
before they saw that their father was not coming back is not known. They
wandered here and there looking for him, but saw no human being
anywhere.
At last they came back to the same spot, and, beginning to weep, they
said:
"Alas! Alas! See, here is father's staff, and here is his coat, and he
comes not, and he comes not."
Whether the brother and sister sat there a long time or a short time is
not known. They rose after a while, and one took the staff and the other
the coat, and they went away without knowing whither. They went on and
on and on, until they saw tracks of horses' hoofs filled with
rain-water.
"I am going to drink, sister," said the brother.
"Do not drink, little brother, or you will become a colt," said the
sister.
They passed on till they saw tracks of oxen's hoofs.
"O sister dear, how thirsty I am!"
"Do not drink, little brother, or you will be a calf," the sister said
to him.
They went on till they saw the tracks of buffalo hoofs.
"O sister dear, how thirsty I am!"
"Drink not, little brother, or you will be a buffalo calf."
They passed on and saw the tracks of bears' paws.
"Oh, I am so thirsty, sister dear."
"Drink not, little brother, or you will become a little bear."
They went on and saw the tracks of swine's trotters.
"O sister dear, I am going to drink."
"Drink not, little brother, or you will become a little pig."
They went on and on till they saw the tracks of the pads of wolves.
"O sister dear, how thirsty I am!"
"Do not drink, little brother, or you will become a little wolf."
They walked on and on till they saw the tracks of sheep's trotters.
"O sister dear, I am almost dying with thirst."
"O little brother, you grieve me so! You will, indeed, be a sheep if you
drink."
He could stand it no longer. He drank and turned into a sheep. He began
to bleat and ran after his sister. Long they wandered, and at last came
home.
Then the stepmother began to scheme against them. She edged up to her
husband and said: "Kill your sheep. I want to eat him."
The sister got her sheep-brother away in the nick of time and drove him
back into the mountains. Every day she drove him to the meadows and she
spun linen. Once her distaff fell from her hand and rolled into a
cavern. The sheep-brother stayed behind grazing while she went to get
the distaff.
She stepped into the cavern and saw lying in a corner a Dew, one
thousand years old. She suddenly spied the girl and said: "Neither the
feathered birds nor the crawling serpent can make their way in here; how
then hast thou, maiden, dared to enter?"
The girl spoke up in her fright. "For love of you I came here, dear
grandmother."
The old Dew mother bade the girl come near and asked her this and that.
The maiden pleased her very much. "I will go and bring you a fish," she
said, "you are certainly hungry." But the fishes were snakes and
dragons. The girl was sorely frightened and began to cry with terror.
The old Dew said, "Maiden, why do you weep?" She answered, "I have just
thought of my mother, and for her sake I weep." Then she told the old
mother everything that had happened to her. "If that is so," said the
Dew, "sit down here and I will lay my head on your knee and go to
sleep."
She made up the fire, stuck the poker into the stove, and said:
"When the devil flies by do not waken me. If the rainbow-colored one
passes near, take the glowing poker from the stove and lay it on my
foot."
The maiden's heart crept into her heels from fright. What was she to do?
She sat down, the Dew laid her head on her knees and slept. Soon she saw
a horrible black monster flying by. The maiden was silent. After a while
there came flying by a rainbow-colored creature. She seized the glowing
poker and threw it on the old Dew's foot. The old mother awoke and said,
"Phew, how the fleas bite." She rose and lifted up the maiden. The
girl's hair and clothing were turned to gold from the splendor of the
rainbow colors. She kissed the old Dew's hand and begged that she might
go. She went away, and taking her sheep-brother with her started for
home. The stepmother was not there, and the maiden secretly dug a hole,
buried her golden dress, and sat down and put on an old one.
The stepmother came home and saw that the maiden had golden hair.
"What have you done to your hair to make it like gold?" she asked. The
maiden told her all, how and when. The next day the stepmother sent her
own daughter to the same mountain. The stepmother's daughter purposely
let her distaff fall and it rolled into the hole. She went in to get it,
but the old Dew mother turned her into a scarecrow and sent her home.
About that time there was a wedding in the royal castle; the King was
giving one of his sons in marriage, and the people came from all
directions to look on and enjoy themselves.
The stepmother threw on a kerchief and smartened up the head of her
daughter and took her to see the wedding. The girl with the golden hair
did not stay at home, but, putting on her golden dress so that she
became from head to foot a gleaming houri, she went after them.
But on the way home, she ran so fast to get there before her stepmother,
that she dropped one of her golden shoes in the fountain. When they led
the horses of the King's second son to drink, the horses caught sight of
the golden shoe in the water and drew back and would not drink. The King
caused the wise men to be called, and asked them to make known the
reason why the horses would not drink, and they found only the golden
shoe. The King sent out his herald to tell the people that he would
marry his son to whomsoever this shoe fitted.
He sent people throughout the whole city to try on the shoe, and they
came to the house where the sheep-brother was. The stepmother pushed the
maiden with the golden locks into the stove, and hid her, and showed
only her own daughter.
A cock came up to the threshold and crowed three times, "Cock-a-doodle
doo! The fairest of the fair is in the stove." The King's people brushed
the stepmother aside and led the maiden with golden hair from the stove,
tried on the shoe, which fitted as though moulded to the foot.
"Now stand up," said they, "and you shall be a royal bride."
The maiden put on her golden dress, drove her sheep-brother before her,
and went to the castle. She was married to the King's son, and seven
days and seven nights they feasted.
Again the stepmother took her daughter and went to the castle to visit
her stepdaughter, who in spite of all treated her as her mother and
invited her into the castle garden. From the garden they went to the
seashore and sat down to rest. The stepmother said, "Let us bathe in the
sea." While they were bathing she pushed the wife of the King's son far
out into the water, and a great fish came swimming by and swallowed her.
Meanwhile the stepmother put the golden dress on her own daughter and
led her to the royal castle and placed her in the seat where the young
wife always sat, covering her face and her head so that no one would
know her.
The young wife sat in the fish and heard the voice of the bell-ringer.
She called to him and pleaded: "Bell-ringer, O bell-ringer, thou hast
called the people to church; cross thyself seven times, and I entreat
thee, in the name of heaven, go to the prince and say that they must not
slaughter my sheep-brother."
Once, twice the bell-ringer heard this voice and told the King's son
about it.
The King's son took the bell-ringer with him and went at night to the
seashore. The same voice spoke the same words. He knew that it was his
dear wife that spoke, and drew his sword and ripped open the fish and
helped his loved one out.
They went home, and the prince had the stepmother brought to him, and
said to her: "Mother-in-law, tell me what kind of a present you would
like: a horse fed with barley or a knife with a black handle?"
The stepmother answered: "Let the knife with a black handle pierce the
breast of thine enemy; but give me the horse fed with barley."
The King's son commanded them to tie the stepmother and her daughter to
the tail of a horse, and to hunt them over mountain and rock till
nothing was left of them but their ears and a tuft of hair.
After that the King's son lived happily with his wife and her
sheep-brother. The others were punished and she rejoiced.
And three apples fell down from heaven.
* * * * *
THE YOUTH WHO WOULD NOT TELL HIS DREAM
There lived once upon a time a man and wife who had a son. The son arose
from his sleep one morning and said to his mother: "Mother dear, I had a
dream, but what it was I will not tell you."
The mother said, "Why will you not tell me?"
"I will not, and that settles it," answered the youth, and his mother
seized him and cudgelled him well.
Then he went to his father and said to him: "Father dear, I had a dream,
but what it was I would not tell mother, nor will I tell you," and his
father also gave him a good flogging. He began to sulk and ran away from
home. He walked and walked the whole day long and, meeting a traveller,
said after greeting him: "I had a dream, but what it was I would tell
neither father nor mother and I will not tell you," Then he went on his
way till finally he came to the Emir's house and said to the Emir:
"Emir, I had a dream, but what it was I would tell neither father nor
mother, nor yet the traveller, and I will not tell you."
The Emir had him seized and thrown into the garret, where he began to
cut through the floor with a knife he managed to get from some one of
the Emir's people. He cut and cut until he made an opening over the
chamber of the Emir's daughter, who had just filled a plate with food
and gone away. The youth jumped down, emptied the plate, ate what he
wanted, and crept back into the garret. The second, third, and fourth
days he did this also, and the Emir's daughter could not think who had
taken away her meal. The next day she hid herself under the table to
watch and find out. Seeing the youth jump down and begin to eat from her
plate, she rushed out and said to him, "Who are you?"
"I had a dream, but what it was I would tell neither father nor mother,
nor the traveller, nor yet the Emir. The Emir shut me up in the garret.
Now everything depends on you; do with me what you will."
The youth looked at the maiden, and they loved each other and saw each
other every day.
The King of the West came to the King of the East to court the daughter
of the King of the East for his son. He sent an iron bar with both ends
shaped alike and asked: "Which is the top and which is the bottom? If
you can guess that, good! If not, I will carry your daughter away with
me."
The King asked everybody, but nobody could tell. The King's daughter
told her lover about it and he said: "Go tell your father the Emir to
throw the bar into a brook. The heavy end will sink. Make a hole in that
end and send the bar back to the King of the West." And it happened that
he was right, and the messengers returned to their King.
The King of the West sent three horses of the same size and color and
asked: "Which is the one-year-old, which is the two-year-old, and which
the mare? If you can guess that, good. If not, then I will carry off
your daughter."
The King of the East collected all the clever people, but no one could
guess. He was helpless and knew not what to do. Then his daughter went
to her lover and said, "They are going to take me away," and she told
him when and how.
The youth said: "Go and say to your father, 'Dip a bundle of hay in
water, strew it with salt, and put it near the horses' stall. In the
morning the mare will come first, the two-year-old second, the
one-year-old last.'"
They did this and sent the King of the West his answer.
He waited a little and sent a steel spear and a steel shield, and said:
"If you pierce the shield with the spear, I will give my daughter to
your son. If not, send your daughter to my son."
Many people tried, and among them the King himself, but they could find
no way of piercing the shield. The King's daughter told him of her
beloved prisoner, and the King sent for him. The youth thrust the spear
into the ground, and, striking the shield against it, pierced it
through.
As the King had no son, he sent the youth in place of a son to the King
of the West to demand his daughter, according to agreement.
He went on and on--how long it is not known--and saw someone with his
ear to the ground listening.
"Who are you?" the youth asked.
"I am he who hears everything that is said in the whole world."
"This is a brave fellow," said the youth. "He knows everything that is
said in the world."
"I am no brave fellow. He who has pierced a steel shield with a steel
spear is a brave fellow," was the answer.
"I am he," said the youth. "Let us be brothers."
They journeyed on together and saw a man with a millstone on each foot,
and one leg stepped toward Chisan and the other toward Stambul.
"That seems to me a brave fellow! One leg steps toward Chisan and the
other toward Stambul."
"I am no brave fellow. He who has pierced a steel shield with a steel
spear is a brave fellow," said the man with the millstones.
"I am he. Let us be brothers."
They were three and they journeyed on together.
They went on and on and saw a mill with seven millstones grinding corn.
And one man ate all and was not satisfied, but grumbled and said, "O
little father, I die of hunger."
"That is a brave fellow," said the youth. "Seven millstones grind for him
and yet he has not enough, but cries, 'I die of hunger.'"
"I am no brave fellow. He who pierced a steel shield with a steel spear
is a brave fellow," said the hungry man.
"I am he. Let us be brothers," said the youth and the four journeyed on
together. They went on and on and saw a man who had loaded the whole
world on his back and even wished to lift it up.
"That is a brave fellow. He has loaded himself with the whole world and
wishes to lift it up," said the youth.
"I am no brave fellow. He who has pierced a steel shield with a steel
spear is a brave fellow," said the burdened man.
"I am he. Let us be brothers."
The five journeyed on together. They went on and on and saw a man lying
in a brook and he sipped up all its waters and yet cried, "O little
father, I am parched with thirst."
"That is a brave fellow. He drinks up the whole brook and still says he
is thirsty," said the youth.
"I am no brave fellow. He who has pierced a steel shield with a steel
spear is a brave fellow," said the thirsty man.
"I am he. Let us be brothers."
The six journeyed on together. They went on and on and saw a shepherd
who was playing the pipes, and mountains and valleys, fields and
forests, men and animals, danced to the music.
"That seems to me to be a brave fellow. He makes mountains and valleys
dance," said the youth.
"I am no brave fellow. He who has pierced a steel shield with a steel
spear is a brave fellow," said the musical man.
"I am he. Let us be brothers," said the youth.
The seven journeyed on together.
"Brother who hast pierced a steel shield with a steel spear, whither is
God leading us?"
"We are going to get the daughter of the King of the West," said the
youth.
"Only you can marry her," said they all.
They went on till they came to the King's castle, but when they asked
for the daughter the King would not let her go, but called his people
together and said: "They have come after the bride. They are not very
hungry, perhaps they will eat only a bite or two. Let one-and-twenty
ovens be filled with bread and make one-and-twenty kettles of soup. If
they eat all this I will give them my daughter; otherwise, I will not."
The seven brothers were in a distant room. He who listened with his ear
to the ground heard what the King commanded, and said:
"Brother who hast pierced a steel shield with a steel spear, do you
understand what the King said?"
"Rascal! how can I know what he says when I am not in the same room with
him? What did he say?"
"He has commanded them to bake bread in one-and-twenty ovens and to make
one-and-twenty kettles of soup. If we eat it all, we can take his
daughter; otherwise, not."
The brother who devoured all the meal that seven millstones, ground
said: "Fear not, I will eat everything that comes to hand, and then cry,
'Little father, I die of hunger.'"
When the King saw the hungry man eat he screamed: "May he perish! I
shall certainly meet defeat at his hands."
Again he called his people to him and said, "Kindle a great fire, strew
it with ashes and cover it with blankets. When they come in in the
evening they will be consumed, all seven of them."
The brother with the sharp ears said: "Brother who hast pierced a steel
shield with a steel spear, do you understand what the King said?"
"No; how can I know what he said?"
"He said, 'Kindle a fire, strew it with ashes, and cover it with
blankets, and when they come in in the evening they will be consumed,
all seven of them.'"
Then said the brother who drank up the brook: "I will drink all I can
and go in before you. I will spit it all out and turn the whole house
into a sea."
In the evening they begged the King to allow them to rest in the room
set apart for them. The water-drinker filled the whole room with water,
and they went into another.
The King lost his wits and knew not what to do. He called his people
together, and they said in one voice, "Let what will happen, we will not
let our princess go!"
The man with the sharp ears heard them, and said, "Brother who hast
pierced a steel shield with a steel spear, do you understand what the
King said?"
"How should I know what he said?"
"He said, 'Let what will happen, I will not let my daughter go.'"
The brother who had loaded himself with the whole world said: "Wait, I
will take his castle and all his land on my back and carry it away."
He took the castle on his back and started off. The shepherd played on
his pipes, and mountains and valleys danced to the music. He who had
fastened millstones to his feet led the march, and they all went
joyously forward, making a great noise.
The King began to weep, and begged them to leave him his castle. "Take
my daughter with you. You have earned her."
They put the castle back in its place, the shepherd stopped playing, and
mountain and valley stood still. They took the King's daughter and
departed, and each hero returned to his dwelling-place, and he who had
pierced the steel shield with the steel spear took the maiden and came
again to the King of the East. And the King of the East gave him his own
daughter, whom the youth had long loved, for his wife. So he had two
wives--one was the daughter of the King of the East, the other the
daughter of the King of the West.
At night, when they lay down to sleep, he said: "Now, I have one sun on
one side and another sun on the other side, and a bright star plays on
my breast."
In the morning he sent for his parents and called also the King to him,
and said, "Now, I will tell my dream." "What was it, then?" they all
said. He answered: "I saw in my dream one sun on one side of me and
another sun on the other, and a bright star played on my breast."
"Had you such a dream?" they asked.
"I swear I had such a dream."
And three apples fell from heaven: one for the story-teller, one for him
who made him tell it, and one for the hearer.
* * * * *
THE VACANT YARD
[_Translated by E.B. Collins, B.S._]
* * * * *
THE VACANT YARD
Several days ago I wished to visit an acquaintance, but it chanced he
was not at home. I came therefore through the gate again out into the
street, and stood looking to right and left and considering where I
could go. In front of me lay a vacant yard, which was, I thought, not
wholly like other vacant yards. On it was neither house nor barn nor
stable: true, none of these was there, but it was very evident that this
yard could not have been deserted long by its tenants. The house must,
also, in my opinion, have been torn down, for of traces of fire, as, for
example, charred beams, damaged stoves, and rubbish heaps, there was no
sign.
In a word, it could be plainly perceived that the house which once stood
there had been pulled down, and its beams and timbers carried away. In
the middle of the premises, near the line hedge, stood several high
trees, acacias, fig, and plum-trees; scattered among them were
gooseberry bushes, rose-trees, and blackthorns, while near the street,
just in the place where the window of the house was probably set, stood
a high, green fig-tree.
I have seen many vacant lots, yet never before have I given a passing
thought as to whom any one of them belonged, or who might have lived
there, or indeed where its future possessor might be. But in a peculiar
way the sight of this yard called up questions of this sort; and as I
looked at it many different thoughts came into my mind. Perhaps, I
thought to myself, a childless fellow, who spoiled old age with sighs
and complaints, and as his life waned the walls mouldered. Finally, the
house was without a master; the doors and windows stood open, and when
the dark winter nights came on, the neighbors fell upon it and stripped
off its boards, one after another. Yes, various thoughts came into my
head. How hard it is to build a house, and how easy to tear it down!
While I stood there lost in thought, an old woman, leaning on a staff,
passed me. I did not immediately recognize her, but at a second glance I
saw it was Hripsime. Nurse Hripsime was a woman of five-and-seventy,
yet, from her steady gait, her lively speech, and her fiery eyes, she
appeared to be scarcely fifty. She was vigorous and hearty, expressed
her opinions like a man, and was abrupt in her speech. Had she not worn
women's garments one could easily have taken her for a man. Indeed, in
conversation she held her own with ten men.
Once, I wot not for what reason, she was summoned to court. She went
thither, placed herself before the judge, and spoke so bravely that
everyone gaped and stared at her as at a prodigy. Another time thieves
tried to get into her house at night, knowing that she was alone like an
owl in the house. The thieves began to pry open the door with a crowbar,
and when Nurse Hripsime heard it she sprang nimbly out of bed, seized
her stick from its corner, and began to shout: "Ho, there! Simon,
Gabriel, Matthew, Stephan, Aswadur, get up quickly. Get your axes and
sticks. Thieves are here; collar the rascals; bind them, skin them,
strike them dead!" The thieves probably did not know with whom they had
to deal, and, when at the outcry of the old woman they conceived that a
half-dozen stout-handed fellows might be in the house, they took
themselves off. Just such a cunning, fearless woman was Aunt Hripsime.
"Good-morning, nurse," said I.
"God greet thee," she replied.
"Where have you been?"
"I have been with the sick," she rejoined.
Oh, yes! I had wholly forgotten to say that Nurse Hripsime, though she
could neither read nor write, was a skilful physician. She laid the sick
person on the grass, administered a sherbet, cured hemorrhoids and
epilepsy; and especially with sick women was she successful. Yes, to her
skill I myself can bear witness. About four years ago my child was taken
ill in the dog-days, and for three years my wife had had a fever, so
that she was very feeble. The daughter of Arutin, the gold-worker, and
the wife of Saak, the tile-maker, said to me: "There is an excellent
physician called Hripsime. Send for her, and you will not regret it."
To speak candidly, I have never found much brains in our doctor. He
turns round on his heels and scribbles out a great many prescriptions,
but his skill is not worth a toadstool.
I sent for Hripsime, and, sure enough, not three days had passed before
my wife's fever had ceased and my children's pain was allayed. For three
years, thank God, no sickness has visited my house. Whether it can be
laid to her skill and the lightness of her hand or to the medicine I
know not. I know well, however, that Nurse Hripsime is my family
physician. And what do I pay her? Five rubles a year, no more and no
less. When she comes to us it is a holiday for my children, so sweetly
does she speak to them and so well does she know how to win their
hearts. Indeed, if I were a sultan, she should be my vezir.
"How does the city stand in regard to sickness?" I asked her.
"Of that one would rather not speak," answered Hripsime. "Ten more such
years and our whole city will become a hospital. Heaven knows what kind
of diseases they are! Moreover, they are of a very peculiar kind, and
often the people die very suddenly. The bells fly in pieces almost from
so much tolling, the grave-diggers' shovels are blunt, and from the
great demand for coffins the price of wood is risen. What will become of
us, I know not."
"Is not, then, the cause of these diseases known to you?"
"Oh, that is clear enough," answered Hripsime. "It is a punishment for
our sins. What good deeds have we done that we should expect God's
mercy? Thieves, counterfeiters, all these you find among us. They snatch
the last shirt from the poor man's back, purloin trust moneys, church
money: in a word, there is no shameless deed we will not undertake for
profit. We need not wonder if God punishes us for it. Yes, God acts
justly, praised be his holy name! Indeed, it would be marvellous if God
let us go unpunished."
Hripsime was not a little excited, and that was just what I wished. When
she once began she could no longer hold in: her words gushed forth as
from a spring, and the more she spoke the smoother her speech.
"Do you know?" I began again, "that I have been standing a long while
before this deserted yard, and cannot recall whose house stood here, why
they have pulled it down, and what has become of its inhabitants? You
are an aged woman, and have peeped into every corner of our city: you
must have something to tell about it. If you have nothing important on
hand, be kind enough to tell me what you know of the former residents of
the vanished house."
Nurse Hripsime turned her gaze to the vacant yard, and, shaking her
head, said:
"My dear son, the history of that house is as long as one of our
fairy-tales. One must tell for seven days and seven nights in order to
reach the end.
"This yard was not always so desolate as you see it now," she went on.
"Once there stood here a house, not very large, but pretty and
attractive, and made of wood. The wooden houses of former days pleased
me much better than the present stone houses, which look like cheese
mats outside and are prisons within. An old proverb says, 'In stone or
brick houses life goes on sadly,'
"Here, on this spot, next to the fig-tree," she continued, "stood
formerly a house with a five-windowed front, green blinds, and a red
roof. Farther back there by the acacias stood the stable, and between
the house and the stable, the kitchen and the hen-house. Here to the
right of the gate a spring." With these words Nurse Hripsime took a step
forward, looked about, and said: "What is this? the spring gone, too! I
recollect as if to-day that there was a spring of sweet water on the
very spot where I am standing. What can have happened to it! I know that
everything can be lost--but a spring, how can that be lost?" Hripsime
stooped and began to scratch about with her stick. "Look here," she said
suddenly, "bad boys have filled up the beautiful spring with earth and
stones. Plague take it! Well, if one's head is cut off, he weeps not for
his beard. For the spring I care not, but for poor Sarkis and his family
I am very sorry."
"Are you certain that the house of Sarkis, the grocer, stood here? I had
wholly forgotten it. Now tell me, I pray, what has become of him? Does
he still live, or is he dead? Where is his family? I remember now that
he had a pretty daughter and also a son."
Nurse Hripsime gave no heed to my questions, but stood silently, poking
about with her stick near the choked-up spring.
The picture of Grocer Sarkis, as we called him, took form vividly in my
memory, and with it awoke many experiences of my childhood. I remembered
that when I was a child a dear old lady often visited us, who was
continually telling us about Grocer Sarkis, and used to hold up his
children as models. In summer, when the early fruit was ripe, she used
to visit his house, gather fruit in his garden, and would always come to
us with full pockets, bringing us egg-plums, saffron apples, fig-pears,
and many other fruits. From that time we knew Sarkis, and when my mother
wanted any little thing for the house I got it for her at his store. I
loved him well, this Sarkis; he was a quiet, mild man, around whose
mouth a smile hovered. "What do you want, my child?" he always asked
when I entered his store.
"My mother sends you greeting," I would answer. "She wants this or
that."
"Well, well, my child, you shall have it," he usually answered, and
always gave me a stick of sugar candy, with the words, "That is for you;
it is good for the cough." It never happened that I went out of the
store without receiving something from him. In winter-time he treated me
to sugar candy, and in summer-time he always had in his store great
baskets full of apricots, plums, pears, and apples, or whatever was in
season in his garden. His garden at that time--some thirty or
thirty-five years ago--was very famous. One time my mother sent me to
Sarkis's store to procure, as I remember, saffron for the pillau. Sarkis
gave me what I desired, and then noticing, probably, how longingly I
looked toward the fruit-baskets, he said:
"Now, you shall go and have a good time in my garden. Do you know where
my house is?"
"Yes, I know. Not far from the Church of Our Lady."
"Right, my son, you have found it. It has green blinds, and a fig-tree
stands in front of it. Now take this basket and carry it to Auntie, and
say that I sent word that she was to let you go into the garden with my
son Toros. There you two may eat what you will."
He handed me a neat-looking basket. I peeped into it and saw a sheep's
liver. I was as disgusted with this as though it were a dead dog, for at
that time liver-eaters were abhorred not less than thieves and
counterfeiters; they with their whole family were held in derision, and
people generally refused to associate with them. In a moment I forgot
entirely what a good man Sarkis was; I forgot his fruit-garden and his
pretty daughter, of whom the good old lady had told me so many beautiful
things. The liver had spoiled everything in a trice. Sarkis noticed
this, and asked me smiling:
"What is the matter?"
"Have you a dog in your yard?" I asked, without heeding his words.
"No," he said.
"For whom, then, is the liver?"
"For none other than ourselves. We will eat it."
I looked at Sarkis to see if he were jesting with me, but no sign of
jesting was to be seen in his face.
"You will really eat the liver yourselves?" I asked.
"What astonishes you, my boy? Is not liver to be eaten, then?"
"Dogs eat liver," I said, deeply wounded, and turned away, for Sarkis
appeared to me at that moment like a ghoul.
Just then there came into the store a pretty, pleasing boy. "Mamma sent
me to get what you have bought at the Bazaar, and the hearth-fire has
been lit a long time." I concluded that this was Sarkis's son, Toros. I
perceived immediately from his face that he was a good boy, and I was
very much taken with him.
"Here, little son, take that," Sarkis said, and handed him the basket
which I had set down.
Toros peeped in, and when he spied the liver he said, "We will have a
pie for dinner." Then he put on his cap and turned to go.
"Toros," called his father to him, "take Melkon with you to our house
and play with him as a brother."
I was exceedingly pleased with the invitation, and went out with Toros.
When we arrived at Sarkis's house and entered the garden it seemed as
though I were in an entirely new world. The yard was very pretty, no
disorder was to be seen anywhere. Here and there pretty chickens,
geese, and turkeys ran about with their chicks. On the roof sat doves of
the best kinds. The yard was shaded in places by pretty green trees, the
house had a pretty balcony, and under the eaves stood green-painted tubs
for catching rain-water. In the windows different flowers were growing,
and from the balcony hung cages of goldfinches, nightingales, and canary
birds; in a word, everything I saw was pretty, homelike, and pleasant.
In the kitchen cooking was going on, for thick smoke rose from the
chimney. At the kitchen-door stood Sarkis's wife, a healthy,
red-cheeked, and vigorous woman, apparently about thirty years old. From
the fire that burned on the hearth her cheeks were still more reddened,
so that it seemed, as they say, the redness sprang right out of her. On
a little stool on the balcony sat a little girl, who wore, according to
the prevailing fashion, a red satin fez on her head. This was Toros's
sister. I have seen many beautiful girls in my time, but never a
prettier one. Her name was Takusch.
Getting the mother's consent, we entered the garden, where we helped
ourselves freely to the good fruit and enjoyed the fragrance of many
flowers. At noon, Sarkis came home from the store, and invited me to
dinner. My gaze was continually directed toward the beautiful Takusch.
Oh, well-remembered years! What a pity it is that they pass by so
quickly! Two or three months later I journeyed to the Black Sea, where I
was apprenticed to a merchant, and since that time I have not been in my
native city--for some twenty-four years--and all that I have told was
awakened in my memory in a trice by my meeting with Hripsime.
The old woman was still standing on the site of the choked-up spring,
scratching around on the ground with her stick.
"Nurse Hripsime, where is Sarkis and his family now?" I asked.
"Did you know him, then?" she asked, astonished.
"Yes, a little," I replied.
"Your parents were acquainted with him?"
"No. I was only once in his house, and then as a boy."
"Oh, then! That was his happiest time. What pleasant times we had in his
garden! Formerly it was not as it is now--not a trace of their pleasant
garden remains. The house has disappeared. Look again: yonder was the
kitchen, there the hen-house, there the barn, and here the spring."
As she spoke she pointed out with her stick each place, but of the
buildings she named not a trace was to be seen.
"Ah, my son," she went on, "he who destroyed the happiness of these
good, pious people, who tore down their house and scattered the whole
family to the winds, may that man be judged by God! He fell like a wolf
upon their goods and chattels. I wish no evil to him, but if there is a
God in heaven may he find no peace in his house, may his children bring
no joy to him, and may no happiness find its way within his four walls.
As he ruined those four poor wretches and was guilty of their early
death, so may he roam over the wide world without rest nor find in sleep
any comfort! Yes, may his trouble and sorrow increase with the abundance
of his wealth!
"I knew Sarkis when he was still a boy. When you knew him he must have
been about forty years old. He was always just as you saw him: reserved,
discreet, pious, beneficent to the poor, and hospitable. It never
occurred that he spoke harshly to his wife or raised his hand against
his children. He was ever satisfied with what he had; never complained
that he had too little, or coveted the possessions of others. Yes, a
pious man was Sarkis, and his wife had the same virtues. Early in
childhood she lost her parents, and relatives of her mother adopted her,
but treated her badly. Yes, bitter is the lot of the orphan, for even if
they have means they are no better off than the poor! They said that
when her father died he left her a store with goods worth about 3,000
rubles, and beside that 2,000 ducats in cash; but he was hardly dead
when the relations came and secured the stock and gold as guardians of
the orphan. When she was fourteen years old, one after another wooed
her, but when the go-betweens found out that there was nothing left of
her property they went away and let the girl alone.
"Happily for her, Sarkis appeared, and said: 'I want a wife; I seek no
riches,' Of course, the relations gave her to him at once, and with her
all sorts of trumpery, some half-ruined furniture, and a few gold
pieces. 'That is all her father left,' they said, and demanded from him
a receipt for the whole legacy from her father. That was the way they
shook her off!
"At that time Sarkis himself had nothing, and was just as poor as his
wife. He was clerk in a store, and received not more than 150 rubles in
notes yearly, which were worth in current money scarcely one-third their
face value. Yes, they were both poor, but God's mercy is great and no
one can fathom his purposes! In the same year the merchant whom he
served suddenly died after making over to Sarkis the whole store and all
that was in it, on condition that a certain sum should be paid every
year to the widow.
"Sarkis took the business, and after three years he was sole owner of
it. He increased it continually, and on the plot of ground he had
inherited from his father he built a pretty house and moved into it. In
the same year God gave him a daughter, whom he named Takusch, and four
years later his son Toros came into the world.
"So these two orphans established a household and became somebodies;
people who had laughed at them now sought their society, and began to
vie with each other in praising Sarkis. But Sarkis remained the same
God-fearing Sarkis. He spoke evil of no one, and even of his wife's
relatives, who had robbed him, he said nothing. Indeed, when they had
gone through that inheritance and were in want he even helped them out.
"As I have said, Sarkis refused no one his assistance, but his wife had
also a good heart. The good things she did cannot be told. How often she
baked cracknel, cakes, rolls, and sweet biscuit, and sent great plates
full of them to those who could not have such things, for she said, 'May
those who pass by and smell the fragrance of my cakes never desire them
in vain.'
"About this time my husband died--may God bless him!--and I was living
alone. Sarkis's wife came to me and said, 'Why will you live so lonely
in your house? Rent it and come to us.' Of course, I did not hesitate
long. I laid my things away in a large chest and moved over to their
house, and soon we lived together like two sisters. Takusch was at that
time four years old, and Toros was still a baby in arms. I lived ten
years at their house, and heard not a single harsh word from them. Not
once did they say to me, 'You eat our bread, you drink our water, you
wear our clothing,' They never indulged in such talk: on the contrary,
they placed me in the seat of honor. Yes, so they honored me. And, good
heavens! what was I to them! Neither mother nor sister nor aunt, in no
way related to them. I was a stranger taken from the streets.
"Yes, such God-fearing people were Sarkis and his wife. The poor
wretches believed that all mankind were as pure in heart as they were. I
had even at that time a presentiment that they would not end well, and
often remonstrated with them, begging them to be on their guard with
people. But it was useless for me to talk, for they sang the old songs
again.
"Like a sweet dream my years with the good people passed. Surely pure
mother's milk had nourished them! I knew neither pain nor grief, nor did
I think of what I should eat to-morrow, nor of how I could clothe myself.
As bounteous as the hand of God was their house to me. Twelve months in
every year I sat peacefully at my spinning-wheel and carried on my own
business.
"Once during dog-days--Takusch was at that time fifteen years old and
beginning her sixteenth year--toward evening, according to an old
custom, we spread a carpet in the garden and placed a little table there
for tea. Near us steamed and hissed the clean shining tea-urn, and
around us roses and pinks shed their sweet odors. It was a beautiful
evening, and it became more beautiful when the full moon rose in the
heavens like a golden platter. I remember that evening as clearly as
though it were yesterday. Takusch poured out the tea, and Auntie Mairam,
Sarkis's wife, took a cup; but as she lifted it to her lips it fell out
of her hand and the tea was spilled over her dress.
"My spirits fell when I saw this, for my heart told me that it meant
something bad was coming. 'Keep away, evil; come, good,' I whispered,
and crossed myself in silence. I glanced at Takusch and saw that the
poor child had changed color. Then her innocent soul also felt that
something evil was near! Sarkis and Mairam, however, remained in merry
mood and thought of nothing of that sort. But if you believe not a
thousand times that something is to come, it comes just the same!
Mairam took her napkin and wiped off her dress and Takusch poured her a
fresh cup. 'There will come a guest with a sweet tongue,' said Sarkis,
smiling. 'Mairam, go and put another dress on. You will certainly be
ashamed if anyone comes.'
"'Who can come to-day, so late?' said Mairam, smiling; 'and, beside, the
dress will dry quickly.'
"Scarcely had she spoken when the garden door opened with a rush and a
gentleman entered the enclosure. He had hardly stepped into the garden
when he began to blab with his goat's voice like a windmill.
"'Good-evening. How are you? You are drinking tea? That is very fine for
you. What magnificent air you have here! Good-evening, Mr. Sarkis.
Good-evening, Mrs. Mairam, Good-evening, Hripsime. What are you doing? I
like to drink tea in the open air. What a beautiful garden you have.
Dare I taste these cherries? Well--they are not bad; no, indeed, they
are splendid cherries. If you will give me a napkin full of these
cherries I will carry them home to my wife. And what magnificent
apricots! Mr. Sarkis, do you know what! Sell me your house. No, I will
say something better to you. Come to my store--you know where it
is--yonder in the new two-storied house. Yes, yes, come over there and
we will sit down pleasantly by the desk and gossip about Moscow
happenings.'
"We were as if turned to stone. There are in the world many kinds of
madmen, chatterboxes, and braggarts, but such a creature as this I saw
for the first time in my life, and do you know who it was? Hemorrhoid
Jack.
"Have you heard of him? Have you seen this hostage of God? Hripsime
asked.
"No, I do not know him," I said.
"What! and you live in our city? Is there anyone who does not know the
scoundrel? Go to the brokers, and they will tell you many he has thrown
out of house and home by fraud and hunted out of the city. Have you ever
seen how a bird-catcher lures the birds into his net--how he whistles to
them? That's the way this John gets the people into his traps. To-day he
will act as if altogether stupid. To-morrow he is suddenly shrewd, and
understands the business well. Then he is simple again and a pure lamb.
Now he is avaricious, now generous. And so he goes on. Yes, he slips
around among the people like a fox with his tail wagging, and when he
picks out his victim, he fastens his teeth in his neck and the poor
beggar is lost. He gets him in his debt and never lets him get his
breath between interest payments, or he robs him almost of his last
shirt and lets him run. But see how I run away from my story!
"'Good-evening,' said Sarkis, as soon as he perceived Hemorrhoid Jack,
and offered him his hand. 'What wind has blown you here? Mairam, a cup
of tea for our honored Mr. John.'
"'Mr. Sarkis, do you know why I have come to you?' began Jack. 'The
whole world is full of your praise; everywhere they are talking about
you, and I thought to myself, "I must go there and see what kind of a
man this Sarkis is." And so here I am. Excuse my boldness. I cannot help
it: I resemble in no way your stay-at-home.
"'I am somewhat after the European fashion, you know. Who pleases me, I
visit him quite simply. Present myself and make his acquaintance. Then I
invite him to my house, go again to his and bring my family with me.
Yes, such a fellow am I, let them laugh at me who will,'
"'Oh,' I thought, 'poor Sarkis is already fallen into the net, and his
family with him.'
"Meanwhile, Mairam had poured the tea, placed the cup on a tray, and
Takusch had put it before Jack.
"'Where did you buy the tea?' he began, taking the cup. 'When you want
tea, buy it of me, I pray. You know, I am sure, where my store is. I can
give you every desirable brand, and at low price. The tea that cost two
rubles I will give to you for one ruble ninety-five kopecks. Yes, I will
sell it to you at a loss. Oh, what bad tea you drink!' At the same time
he began to sip and in a moment emptied the cup. 'Be so good as to give
me another cup,' he said. 'In the fresh air one gets an appetite. If I
am to enjoy tea-drinking, let me hitch up my carriage and drive out to
the Monastery Gardens. There, out-of-doors, I drink two or three glasses
and settle for them. Yes, such European customs please me,'
"'May it benefit you!' said Sarkis.
"'Now, now, Mr. Sarkis, are you coming to my house to-morrow?' asked
Hemorrhoid Jack.
"'I will see,' answered Sarkis.
"'What is there to see? If you want to come, come then. We will sit
behind the counter, drink our glass of tea, and chat. Now and then, we
will talk about European affairs, bookkeeping, news, and other things,'
"'All right, I shall surely come. I shall not forget.'
"'Good. And now it is time for me to be gone, for I must make two more
visits to-day,' remarked Hemorrhoid Jack.
"'Do they pay visits at this hour?' responded Sarkis. 'It must be
nearly ten o'clock. Takusch, get a light.'
"Takusch went into the room, and soon returned with a light. Sarkis took
out his watch, and coming near the light said: 'Look, it is already a
quarter to ten.'
"John looked, and at once cried out: 'Oh, Mr. Sarkis, what a magnificent
watch you have! Where did you get it? It appears to me to be a costly
one. Let me see it.'
"'This watch I received as a gift from our late Czar. You know that
several years ago our late Czar visited Taganrog. On this occasion the
people of Taganrog wished to give him a magnificent horse, but they
could not find an appropriate saddle. It happened that I had one that
would do, and when they heard of it, they came to me and told me for
what they needed the saddle. Who would not be ready to make such a
sacrifice for the Czar? Indeed, who would not only sacrifice a costly
saddle (and this one was not worth much), but even his life, gladly, if
need be? Therefore, I immediately hired a wagon, and taking this
extraordinary saddle with me and then on to Taganrog to the governor's.
"'"Your Highness seeks a saddle?" I asked.
"'"Yes, indeed," he answered.
"'"Here it is," said I.
"'"Thank you," he said, and pressed my hand. Then he led me into his own
room. By George! it looked like one in a king's castle. He had me sit
down, served me with tea, invited me to dine at his table: in a word, he
treated me well. At my departure, he took out of a drawer a ring set
with genuine brilliants, gave it to me, and said, "Take this from me as
a gift, and what I receive from the Czar I will give to you also." And
he kept his word. The Czar really came, and they gave him the horse with
my saddle. His Majesty thanked me for it and gave me this watch. Look,
now, what a beautiful one it is!'
"'Yes, truly, it is a pretty thing. Show me it again. I wish to see what
kind of a watch it is,' said Hemorrhoid Jack, examining the watch. 'And
have you the ring by you? Can I see it? Oh, let me see what kind of a
thing it is. I like to see such things, particularly if they come from
persons of high rank.'
"'Is the ring not in the chest of drawers?' said Sarkis, looking around
toward his wife.
"'Yes, I keep it there,' answered Mairam, faintly, for she might well
foresee something evil. 'Who is it routs about in the chest of drawers
in the night?'
"'Good Auntie Mairam,' began Jack, in a wheedling tone, 'I beg of you,
bring the ring, that I may see it. Be so kind! When I see such a rare
thing my heart leaps in my breast with delight. It is true joy for me to
hold such things in my hand and look at them. Bring me the ring, I beg
of you.'
"I looked at him at that moment, and he seemed to me like a veritable
gypsy. Had I not been obliged to consider those present, I should
certainly have spit in his face, so great was my aversion to this
scoundrel. Yes, what the proverb says is true: 'If a rich man becomes
poor, he is scented for years with his wealth; if a poor man grows rich
he stinks of poverty for forty years!' That was the way with this
Hemorrhoid Jack. Oh, if it had been in my power I would have seized the
scoundrel by the collar and thrown him out of the gate. But Sarkis was
not of my temperament; he had a gentle heart and was meek as a lamb. I
went up to him, pushed his elbow, and whispered:
"'What are you doing, you good-natured fool? Why did you let him take
the watch in his hand? And are you going to show the ring, too? You will
see, he has bad intentions. I'll bet my head he will bring misfortune on
yours. Do you not see his greedy eyes? He will ruin you altogether, you
and house, and ground,' I said.
"I had my trouble for my pains. Although a man of ripe years, Sarkis was
nevertheless like a mere boy, believing all people as honest as
himself. Heaven knows! perhaps such a fate was destined for him, and it
was impossible for him to get out of the way of misfortune.
"Mairam brought the ring, and as soon as the scoundrel saw it he grabbed
it from her hand and put it on his finger.
"'What a pretty thing it is!' he said, smirking. 'How it glistens! What
a precious ring! What wonderfully beautiful brilliants! What ought I to
give you for such a ring? Tell me. It pleases me exceedingly. Yes,
without joking, sell it to me. No, we will arrange it otherwise: I will
give you all kinds of goods out of my store at a very low price, yes,
very cheap. May the apoplexy strike me if I make anything out of you! I
will sell you everything at cost price, and if you wish, will give you
ten kopecks rebate on the ruble.'
"'No, my dear sir,' said Mairam, embarrassed. 'Can one sell a souvenir
of the Czar, and one of such great value? We have no occasion to do it.
We are no Jews, to sell off everything, to turn into money whatever
comes into our hands. Are we such poor beggars that we cannot have
something good and valuable in our chest? No, Mr. John, what you say
seems to me to be very singular. You are rich, yet you say that you have
never in your life seen a gold watch nor a ring set with brilliants. It
seems to me a fine new custom that one must immediately have what one
sees. No, dear sir, cast not your eyes upon our property; be content
with what you have.'
"'Mrs. Mairam,' said the scoundrel, smirking, 'why are you so angry? May
one not joke with you?'
"'A fine joke!' I said, putting in my oar. 'You looked at the trees, and
you will at once tear them down. You fell on the fruit like a wolf. You
saw the garden, and at once wanted to buy. Now you want the ring, and
will exchange for it your wares. What sort of tomfoolery are you talking
to us? You are either crazy yourself or will make others so. The apple
falls not far from the stem--one sees that in you.'
"'Aunt Hripsime, why are you so cross? Dare one not jest?'
"'Enough, enough; I understand your joke very well,' I cried
indignantly.
"Yes, we women scolded him right well, but Sarkis said no earthly word.
He sat there dumb and speechless as the stick in my hand. The Lord God
gave him a tongue to speak with, but, dear heaven, he sat there like a
clod and never uttered a syllable. I was like to burst with wrath.
"Then that unscrupulous fellow repeated his speech. 'Don't you
understand a joke? Have you, then, no sense of fun?' He would have
struck us over the ear, and that the fellow called a joke! And how the
creature looked! His face was like a drum-skin. It was as though someone
had wiped off the holy oil from this grimacing mask with a butcher's
sponge. Yes, here you see how people become rich; how they get hold of
other people's property. Conscience hunts the scoundrel to the deuce: he
lets his skin grow thick; feigns outwardly to be dull; if anyone spits
in his face he regards it only as a May-shower; if anyone goes for him
for his rascality, he takes it as a joke. And so the rascals become
rich! One must be born to those things, that's the way I see it.
"If you knew all that we said to this scoundrel's face! We all but
seized him by the collar and threw him out the gate. We belabored him
well, but the fellow stood as if dumb, remained silent, and laughed in
our faces as if we had been speaking to each other and not to him. He
neither took the watch out of his pocket nor the ring from his finger.
Finally, I thought to myself, 'I will wait a little and see what will
happen.'
"And do you know what this bad fellow said to our Sarkis after a short
silence? 'Your watch and ring please me well, old fellow. Let me take
them for a month or two. I will send them to Moscow and have some like
them made for myself. As soon as I get them back I will give them back
to you unhurt.'
"Our stupid Sarkis dared not say no, and he had his way.
"'Take them,' said Sarkis, 'but take care that they do not go astray,
for--'
"'But what are you thinking about?' answered the scoundrel. 'Am I
then--. Where do you buy your calico?' the scoundrel began after a
pause. 'How much do you pay an ell? Where do you buy your linen cloth?
How high does it come by the ell? Where do you buy your silk and satin?'
"Heaven knows what all he prated about, and Sarkis answered him and told
everything just as it really was.
"'We buy our manufactured goods of Yellow Pogos,' and told the prices
of everything without reserve.
"'Have you lost your wits, man?' cried Hemorrhoid Jack. 'Can any man in
his full senses buy anything of Yellow Pogos? Don't you know that he is
a swindler? Why don't you buy your goods of me? I will give them to you
cheaper by half,'
"To this Sarkis answered, 'When I need something again I will buy it of
you.'
"I knew well enough that Sarkis needed nothing at the time, and that he
said this only to get rid of the fellow. But Jack did not or would not
understand, and began again.
"'No, do not put it that way,' he said. 'Come to-morrow and pick out
what pleases you. Do not think for a minute that I wish to make money
out of you. Let the goods lie in your closet, for, between ourselves,
goods were very cheap in Moscow this year, and I cleverly threw out my
line and bought everything at half price. This year is a lucky one for
my customers. If one of them will let his goods lie a little while he
will certainly double his money on them. Yes, buy, I tell you, but not
by the ell. Buy by the piece and you will not regret it, I assure you. I
will send you in the morning five or six different kinds of goods.'
"'But why such haste?' said Mairam. 'My chest of drawers is full of
stuff for clothes, and what I am wearing is still quite new. If we need
anything we will come to you.'
"'What are you talking about, Auntie Mairam?' answered Hemorrhoid Jack.
'Do you not believe me? I tell you, you can get double for the goods,
and if you cannot use everything yourself, give it to your neighbors.
You will do good business. On my word of honor, I swear to you, you will
make double on it. Would I lie for the sake of such a trifle? Whom do
you think you have here? But that is a small matter: I have still
something better to propose. You must take a shipment of tea from me. In
the winter the price will rise, and you can make enormous profits out of
it. To-morrow I will send you one chest--for the present. Well? Now,
really, I will send it to you.'
"'My dear John,' exclaimed Sarkis, 'you must know how risky it is to
begin a new business. I have never handled tea, and the thing appears
to me somewhat daring. I know no customers for tea, and understand
nothing about the goods. If it remains lying by me and spoils--'
"'What empty straw are you threshing now?' cried Hemorrhoid Jack. 'As
soon as the people know that you have tea to sell they will of their own
accord come running into your store. Do you think that you will have to
look up customers? In a week or two not a trace of your tea will remain.
I speak from practical experience. This year little tea has been brought
from Siberia, and what they have brought has almost all fallen into my
hands. Do not think that I seek a buyer in you! God forbid! When I
learned what a good man you were, I thought to myself, "I must give him
a chance to make something. Yes, I want him to make a few kopecks." Do
you think I am in need of purchasers? Now, Sarkis, to-morrow I will send
you the goods. What?'
"'By heaven, I know not how I ought to answer you. Do you know, I am
afraid,' said Sarkis.
"The poor fellow could say nothing farther, for he was such an honest,
good-natured fellow that it was hard for him to refuse anybody anything.
The word 'no' did not exist for him.
"'You are talking nonsense,' began Hemorrhoid Jack anew. 'Give up your
grocery and set up a wholesale business. Manage it according to the
European plan, and you shall see how thankful to me you will be in time.
Do you believe that I am your enemy? Would I advise you badly? Now, the
matter is settled. In the morning I will send you several chests of tea
and put them in your store. You will find out that Hemorrhoid Jack
wishes you no ill. Yes, I will say something even better. You know what
machorka is?--a cheap tobacco that the poor folk smoke. What do you
think of this stuff? Do you think that there is a class of goods more
profitable than this? People make thousands from it, and build
themselves fine houses. And what expenses have they with it? Put the
tobacco in an empty stable or shed and it may lie there. A chest of it
put on sale in your store and I tell you, if you do not make ruble for
ruble out of it, then spit in my face.
"'Last spring most of this stuff was in the hands of a Cossack. The
stupid fellow didn't know what he ought to expect for it, and he needed
money--this gander! I brought him home with me; had brandy, bread, and
ham set out; and, after a little talk back and forth, I bought 400
chests at half price. Half I paid in cash, the rest in eighteen months.
Now, wasn't that a good trade? If I don't make my 3,000 rubles out of
it, I shall be a fool. If you like, I will send you some of these goods.
Put it in your shop or in your shed and let it lie there; it eats and
drinks nothing. Now, I tell you, if you do not make 100 per cent, out of
it, spit in my face. Shall I send you a few chests of it?'
"'By heaven, I cannot go into it,' answered Sarkis. 'Do you know, I am
afraid to undertake a new trade? If the stuff does not go off or spoils
on my hands or the price falls, what shall I do? You know that our
capital consists of only a few kopecks. We spend as we earn. If I run
after the rubles and lose the kopecks thereby, who will give me
something to eat?' concluded the poor wretch, as if he scented some
evil.
"But could he free himself from that Satan of a Hemorrhoid Jack? Like a
leech he had fastened himself on his neck and demanded that he should
buy the goods.
"'Now, Sarkis,' he began again, 'the thing is settled. I am to send you
in the morning manufactured goods, tea, and tobacco. Well?'
"'I will see; I must turn it over in my mind,' stammered Sarkis. He
wanted to be rid of him, but he knew not how to begin.
"'What does that "I will see!" mean? Nothing,' the other continued. 'You
may see a thousand times and you will not find again such good goods and
such a favorable opportunity. I speak from experience. You must not let
this chance slip by or you will throw gold out of the window with your
own hands. I am talking about great gains, great profits; do you think
it is a joke?'
"'We shall see,' said poor Sarkis. 'We have many days before us. Yes, we
will surely do something.'
"'What you do now is not worth much,' cried Hemorrhoid Jack. 'I see that
if I leave the thing to your decision, in five years you will not have
reached one. Isn't that true? In the morning I will send you one load of
goods and the rest later.'
"With these words he seized his cap, quickly made his adieus, and went
away.
"It was nearly one o'clock; Mairam and Takusch were sitting there asleep
and I also was very sleepy, but I fought against my sleepiness to watch
that devil of a Hemorrhoid Jack. Mankind can be a priest to
mankind--also a Satan!
"When he was in the street, Sarkis said to me: 'What a wonderful
conversation we have had this evening. Of all this man has said, I
understand nothing. His purposes are not exactly bad, but I don't know
how it happens--my heart presages something of evil.'
"I was just going to answer him when suddenly I sneezed; but only once.
"'See now,' I said to Sarkis; 'I was right in saying he was going to
trick you. Now it has proved itself.'
"'If one sneezes only once by day that is a bad sign, but at night it
means something good,' he interrupted me.
"'Oh,' I said, 'do not, I pray, give me lessons; don't teach me what a
sneeze is the sign of. Whether it is in the daytime or at night it is a
bad sign, and if one just made up his mind to do anything, he should let
it drop.'
"Sarkis would not give in that I was right, but began to chatter about a
sneeze at night being a good thing. I said no and he said yes, and so it
went on until I finally gave it up."
"'Oh, 'I said, 'have your own way, but when misfortune comes to you do
not blame me for it.'
"'I have really begun nothing,' he observed. 'That was only a talk. We
have only discussed something. I have really no desire to try my hand
with the tea and tobacco.'
"That he said to me, but heaven only knows! perhaps in his thoughts he
was already counting the thousands he hoped to earn. Money has such
power that my blessed grandmother always said that the devil had
invented it. He had racked his brains to find a way to lead mankind into
wickedness and did not succeed until he invented money. Then he was
master of our souls. How many men money has deprived of reason! Sarkis
was not of so firm a mind that he would be able to stand out against
such rosy hopes.
"The next day, early in the morning, the shop-boy came running into the
house in a great hurry, and said that nine cart-loads of goods were
standing at the gate. The man who was in charge of them was asking for
Sarkis.
"'What kind of an invasion is this!' cried Sarkis. 'I must go and see
who it is. Perhaps the loads are not for me at all. God knows for whom
they are!'
"He went out, and we after him. Although I had not seen the loads of
goods, I knew the whole story in a moment.
"Before we had reached the gate a man met us and said:
"'My master sends you greeting and begs you to take these nine
wagon-loads of goods and sign for them.'
"'Who is your master?' we asked, all together.
"'Hemorrhoid Jack. Don't you know him? He was at your house last
evening.'
"I was ready to burst with anger.
"'You fellow,' I said, 'who told your master to send these goods here?
Have we ordered anything? Turn at once and get out of the room.'
"'Is that so!' said the man. 'After a thing is settled you can't take
back your word. Where shall I put the goods now?'
"'Where you brought them from, take them back there!'
"'The coach-house is closed.'
"'That does not concern us; that is your master's affair.'
"'If he were here I would tell him, but he is not here.'
"'Where is he then?' I asked.
"'He has gone to Taganrog.'
"'When did he start?'
"'About two hours ago. He will not be back for two months, for he has
very important business in the courts.'
"It could not be doubted now that this villain of a John had already
begun his tricks; but that innocent Sarkis did not see through his
devilish purposes. Had I been in his place I would have run immediately
to the City Hall and told every detail of the business, and the thing
would have come out all right. But Sarkis was not the man for that.
"'Well, if that is the case drive into the yard and unload. The goods
cannot stand in the street. When Jack comes back from Taganrog I will
arrange things with him in some way.'
"The wagons came into the yard with a clatter and the driver unloaded
the goods and piled them up in the coach-house. I stood as if turned to
stone and silently watched this move in their game. 'What will come of
it?' I thought to myself.
"Ah, but I would rather have died than see what did come of it!
"When the goods were unloaded the clerk demanded a receipt, which Sarkis
gave him without hesitation, whereupon the clerk went away satisfied.
"Later we heard that Jack had not gone to Taganrog at all, and had only
ordered the clerk to say so.
"That same day when we were sitting at dinner, Sarkis turned to me and
said: 'See, Hripsime, your sneeze has cheated you. Did you not say that
Jack was going to play a trick on me? You see something very different
has happened. This forenoon four or five persons came into my shop who
wished to buy tea and tobacco. I told them the matter was not yet
settled; that we had not agreed on the price; as soon as the agreement
was made I would begin business. Do you see? I have not advertised that
I was going to handle the goods, yet everybody knows it and one customer
after another comes into my store. How will it be when the goods are put
on sale?--they will fight for them. It will give me a great deal to do;
I must only go to John and settle on the terms. Yes, little mother, such
a wholesale trade is not to be despised; the wholesaler can often make
more money in a moment than the retailer makes in two years. Yes, my
love, in business that is really so!'
"'God grant that it may be so!' I said, and nothing more was said about
Jack.
"Several months passed by and November came. One evening we were sitting
together chatting comfortably when the door opened softly and an old
woman entered. I knew immediately that she was a matchmaker. In three
days Takusch was betrothed to a plain, middle-rate man. The wedding was
to take place the next winter on her father's name-day. As a dowry her
parents promised 3,000 rubles--1,500 in cash, and the rest in jewels.
"Tagusch was at that time fifteen years old. Although I had lived in her
parents' house I had never looked right attentively at her face,
scarcely knew, in fact, whether she was beautiful or ugly; but when on
her betrothal day she put on a silk dress and adorned herself as is
customary at such a festive time; when she had put on her head a satin
fez with gold tassels and a flower set with brilliants, I fairly gaped
with admiration. I am almost eighty years old, but in all my life I have
never seen a more beautiful girl.
"I am no dwarf, but she was a few inches taller than I. She was slender
as a sweet-pine tree. Her hands were delicate and soft, her fingers were
like wax. Hair and eyebrows were black, and her face like snow. Her
cheeks were tinged rose-red, and her glance! that I cannot forget even
to this day. It was brighter than a genuine Holland diamond. Her
eyelashes were so long that they cast shadows on her cheeks. No, such a
charming creature I have never seen in dreams, let alone reality. She
was--God forgive my sins--the pure image of the Mother of God in our
church; yes, she was even more beautiful. When I looked at her I could
not turn my eyes away again. I gazed at her and could not look enough.
On the betrothal day I sat in the corner of the room with my eyes nailed
on Takusch.
"'How sorry I am,' thought I, 'that you with that angel face are to be
the wife of a commonplace man, to be the mother of a family and go into
a dirty, smoky kitchen. Shall your tender hands become hard as leather
with washing, ironing, kneading, and who knows what housework beside?
Shall your angel cheeks fade from the heat of the oven and your eyes
lose their diamond-shine from sewing?' Yes, so thought I, and my heart
bled within me for this girl who ought to wear a queen's crown and live
in a palace. Surely, if this rose maiden had lived in olden times she
would certainly have married a king or a king's son. And the poor thing
stood there like a lamb, for she did not understand what life was. She
thought marriage would be nothing more than a change in her
dwelling-place. Oh, but I was sorry that evening that she was going to
marry only an ordinary, but still eligible, young man, and yet it would
have been a great good fortune for her if this had come to pass. Had we
thought at that time that great misfortunes were in store for the poor
child! And that cursed Hemorrhoid Jack was the cause of them all!
"That betrothal day was the last happy day of the poor wretches. I
never afterward saw smiles on their faces, for from that day their
circumstances grew worse and worse and their business became very bad.
They lost house and ground, moved about for several months from one
rented house to another, until finally they disappeared from the city.
"The day after the betrothal Hemorrhoid Jack sent word to Sarkis by his
clerk that Sarkis must pay 2,700 rubles for the tobacco and tea and 184
rubles for the manufactured goods. I have forgotten to tell you that
among the latter were old-fashioned dress-goods, taxed cloth, linen,
satin, and some silk. The clerk also said that if Sarkis did not pay the
184 rubles the ring and watch would be retained.
"Poor Sarkis was completely dazed.
"'Have I bought the goods?' he asked.
"'Certainly you have bought them,' answered the unscrupulous clerk.
'Otherwise you would not have sold a chest of tea and a bale of tobacco.
Beside, the coat your boy is wearing was made from our cloth.'
"This was true. On the third day after receiving the goods, Sarkis had
sold a bale of tobacco and a chest of tea, and had cut off several yards
of cloth. It was very singular that in the course of three months Sarkis
had not once caught sight of Hemorrhoid Jack to call him to account for
the delivery of the goods. He had been several times to his house, where
they said, 'He is at the store.' At the store they said Jack was at
home. It was very evident that he wished to defraud Sarkis. After much
talk back and forth the matter came into the courts, and since Sarkis
had sold part of the goods and had given a receipt for them, he had to
pay the sum demanded.
"For several months past business had been going very badly with the
poor fellow and he could not raise the required sum, so he had to give
up his property. First they drove the poor man out of his house and
emptied his store and his storehouse. Then they sold the tobacco and the
tea, for which no one would give more than fifty rubles, for both were
half rotten. The store and all that was in it were then auctioned off
for a few hundred rubles, and finally the house was offered for sale. No
one would buy it, for among our people the praiseworthy custom rules
that they never buy a house put up at auction till they convince
themselves that the owner sells it of his own free-will. The household
furniture was also sold, and Sarkis became almost a beggar, and was
obliged, half naked, to leave his house, with his wife and children.
"I proposed that they should occupy my house, but he would not have it.
'From to-day the black earth is my dwelling-place,' he said, and rented
a small house at the edge of the town near where the fields begin.
"When the neighbors found out the treachery of Hemorrhoid Jack, they
were terribly angry, and one of them threw a note into his yard in which
was written: that if he took possession of poor Sarkis's house they
would tear or burn it down. That was just what John wished, and he
immediately sent carpenters to tear down the house and stable and then
he sold the wood.
"At this time I became very sick and lay two months in bed. When I got
up again I thought to myself, 'I must go and visit the poor wretches!' I
went to their little house, but found the door locked and the windows
boarded up. I asked a boy, 'My child, do you know where the people of
this house are?' 'Two weeks ago they got into a wagon and drove away,'
answered the lad. 'Where are they gone?' I asked. 'That I don't know,'
he said.
"I would not have believed it, but an old woman came up to me on the
street, of her own accord, and said:
"'They all got into a wagon and have moved away into a Russian village.'
"What the village was called she could not tell me, and so every trace
of them was lost.
"Many years later a gentleman came from Stavropol to our city, who gave
me some news of the poor wretches. They had settled in a Cossack
village--he told me the name, but I have forgotten--where at first they
suffered great want; and just as things were going a little better with
them, Mairam and Sarkis died of the cholera and Takusch and Toros were
left alone. Soon after, a Russian officer saw Takusch and was greatly
pleased with her. After a few months she married him. Toros carried on
his father's business for a time, then gave it up and joined the army.
So much I found out from the gentleman from Stavropol.
"Some time later I met again one who knew Takusch. He told me that she
was now a widow. Her husband had been a drunkard, spent his whole nights
in inns, often struck his poor wife, and treated her very badly. Finally
they brought him home dead. Toros's neck had been broken at a horse-race
and he was dead. He said also that Takusch had almost forgotten the
Armenian language and had changed her faith.
"'That is the history of the Vacant Yard."
* * * * *
ARMENIAN POEMS
[_Metrical Version, by Robert Arnot, M.A._]
* * * * *
ARMENIAN POEMS
A PLAINT
Were I a springtime breeze,
A breeze in the time when the song-birds pair,
I'd tenderly smooth and caress your hair,
And hide from your eyes in the budding trees.
Were I a June-time rose,
I'd glow in the ardor of summer's behest,
And die in my passion upon your breast,
In the passion that only a lover knows.
Were I a lilting bird,
I'd fly with my song and my joy and my pain,
And beat at your lattice like summer-rain,
Till I knew that your inmost heart was stirred.
Were I a winged dream,
I'd steal in the night to your slumbering side,
And the joys of hope in your bosom I'd hide,
And pass on my way like a murmuring stream.
Tell me the truth, the truth,
Have I merited woe at your tapering hands,
Have you wilfully burst love's twining strands,
And cast to the winds affection and ruth?
'Twas a fleeting vision of joy,
While you loved me you plumed your silvery wings,
And in fear of the pain that a man's love brings
You fled to a bliss that has no alloy.
MUGURDITCH BESHETTASHLAIN.
* * * * *
SPRING IN EXILE
Wind of the morn, of the morn of the year,
Violet-laden breath of spring,
To the flowers and the lasses whispering
Things that a man's ear cannot hear,
In thy friendly grasp I would lay my hand,
But thou comest not from my native land.
Birds of the morn, of the morn of the year,
Chanting your lays in the bosky dell,
Higher and fuller your round notes swell,
Till the Fauns and the Dryads peer forth to hear
The trilling lays of your feathery band:
Ye came not, alas, from my native land.
Brook of the morn, of the morn of the year,
Burbling joyfully on your way,
Maiden and rose and woodland fay
Use as a mirror your waters clear:
But I mourn as upon your banks I stand,
That you come not, alas, from my native land.
Breezes and birds and brooks of the Spring,
Chanting your lays in the morn of the year,
Though Armenia, my country, be wasted and sere,
And mourns for her maidens who never shall sing,
Yet a storm, did it come from that desolate land,
Would awaken a joy that ye cannot command.
RAPHAEL PATKANIAN.
* * * * *
FLY, LAYS OF MINE!
Fly, lays of mine, but not to any clime
Where happiness and light and love prevail,
But seek the spots where woe and ill and crime
Leave as they pass a noisome serpent-trail
Fly, lays of mine, but not to the ether blue,
Where golden sparks illume the heavenly sphere,
But seek the depths where nothing that is true
Relieves the eye or glads a listening ear.
Fly, lays of mine, but not to fruitful plains
Where spring the harvests by God's benison,
But seek the deserts where for needed rains
Both prayers and curses rise in unison.
Fly, lays of mine, but not to riotous halls,
Where dancing sylphs supply voluptuous songs,
But seek the huts where pestilence appals,
And death completes the round of human wrongs.
Fly, lays of mine, but not to happy wives,
Whose days are one unending flow of bliss,
But seek the maidens whose unfruitful lives
Have known as yet no lover's passionate kiss.
Fly, lays of mine, and like the nightingales,
Whose liquid liltings charm away the night,
Reveal in song the sweets of summer's gales,
Of lover's pleadings and of love's delight.
And tell my lady, when your quests are o'er,
That I, away from her, my heart's desire,
Yearn for the blissful hour when I shall pour
Down at her feet a love surcharged with fire.
MUGURDITCH BESHETTASHLAIN.
* * * * *
THE WOE OF ARAXES
Meditating by Araxes,
Pacing slowly to and fro,
Sought I traces of the grandeur
Hidden by her turgid flow.
"Turgid are thy waters, Mother,
As they beat upon the shore.
Do they offer lamentations
For Armenia evermore?
"Gay should be thy mood, O Mother,
As the sturgeons leap in glee:
Ocean's merging still is distant,
Shouldest thou be sad, like me?
"Are thy spume-drifts tears, O Mother,
Tears for those that are no more?
Dost thou haste to pass by, weeping,
This thine own beloved shore?"
Then uprose on high Araxes,
Flung in air her spumy wave,
And from out her depths maternal
Sonorous her answer gave:
"Why disturb me now, presumptuous,
All my slumbering woe to wake?
Why invade the eternal silence
For a foolish question's sake?
"Know'st thou not that I am widowed;
Sons and daughters, consort, dead?
Wouldst thou have me go rejoicing,
As a bride to nuptial bed?
"Wouldst thou have me decked in splendor,
To rejoice a stranger's sight,
While the aliens that haunt me
Bring me loathing, not delight?
"Traitress never I; Armenia
Claims me ever as her own;
Since her mighty doom hath fallen
Never stranger have I known.
"Yet the glories of my nuptials
Heavy lie upon my soul;
Once again I see the splendor
And I hear the music roll.
"Hear again the cries of children
Ringing joyfully on my banks,
And the noise of marts and toilers,
And the tread of serried ranks.
"But where, now, are all my people?
Far in exile, homeless, lorn.
While in widow's weeds and hopeless,
Weeping, sit I here and mourn.
"Hear now! while my sons are absent
Age-long fast I still shall keep;
Till my children gain deliverance,
Here I watch and pray and weep."
Silent, then, the mighty Mother
Let her swelling tides go free.
And in mournful meditation
Slowly wandered to the sea.
RAPHAEL PATKANIAN.
* * * * *
THE ARMENIAN MAIDEN
In the hush of the spring night dreaming
The crescent moon have you seen,
As it shimmers on apricots gleaming,
Through velvety masses of green.
Have you seen, in a June-tide nooning,
A languorous full-blown rose
In the arms of the lilies swooning
And yielding her sweets to her foes?
Yet the moon in its course and the roses
By Armenia's maiden pale,
When she coyly and slowly discloses
The glories beneath her veil.
And a lute from her mother receiving,
With a blush that a miser would move,
She treads a soft measure, believing
That music is sister to love.
Like a sapling her form in its swaying,
Full of slender and lissomy grace
As she bends to the time of her playing,
Or glides with a fairy-light pace.
The lads for her beauty are burning,
The elders hold forth on old age,
But the maiden flies merrily spurning
Youth, lover, and matron and sage.
RAPHAEL PATKANIAN.
* * * * *
ONE OF A THOUSAND
Sweet lady, whence the sadness in your face?
What heart's desire is still unsatisfied?
Your face and form are fair and full of grace,
And silk and velvet lend you all their pride.
A nod, a glance, and straight your maidens fly
To execute your hest with loving zeal.
By night and day you have your minstrelsy,
Your feet soft carpets kiss and half conceal;
While fragrant blooms adorn your scented bower,
Fruits fresh and rare lie in abundance near.
The costly narghilé exerts its power
To soothe vain longing and dispel all fear:
Envy not angels; you have paradise.
No lowly consort you. A favored wife,
Whose mighty husband can her wants suffice;
Why mar with grieving such a fortunate life?
So to Haripsime, the Armenian maid,
On whom the cruel fortune of her lot had laid
Rejection of her faith, spake with a sigh
The wrinkled, ugly, haggard slave near by.
Haripsime replied not to the words,
But, silent, turned her face away. With scorn
And sorrow mingled were the swelling chords
Of passionate lament, and then forlorn,
Hopeless, she raised her tearful orbs to heaven.
Silent her lips, her grief too deep for sound;
Her fixed gaze sought the heavy banks of cloud
Surcharged with lightning bolts that played around
The gloomy spires and minarets; then bowed
Her head upon her hands; the unwilling eyes
Shed tears as heavy as the thunder-shower
That trails the bolt to where destruction lies.
There was a time when she, a happy girl,
Had home and parents and a numerous kin;
But on an Eastertide, amid a whirl
Of pillage, murder, and the savage din
Of plundering Kavasses, the Pacha saw
Her budding beauty, and his will was law.
Her vengeful sire fell 'neath a sabre's stroke;
Her mother, broken-hearted, gave to God
The life in which no joys could now evoke
The wonted happiness. The harem of the Turk
Enfolds Haripsime's fresh maidenhood,
And there where danger and corruption lurk,
Where Shitan's nameless and befouling brood
Surround each Georgian and Armenian pearl,
She weeps and weeps, shunning the shallow joys
Of trinkets, robes, of music, or the whirl
Of joyous dance, of singing girls and boys,
And murmurs always in a sobbing prayer,
"Shall never help be sent? Is this despair?"
RAPHAEL PATKANIAN.
* * * * *
LONGING
Tell me, brother, where is rest
From the flame that racks my breast
With its pain?
Fires unceasing sear my heart;
Ah, too long, too deep, the smart
To heal again.
When I'd pluck the roses sweet
Sharpest thorns my fingers greet;
Courage flies.
Since my love has humbled me,
Tyrant-like has troubled me,
'Spite my cries.
Health and joy have taken flight,
Prayer nor chant nor priestly rite
Do I prize.
Girl, my girl, my peerless one,
Radiant as Armenia's sun,
Beautiful Sanan!
Earth has none as fair as thou,
Nor can ages gone bestow
One like my Sanan.
Sixteen summers old is she,
Grace of slender pines has she,
Like the stars her eyes.
Lips, thrice blessed whom they kiss,
Brows as dark as hell's abyss,
And with sighs,
Her heart to win, her love alone,
What mighty prince from his high throne
Would not descend?
So I crave nor crown nor gold,
Longed-for One, I her would hold
Till time shall end.
RAPHAEL PATKANIAN.
* * * * *
DAVID OF SASSUN
NATIONAL EPOS OF ARMENIA
[_Translated by F.B. Collins, B.S._]
* * * * *
DAVID OF SASSUN
Strong and mighty was the Caliph of Bagdad[1]; he gathered together a
host and marched against our Holy John the Baptist[2]. Hard he oppressed
our people, and led many into captivity. Among the captives was a
beautiful maiden, and the caliph made her his wife. In time she bore two
sons, Sanassar and Abamelik. The father of these children was a heathen,
but their mother was a worshipper of the cross[3], for the caliph had
taken her from our people.
[1] From the sense and according to the time in which the action takes
place, Nineveh must be understood here; and instead of an Arabian
caliph, the Assyrian king Sennacherib. There is an anachronism here, as
the reader will see, for a king living 800 years before Christ is called
an Arabian caliph, though the caliphs first took up their residence in
Bagdad in the year 755.
[2] The reference here is to the famous monastery of St. John the
Baptist, which was built by Gregory the Illuminator during the fourth
century, on the mountain of Kark, near the Euphrates, on a spot where
heathen altars had previously stood. On certain days pious Armenians
made annual pilgrimages to the place. Among them many poets and
champions, who, with long fasts and many prayers, begged from the saint
the gifts of song, strength, and courage. John the Baptist was regarded
by the Armenians generally as the protector of the arts.
[3] So the Armenians called Christians.
This same caliph again gathered together a host and fell upon our
people. This time--I bow before thy holy miracle, O sainted John--this
time our people pressed him sorely, and in his affliction he cried unto
his idols: "May the gods save me from these people; bring me to my city
safe and well, and both my sons will I sacrifice unto them."
In Bagdad the mother lay sleeping, and she had a dream. She dreamed she
had in each hand a lamp, and when their flames seemed ready to go out
they flashed up brightly again. When morning came she told this dream to
her sons, and said: "Last night holy St. John appeared to me in my
dreams and said that your father was in great trouble and had vowed to
sacrifice you. When he again comes home he will stab you: look to your
safety."
Both sons cried unto their gods, took food with them for their journey,
put gold into their purses, and set out on their travels. Coming to a
narrow valley they halted there. They saw a river, and in the distance a
brook clove the river to mid-stream, then mingled with its waters and
flowed onward with it.
And Sanassar said to Abamelik: "He who finds the source of this brook
and builds him a dwelling there, his race shall also wax mighty."
The brothers rose with one will and followed the brook upstream. They
found its spring and saw its waters flowing as from a small pipe, and
they ran down with the brook and increased till they mixed with waters
of the great river. Here the brothers halted and laid the foundations of
their dwelling.
And Sanassar hunted while Abamelik worked on the house. Ten, yea, twenty
days they worked on their dwelling. It happened that once Abamelik came
upon Sanassar asleep, worn out with fatigue, his venison thrown away
unroasted. Abamelik was much troubled at this, and said, "Rise, brother,
and we will depart from this place. How long shall we stay here and eat
meat without salt? If it were God's will that we should have happiness,
in our father's wooden palace we should have found it." And they mounted
their horses and rode to the Lord of Arsrom.[4] Both came thither,
presented themselves to him, and bowed before him.
[4] The original name of this city is Theodosiopol. It was founded by
the Greek commander Anato in the year 412 A.D. and named in honor of
Emperor Theodosius II. Later it was captured by the Sultan of Ikonika,
Who named it Arsi-Rom, "Land of the Greeks." The Armenians call it
Karin, after the old Armenian province in which it lies.
Now both brothers were mighty men. They found favor with the Emir of
Arsrom, and he asked them of their birth and of their tribe, and said,
"What manner of men are you?"
Sanassar answered and said, "We are the sons of the Caliph of Bagdad."
"Hoho!" said the Emir, while terror seized him. "We feared you dead, and
here we meet you living. We cannot take you in. Go whither ye will."
And Sanassar said to Abamelik, "Since we have run away from our father,
why should we bear his name? From this day, when anyone asks us
concerning ourselves, let us say we have neither father nor mother nor
home nor country: then will people lodge us."
Thence they rode to the Emir of Kars, who gave the lads the same
answer. They turned and rode to the King of Kraput-Koch. The King of
Kraput-Koch scrutinized the lads, and they found favor in his sight; and
Abamelik presented himself to the King and bowed low before him. This
pleased the King greatly, and he said: "My children, whither came ye?
What have you? and what do you lack?"[5]
[5] Southwest from the Sea of Wan lies a high mountain called
Kraput-Koch ("Blue Ridge," from its blue color). Probably there was a
dukedom or kingdom of Kraput-Koch which served as a city of refuge for
the wandering Assyrian princes. Perhaps the legend has preserved in the
person of the King of Kraput-Koch the memory of the Armenian prince
Skajordi.
"We have neither father nor mother nor anyone beside," answered the
brothers.
And it came to pass that Sanassar became the King's _tschubuktschi_[6]
and Abamelik his _haiwatschi,_[7] and they lived at the King's house a
long time.
[6] Pipe-bearer.
[7] The servant who prepares the coffee.
But Sanassar said one day to Abamelik: "We fatigued ourselves greatly
with labor, yet was our house not finished. To-morrow make the King no
coffee, nor will I hand him his pipe. Let us not appear before him
to-morrow."
When the King awoke, neither of them was near. He called the lads to him
and said: "I asked you once if you had anyone belonging to you, either
father or mother; and you said you had no one. Why, then, are you so
sad?"
And the brothers said: "Live long, O King! In truth, we have neither
father nor mother. Even if we hide it from you we cannot hide it from
God. We worked a little on a dwelling, but left the work unfinished and
came away." And they told the King everything as it was.
The heart of the King was grieved, and he said: "My children, if such is
the case, to-morrow I will give you some court servants. Go and finish
your house."
Then the King arose and gave them forty servants, skilful workers, and
each had a mule and a bridle.
Early in the morning they arose and loaded the beasts with their tools,
and the two brothers led them to the dwelling. They travelled on and at
last reached the spring and the threshold of their house.
Now Sanassar said to Abamelik: "Brother, shall we build the house first
or the huts for the servants? These poor wretches cannot camp out in the
sun."
And they began first to make the huts. So strong was Abamelik that he
built ten huts every day, while the others brought in wood for their
building. In four days they finished forty huts, and then they set about
building the house and finished it. They set up stone pillars in
rows--so powerful were they--and laid a stone base under them, and the
house was made ready.
Abamelik rode to the King of Kraput-Koch and said: "We are thy children.
We have built our castle: it is finished, and we come to you and entreat
you, 'Come and give our dwelling a name,'" It pleased the King of
Kraput-Koch that Abamelik had done this, and he said: "I rejoice that
you have not forgotten me."
So the King gave Abamelik his daughter in marriage and made him his
close friend. After the wedding the King and the young pair came
together at the palace--and Uncle Toross[8] was with them--and they
mounted their horses and departed. Abamelik rode before them to point
out the way. When they were approaching the castle the King suddenly
turned his horse as if to ride back again, and said: "You have given
your castle a name and have purposely brought me here to try me."
[8] Probably the King's brother.
Abamelik said: "May your life be long, O master! Believe me, we have
given the castle no name. We have but built it and made it ready."
"Very well. It may be that you have given it no name, but as you have
set up rows of stone pillars let us call it Sausun or Sassun."[9]
[9] "Sassun" signifies "pillar upon pillar." This explains the origin of
the name of Sassun, a district of the old Armenian province Achznik,
south of the city of Musch. The residents of this district up to the
present day owe their independence to their inaccessible dwelling-place.
Here they remained several days. Uncle Toross was also married and
stayed at Sassun, but the King returned home.
And Abamelik was strong and became a mighty man. From the environs of
the Black Mountain and the Peak of Zetzinak, from Upper Musch as far as
Sechanssar and the Plains of Tschapachtschur,[10] he reigned, and built
a wall around his dominions. He made four gates. Often he shut his
doors, mounted his horse, and captured whatever came in his way, both
demons and beasts of prey. Once he penetrated into Mösr and ravaged it,
and he went in to the wife of the Lord of Mösr and lay with her. She
bore a son, and the King of Mösr knew that the boy was Abamelik's and
named him Mösramelik. But afterward Abamelik slew the King and took his
wife and became King of Mösr.[11]
[10] The names cited here exist to the present day. The places lie in
the old districts of the Turuberan and Achznik in the present district
Musch.
[11] The Armenians now call Egypt Mösr. This probably refers to Mossul.
* * * * *
Now Sanassar dwelt at Sassun, but the gods of his fathers gave him no
repose, so he travelled to Bagdad to the home of his father and mother.
His father, sitting at his window, saw his son Sanassar come riding up,
and recognized him, and the caliph said: "My life to thee, great god!
Thou hast brought back thy victim. Certainly in thy might thou wilt
restore the second soon."
The mother--she was a Christian--began to weep and shed tears over her
children. The father took a sharp sword and went out to meet his son,
saying: "Come, my son, let us worship the great god in his temple. I
must sacrifice to him."
The son said, "Dear father, your god is great and very wonderful. Truly
in the night he permits us no rest. Certainly he will bring the second
victim to you by force."
And they went into the temple of the god, and the son said: "Father
dear, you know that we left your house when we were yet children, and we
knew not the might of your god."
"Yes, yes, my son, but kneel before him and pray."
The son said: "What a wonderful god your god is! When you bowed before
your god, there was a darkness before my eyes and I did not see how you
did it. Bow once more before him, that I may learn to worship him."
When the father did the second time the son cried: "Bread and wine, the
Lord liveth!" and seized his club and hurled the caliph full seven yards
distant to the ground. And with his club he shattered all the images
where they stood, put the silver in the skirts of his robe and carried
it to his mother, saying: "Take this, mother, and wear it for ornament!"
His mother fell full length and bowed herself and said: "I thank thee,
Creator of heaven and earth. It is well that thou hast rescued me from
the hands of this cruel man."
They found Sanassar a wife and placed him on the throne in his father's
place, and he remained at Bagdad.[12]
[12] Here the story of Sanassar breaks off and he is not mentioned again
in the tale.
Now Abamelik, who reigned in Mösr, left his son Mösramelik to rule in
his stead and went to Sassun. Many years passed and children were born
to him. To one he gave the name Tschentschchapokrik. The eldest son he
named Zöra-wegi, the second Zenow-Owan; while the third son was called
Chor-Hussan,[13] and the youngest David.
[13] All these names are poetic and refer to certain characteristics of
their bearers. "Zenow-Owan" means "melodiously-speaking John";
"Chor-Hussan" means "good singer"; "Tschentschchapokrik" means "sparrow";
and "Zöranwegi," "cowardly Wegi."
Of these, Tschentschchapokrik and Zöranwegi proved to be ne'er-do-weels.
Zenow-Owan had such a voice that he dried seven buffalo hides in the sun
and wound them round his body so that it should not rend him. But the
cleverest of all was David, and to his strength words cannot do justice.
Abamelik's life was long, but old age came upon him. Once he sat sunk in
thought and said to himself: "Enemies are all about me. Who will care
for my children after my death? Mösramelik alone can do this, for none
beside him can cope with my enemies."
He set out to visit Mösramelik,[14] but he was very aged. "Mösramelik, my
son," he said, "you are truly of my blood. If I die before you, I
intrust my children to you. Take care of them. If you die first, confide
yours to me and I will watch over them."
[14] To Mossul.
He returned and lived in his castle. His time came and he died. Then
Mösramelik came and took the children to his house, for he had not
forgotten his father's command. Sassun mourned the death of Abamelik for
seven years. Then the peasants feasted and drank again with Uncle
Toross, for they said: "Uncle Toross, our lads have grown old and our
pretty girls are old women. If thou thinkest that by our seven years of
weeping Abamelik will live again we would weep seven years longer."
Uncle Toross gave the peasants their way, and said: "Marry your lads and
maidens. Weeping leads nowhere."
And they sat down and feasted and drank wine. Uncle Toross took a cup
in his hand and paused: he was thinking about something, and he neither
drank nor set the cup down. His son cries from the street: "Father,
dear, there are the mad men of Sassun. Take care, they will be jeering
at you. Let us go away."
Uncle Toross turned to his son and said: "Oh, you dog of a son! Shall I
sit here and feast? Did not Mösramelik come and take our children away?
Abamelik's children in trouble, and I sitting at a banquet? Oh, what a
shame it is! Bread and wine, God be praised! Truly, I will drink no wine
till I have fetched the little ones." And Uncle Toross went out of
Sassun and came to Mösr. He greeted Mösramelik, and they sat down
together. Said Uncle Toross: "Now, we are come for God's judgment. It is
true that you made an agreement with Abamelik, but if a man sells a
captive he should first wait on the lord."[15]
[15] This means that if a captive is to be sold his kinsmen have a right
before all others to redeem him.
They arose and went to the court,[16] and Uncle Toross was given the
children.
[16] Schariat, the name of the Turkish court of justice, stands in the
original.
But Mösramelik stood in fear of these children, and he said to Uncle
Toross, "Let these children first pass under my sword, and then take
them with you."
Uncle Toross told the lads of this, and Zöranwegi said, "Let us pass
under his sword and escape hence"; and the other two said the same. But
David said otherwise: "If he wishes us dead he will not kill us to-day,
for the people will say he has murdered the children. Under his sword I
will not go. He does this so that I shall not lift my sword against him
when I am a man." Uncle Toross got the boys together, that they might
pass under the sword of Mösramelik, for he was very anxious. David was
rebellious; he stood still and went not under it. Uncle Toross seized
his collar and pushed him, but David would not go. He ran past it at one
side and kicked with his great toe upon a flint until the sparks flew.
And Mösramelik was frightened and said: "This child is still so young
and yet is terrible. What will happen when he is a man! If any evil
comes to me it will be through him."
Uncle Toross took the children and came to Sassun. Zöranwegi he
established in the castle in his father's place, but David, who was the
youngest, was sent out to herd the calves.
What a boy David was! If he struck out at the calves with his oaken
stick, he would throw them all down, and forty others beside. Once he
drove the calves to the top of the mountain. He found a herdsman there
who was abusing his calves, and said: "You fellow! What are you up to?
Wait now, if I catch you, you will get something from my oaken stick
that will make you cry Ow! ow!"
The fellow answered David: "I am ready to give my life for your head if
I am not a shepherd from your father's village. These calves, here,
belong to the peasants."
David said, "If that is so, watch my calves also. I know not what time I
should drive them home. When the time comes tell me, that I may drive
them in."
Then David drove in the calves on time that day, and Uncle Toross was
pleased and said: "Always be punctual, my son; go out and come back
every day at the right time."
"Uncle Toross, it was not my wisdom that did this. I have hired a
comrade who will watch over my calves and see that I am ready with
them."
Once his comrade tarried, and David was greatly vexed. It appeared that
a religious festival was held in the village, and on this account the
young man was detained. Finally he arrived, and David said to him,
"To-day you get nothing from me."
The young man said: "David, I am willing to die for you. From fear of
your anger, I waited not for the end of the service of God in the
church, and not one spoonful of the holy soup[17] has passed my lips. I
drove out the calves and am here. Now you know why I tarried."
[17] Although me Armenians became Christians in the fourth century, they
still retain many heathen customs which have lost all their original
significance. They still sacrifice sheep and cows which have on the
previous evening been given some salt consecrated by the priests. The
meat is cooked in immense kettles and carried around to the houses. The
shepherd speaks of soup of this kind.
David said: "Wait here; I will bring you your dinner."
He set off with his oaken stick over his shoulder. He came to the
village, and found that all the people had brought corn to the priests,
who blessed it. David stuck his oaken stick through the handle of the
four-handled kettle, and, full as it was, lifted it to his shoulder and
walked away. The priests and the peasants wondered at it, and one cried,
"Truly, he has carried off a kettle!"
A priest cried out, "For God's sake, be silent! It is one of those mad
men of Sassun. Take care or he will come back and break our ribs for us.
May he take the thing and fall down with it!"
And David took the kettle of grits to his comrade, whom he found weeping
on the mountain.
"Ha, ha," said David, "I know why you weep. I have brought the grits,
but have forgotten butter and salt. That is why you weep. Eat the grits
now, and have salt and butter this evening."
But the youth said. "David, I am ready to die for you, What need have I
of salt and butter; forty thieving Dews have come and driven away our
calves."
David said, "Stay here and watch these calves, and I will bring back all
the others"; and he went after the calves. He followed their tracks to
the entrance of a cave and paused. He cried out with so loud a voice
that the Dews were frightened, and were as full of fear as is the devil
when Christ's voice is heard in hell.
And when the leader of the Dews heard the voice he said: "That is surely
David, Abamelik's son. Go receive him with honor, else he will strike us
dead."
They went out, one by one, and David struck each as he passed with his
oaken cudgel, so that their heads fell off and only dead bodies remained
in the place. He cut off the ears of all the forty and buried them under
a stone at the mouth of the cave.
He laid down his club and entered the cave. There he saw a heap of gold
and a heap of silver--indeed, all the treasures of the world. Since his
father's death they had robbed and concealed their plunder in this
cavern. He opened a door, and saw a steed standing fastened to a ring.
David was sunk in thought, and said to himself: "Uncle dear, this
property belongs to you, but this beast to me. If you give it to
me--good. If not, you travel after those other fellows." Then he
answered for Uncle Toross: "My child, the treasure and the beast should
belong to you. What shall I do with them?"
He looked around and saw upon a pyre a copper kettle with four handles,
and in it were his forty calves. He stuck his oaken stick through the
handles and raised the kettle, poured off the water, pushed the calves'
feet back into the kettle, lifted it to his shoulder, and went back to
his comrade.
The two drove the rest of the herd into the village, and David called
the owners to him and said: "If you deceive my brother a hair's breadth
in the reckoning it will go badly with you. Sell this kettle. May it
repay you for your calves."
He separated his own calves from the peasants', and went home. It was
then midday. He said to Uncle Toross: "Take quickly twenty asses and we
will go out and bring back treasure that shall suffice you and your
children till the seventh generation."
And they took the asses and set forth. When they reached the cavern,
Uncle Toross saw the bodies of the Dews stretched near the entrance, and
they were swelled up like hills. In great fright Uncle Toross loosed his
ass from the others and fell back.
David said: "You destroyer! I fled not before them living, but you fear
them dead! If you believe me not, turn back and raise this stone. I
concealed all their ears there."
Uncle Toross came back and took the asses, and they went into the cave.
They made a pack of all the treasure and carried it away with them.
David said: "All this treasure belongs to you, but the steed is mine. If
you will not give it to me, you shall follow after them."
He answered: "My child, the horse and the treasure too are yours. What
should I do with it?"
Uncle Toross let David mount the steed. He gave him the spurs and he
bucked to right and left. This was no ordinary steed--the difficulties
of managing him cannot be described.
They returned to Sassun with the treasure. David procured a beautiful
falcon and rode off to hunt. The calves he had long ago given over.
Once, as he hunted, he rode across the soil of a poor man, whose family
numbered seven heads, and the man had seven beds of millet. Four beds he
laid waste, and three remained. Someone ran with the news to the old
graybeard and said: "You are ruined. Go at once to your field, for
before night he will destroy the other three beds."
The graybeard rose early and went out and saw his field was laid waste.
He glanced about and saw David coming with a falcon on his hand. The
graybeard cursed David and said: "Dost thou not fear God? Dost thou test
thy strength on my grain-field? I have seven mouths to fill, and seven
millet beds. Four thou hast destroyed, and three remain! If you are
brave, go and get back your inheritance that extends from the summit of
Mount Zözmak as far as Sechanssar. Mösramelik has taken it from you and
draws wealth from it Go and get it back. Why try your strength on me?"
But David answered: "Old man, curse me not. Here is a handful of
gold--use it." And as he said it he killed his falcon.
David returned home and said: "Uncle Toross, go and bring me my father's
staff and bow. I am going to make war, for others consume my inheritance
and none of you have said anything about it to me."
Uncle Toross arose and demanded of Zöranwegi in David's name the staff
and bow of Abamelik, but Zöranwegi refused it. David sent a second time,
saying: "If you give it to me, good. If not, I will see to it that your
head flies off and only your body remains."
Zöranwegi was frightened, and surrendered the bow and baton, and Uncle
Toross brought them to David. And David fell asleep and dreamed. The
next day he took forty calves and went to holy Maratuk,[18] where he
slaughtered the forty calves and bathed in their blood. Then he fell on
his face and prayed and wept until God sent from heaven a sacred sign
and a token. Even now the holy sign is to be found in Hawar at the house
of Sork. David kissed the holy sign and put it under the right shoulder,
and the token under the left.
[18] Maratuk is a monastery built on a mountain of the same name.
Mösramelik knew that David, Abamelik's son, was come into manhood, and
he gathered together a host to march against him. And he appointed a
_holbaschi_,[19] who prepared his army and attacked David at Maratuk. He
met on the march seven women, and said to them, "Sing and dance until I
return," and they answered: "Why shall we dance and sing? We know not
what we should say."
[19] This Turkish title shows that the legend has been altered at a late
date.
And Holbaschi sang for them:
"May the little women busy themselves grinding corn;
May the stout women help with the camel-loading;
For Holbaschi carries grim war to Sassun.
Strong yoke-oxen and red milch-cows he'll bring back
In the springtime; butter and Tochorton
Will be plentiful in the Land of Mösr."
Holbaschi saw the women begin dancing and singing, and started his host
again and went to Maratuk and entered its gates. The daughter of the
priest of Maratuk had often glanced slyly at David, and he was not
indifferent to her. The priest's daughter went to David and said:
"David, I am ready to die for you! Arise and see how many warriors are
congregated in the courtyard."
When she had spoken she went out and closed all the gates from without.
David stretched himself and cried: "Bread and wine, the Lord liveth!"
and began to knock off the heads of the men of war. He beheaded them so
that the bodies flew over the walls and the heads remained lying in the
court. And he laid hold of Holbaschi, and tore out his teeth and drove
them into his brow like nails. And he bent his lance till it curved like
a dog's collar and put it around his neck. "Now," he said, "take
yourself off and tell all to Mösramelik. If people still remain in his
country let him herd them together before I come."
Holbaschi met the women a second time, and they were singing and
dancing. And one of them sang:
"Holbaschi, dear Holbaschi, went hence like a cruel wolf,
Why come you back to us like a hunting dog?
Your lance lies on your neck like a dog's collar,
Thy mouth gapes like an open window,
And slime flows out like curdled milk from a skin;[20]
And whole caravans of flies buzz round it."
[20] In Armenia, as is usual in the East, they make butter out of
curdled milk; and for this reason the vessel is always covered with
scum.
And Holbaschi sang:
"Oh, you shameless, worthless hussies,
I thought that Sassun was a free field.
Think not that only rocks and clefts opposed me.
There new-born children are fierce devils,
Their arrows like beams of the oil-mill;
And like windows they tear out the mouths of their enemies.
All the brave lads who went with me
Are fallen in Charaman.[21]
In the spring its waters will bring you booty,
Then your butter and cheese can be made."
[21] A valley near Musch.
Now David armed himself and marched against Mösramelik. He found a great
host assembled and encamped near Sechanssar.[22]
[22] Literally, a table-like mountain.
David said: "I promise thee not to give battle till I have eaten rice
pillau in the green and red tent," and he urged his horse forward and
appeared suddenly from the west in front of the tent. Great fright
possessed the army when they perceived this rider, and Melik said, "What
manner of man art thou?"
"I am the son of a western king, and I have come to help you."
Melik pitched a tent for him, and they ate together seven days. On the
eighth day David mounted his horse, rode twice before Mösramelik's tent,
and said: "Now, come out, I want to fight you. How long, Mösramelik, are
you going to encroach upon my inheritance?" And David cried: "Bread and
wine, God lives!" and fighting began on all sides.
Uncle Toross heard of the combat. He tore up a poplar by its roots,
threw it across his shoulder, and set out. He halted at the upper end of
the valley in which the fight was going on. If anyone crept away David
shouted: "Dear Uncle Toross, chase him back into the valley and I will
be ready for him!"
At last the army began to murmur: "Let them struggle hand to hand. He
who overpowers the other has conquered."
Then said one of them. "Sit down, that I may slay you with my club," and
the other said: "No, you sit down." At last they agreed that David,
being the youngest, should sit, So he put his shield over his head, laid
under it the holy cross, and sat down. Mösramelik made an onset from
three leagues, burst upon him, and assailed him with a club, saying,
"Earth thou art, be earth again!"
David said: "I believe in the high and holy cross of Maratuk. It is to
me as if I were still eating rice pillau under the red and green tent."
Mösramelik sprung upon him three times, struck him with his club, and
said: "Earth thou art, be earth again!" and David replied only, "I
believe in the high and holy cross of Maratuk."
Then came Mösramelik's turn to sit down, and he was stubborn and would
not. But the army reproached him and put his shield over his head, and
he sat down. Then came Mösramelik's mother, and began to ask mercy,
saying: "David, I am ready to die for you! Is he not thy brother? Slay
him not; have pity on him!"
"O shameless woman! When he struck me, thou saidst not, 'Is he not thy
brother!' But, may your wish be granted! One blow I will give up for
God's sake, the second for your sake, but the third belongs to me, and
when I strike either he dies or lives!"
David rode back and forward again, and seizing his club hurled
Mösramelik seven yards deep into the earth. Then he ravaged Mösr and
ascended the throne.
* * * * *
The Emir[23] of Kachiswan had a daughter, and her name was
Chandud-Chanum.[24] Chandud-Chanum heard of David's valor, and gave gifts
to a bard and said to him: "Go, sing to David of my beauty, that he may
come hither and we may love each other."
[23] "Emir," in the eyes of the orientals, is almost the same as "king."
[24] "Chandud" is a woman's name. "Chanum" means "lady."
The bard went to Sassun, for he thought David was there. He came to
Sassun and entered Zöranwegi's castle, thinking David lived in it, and
sat down and began to sing to Zöranwegi. Zöranwegi cried: "Go. Club him
and hunt him forth. He thinks to bring David hither by cunning!"
They set upon the singer, dragged him to the valley, and threw him into
the road. In the evening the shepherds returned on their oxen to the
village. An ox became wild, and the herdsman fell off, and seeking the
cause he found the bard, who wept and lamented and asked the herdsman:
"Which of the brothers lives in that castle?"
The shepherd answered: "Here lives Zöranwegi; yonder, in Mösr, David."
And the bard gave a piece of gold to the shepherds, and they gathered up
the pieces of his broken tambur[25] and pointed out his way to him. He
went and sang of Chandud-Chanum's beauty before David. David rewarded
him richly, and said, "Go before, I will come," and the singer went and
told all to Chandud-Chanum.[26]
[25] An instrument like a guitar.
[26] The song in which the bard praises the beauty of Chandud-Chanum is
wanting. A certain carelessness is seen generally in the rest of the
narrative.
David departed straightway and went by way of Sassun and the Heights of
Zözmak. He found a plough[27] standing in his way. He freed the oxen,
seized the plough-chain, mounted his horse, and dragged the plough down.
And it fell from the summit of the Black Mountain plump into the
aqueduct of the village of Marnik.
[27] The Armenians use, in ploughing, a kind of plough which is drawn by
from five to ten pairs of buffaloes or oxen.
He drew on and perceived that a buffalo had got loose and run along the
road and left its dung there. David looked at the dung and said: "If
evil befalls me he is guilty of it who left the dung there; if not, it
is also his work that it befalls me not."
From a side-path appeared a buffalo, and David had never seen the like
before. He lifted his club to slay him when from the opposite side a
shepherd came and began to scold the buffalo. David thought the shepherd
was scolding him and said, "Fellow, what have I done to you that you
rail at me?"
The shepherd answered: "Who are you? Ah, you are a Sassun brawler who
has seen nothing of the world! I spoke to my buffalo."
"Don't be angry, youngster! It is a shame, indeed, that in my country I
have never seen the like. Are there many such creatures in these parts?"
The shepherd said, "Come, and I will show you."
And they went to the field of Ausut, where the peasants hitched their
buffaloes and drove them. David found the buffaloes with tongues lolling
from the heat as they drew the plough. David felt pity for them; he
unhitched them and drove them to the pond.
The ploughman began to curse him, and he said: "Ploughman, curse me not;
only give me the chain into my hand."
He seized the chain and began to draw; the ploughman guided the plough
and David ploughed nine furrows. Then the shepherd said to David: "That
is not thy strength. Leave thy horse and then draw. We shall see whether
it is thine or thy horse's strength."
David left his horse and ploughed nine furrows alone.
The shepherd then said to David: "It is already noon. Come now and eat,
then thou canst go on thy way!"
David answered: "No, I will ride on. Thy children want to eat, and if I
come nothing will remain for them."
However, they sat down and when the dinner was set out David crumbled
all the bread and the vessels all at once, and the shepherd said: "Here,
hide yourselves or he will devour us also."
David said: "Surely, brother, he who drags the plough must eat bread.
How could it be otherwise?"
And he went his way to the city where Chandud-Chanum dwelt.
* * * * *
David came to the gates of the castle where Chandud-Chanum lived--to the
place where all her suitors came to woo. He saw a youth standing near
the door with a club in his hand, David said: "Ha, my lad, what do they
call you?"
"My name is Gorgis."
"Gorgis!" said David. "When I marry Chandud-Chanum you shall be
godfather! Now, Godfather Gorgis, who is in the house?"
"Matchmakers from the giants--Schibikan of Chorassan and Hamsa of Lori."
David said, "Take my horse and fasten him." And he took his horse and
tied him.
Then David asked: "What kind of a club have you? Show it me."
David took the club and threw it into the air with such force that it
is whirring till this very day. Then he said, "Godfather Gorgis, let us
go in and eat and drink."
They went in, and David sat down, for he was tired and hungry, and every
matchmaker, one after the other, handed David a cup of wine. David lost
patience and seized the wine-pitcher and emptied it in one draught,
saying, "Now say only what is well for you!"
The wine made David drunk, and when he let his head fall the matchmakers
drew their swords to strike him, but when he raised his head they
concealed their swords. They began this again when Godfather Gorgis
called out: "Think not that you are in Georgia! No, this is a dangerous
country." And when David heard him he said, "Now stand bravely at the
door!"
The matchmakers sprang up and as they ran each gave Gorgis a box on the
ear and escaped. David then turned to Gorgis and said: "Where can I see
Chandud-Chanum?"
"In the garden of the King," Gorgis answered. "To-day is Friday and she
will be there. Before her walk twenty slaves, and twenty walk behind
her. We will go to-day and see her there."
So Gorgis and David went thither and concealed themselves behind the
garden wall and waited. The slaves passed by one after another, and,
when Chandud-Chanum came, David put his arm around her neck and kissed
her three times. Chandud-Chanum said not a word. He kissed her again.
Chandud-Chanum seized him by the collar and threw him against the wall
so that the blood gushed from his nose.
David was angry and was going to mount his horse. "Godfather Gorgis," he
said, "lead out my horse. I will destroy the city and depart."
Gorgis began to plead: "I pray you, put it off till morning. It is dark
now. At daybreak arise and destroy the city and depart."
David lay in bed and could not sleep from anger. "Would it were dawn
that I might rise and destroy the city and get away from here," he
thought to himself.
Chandud-Chanum was still walking in the garden. A lame slave came to her
and said: "Thy walk will end sadly. Take care, David is going to destroy
the city and depart."
She took the cloth in which her evening meal had been brought, and
wrapped her head in it. She turned and went straightway into the castle
where David was and knocked at his door.
David said: "What insolent people live here! They will not wait till
morning, but say, 'Arise, destroy the city and be off!'"
Gorgis arose and looked out of the window and said, "These are women,
not men," and they opened the door.
Chandud-Chanum came to David and said: "You kissed me first for the
fatigue of your journey, a second time for yourself, and a third time
for God's sake. Why did you kiss me a fourth time? You are the son of
your father and I am the daughter of mine. It has been said: Take to
yourself a wife that you may have a son who is like his uncle. Do you
think you have brought me the heads of the giants Hamsa of Lori and
Schibikan of Chorassan, that you kiss me a fourth time?"
David's heart softened and he said: "If that is so I will go out at
daybreak and bring you their heads." Then he added: "Very well, I go; if
they are stronger than I they will kill me. For God's sake come and seek
my body. On the right hand I have a birth-mark--a cross--by that you
shall know me. Bring my body back and bury it."
So David set out. The giants perceived a rider coming, for the dust from
his horse's hoofs rose to heaven: "This rider comes to fight with us.
Perhaps he is of the race of Sergo."[28]
[28] Sergo-Sarkus (Sergius) so the Kurds called the Christians,
regarding them as descendants of St. Sergius, who is very popular among
the Armenians of Wan and Musch.
They called to him, saying: "Ho, fellow! who are you, and whence come
you? Do you know Chandud-Chanum? Will you take this ring to her?"
David said: "Certainly I know her, but I have come to take your heads to
the Princess Chandud. I know nothing about your rings!"
The eyebrows of Schibikan of Chorassan hung down over his breast and he
fastened them across his back. Hamsa of Lori had an underlip so long
that it reached the ground and swept it.
David and the giants began to hack and hew each other and they fought
with clubs and bows until night. David cried: "I believe in the high and
holy cross of Maratuk," and took his sword and cut both their heads off.
He bound their hair together and hung them across his horse like saddle
bags and their tongues furrowed the ground like a plough.
David rode away with their heads and had already traversed half the way
when he saw approaching him, riding between heaven and earth, a rider,
who called out to him! "Do you think you have conquered the giants
Schibikan and Hamsa?" The rider sprang behind David and struck at him
with a club. He crawled under the saddle and the club struck the stirrup
and tore it loose, and it fell to the ground. David sprang out from
under the saddle and cried: "Bread and wine, as the Lord liveth!" and
swung his club over his enemy. The enemy dodged the blow, but his hair
fell away from his face. David looked and recognized Chandud-Chanum; she
had disguised herself and had come to meet him.
"O shameless woman!" David said. "You would disgrace me a second time."
They rode together into Chandud-Chanum's city. They arrived and
dismounted and called Chandud-Chanum's father. David said to him: "Will
you give me your daughter for a wife?"
Her father said: "I will not give her to you. If you will marry her and
live here, I will give her to you. If you must take her away, I will not
give her. How can I do otherwise? I have enemies all around me; they
will destroy my city."
And David said: "I will marry her and stay here. I will not take her
away."
So they were married and celebrated the wedding, feasting seven days and
seven nights.
The time passed by unheeded, and when nine months, nine days and nine
hours had passed, God sent them a son.
And David said to Chandud-Chanum: "If this child is mine, he must have a
mark--he will show great strength." They put the child in
swaddling-clothes, but instead of bands they bound him with
plough-chains. He began to cry and stir in his cradle and the chain
snapped into pieces.
They sent word to David: "The youngster is a stout fellow. He has
broken the chains. But one of his hands seems hurt. He clenches his
fist, and no one can open it."
David came and sat down, looked at the hand and opened it. In the hand
he found a little lump of clotted blood. "The whole world is to him as a
drop of blood, and he will hold it in his hand. If he lives he will do
wonderful deeds."
Then they christened the boy and gave him the name of Mcher.
Time passed and the boy grew fast, and David left him in Kachiswan with
his grandparents, and took Chandud-Chanum with him to Sassun. The men of
Chlat[29] heard David's coming and they assembled an army, built a
rampart, formed their wagons into a fortress, and began to give battle.
When Chandud-Chanum sent her lance against the wall she shattered it and
the wagons flew seven leagues away. Then David went forward and drove
the fighters away, saying to them: "Ye men of Chlat! what shameless
people ye be! Ye wage war on women! Let me but take my wife to Sassun
and I will come back, and we will fight it out."
[29] The city of Chlat (Turkish "Achlat") lies northwest of the Sea of
Wan. In olden times it was famous for its splendor, its high walls, and
its citadel. The inhabitants had been injured by David's father and
wished to avenge themselves.
But the men of Chlat believed him not. "Swear to us by the holy cross
you carry; then we will believe you," said they.
David touched the token with his hand as he thought, but the cross was
there and he knew it not, and the power of the cross was that no one
could swear by it.
He took Chandud-Chanum to Sassun. Here he first knew that he had sworn
on the cross, for he found the cross lying at his left shoulder where
the token had been.
"Now it will go badly with me," said David. "Whether I go or whether I
stay, it will go badly with me. And I must go."
He advanced, therefore, to give battle, and the men of Chlat pressed him
sorely. His horse was caught in the reedy marsh of Tschechur.[30] With
difficulty he crawled out of the bog and reached the waters of the
Lochur.[31]
[30] A marsh at the outlet of the Kara-Su, a tributary of the Euphrates.
[31] A small river which empties into the Sea of Wan not far from Chlat.
Once Abamelik had lingered at the house of Ibraham Aga, and forcibly
entered the sleeping-room of his wife. Her name was Schemschen-Chanum.
She had borne a daughter to Abamelik, who was now an ardent Mahometan.
This daughter took up her bow and arrows and concealed herself on the
sloping river-bank. When David bathed in the waters of Locher she shot
him, assassin-like, with an arrow in the back. David arose and made a
great outcry and his voice sounded even up to Sassun. Zönow-Owan,
Chorassan, Uncle Toross, Tschöntschchapokrik, and Zöranwegi came
together, for they heard the voice of David. And Zönow-Owan called to
him from Sassun, "We are coming."
And they went forth to help David, who heard in the water the voice of
his kinsmen. They came to the river and found David, who said:
"Zönow-Owan, she seemed frightened at our calling. Go and find her."
And they sought and found the blue-eyed maiden. David seized her by one
foot, trod on the other, tore her in pieces, and threw her into the
village at the foot of the mountain. From this deed he named the village
Tschiwtis-Tschapkis.[32] The village lies at the mouth of the Tschechur
and is called Tschapkis to this day.
[32] Literally, "I will tear in pieces and scatter."
The brothers took David with them and moved on to Sassun. And after four
days David died, and his brothers mourned for him. They went to
Chandud-Chanum to console her and wish her long life; but Chandud-Chanum
said, "Ah, me, after David's death I am but the subject of your scorn."
And Tschöntschchapokrik said: "Chandud-Chanum, weep not, weep not. David
is dead, but my head is still whole."
Chandud-Chanum climbed the tower and threw herself down. Her head struck
a stone and made a hole in it, and into this hole the men of Sassun pour
millet and grind as the people of Mösr do; and every traveller from Mösr
stops there before the castle to see the stone.
The brothers came to see the body of Chandud-Chanum, and they pressed on
her breasts and milk flowed therefrom. They said: "Surely she has a
child! If there is a child it must be in Kachiswan."[33] And they set out
for Kachiswan and said to the governor: "A child of our brother and
sister-in-law lives here. Where is it?"
[33] The small city of Kagisman, not far from Kars.
"It is not here."
"We have a sign. In the breast of our sister-in-law was milk."
Then the governor said: "She had a daughter, but it is dead."
"We have a test for that also--for our dead. The grave of one dead one
year is one step long, of one dead two years, two steps long, and so
on."
They went to the church-yard and found not a single grave which stood
their test.
Zönow-Owan said: "Bind leather bands about me. I will cry out."
The truth was, they had dug a cellar for Mcher underground, and hid him
there and watched over him.
The brothers bound Zönow-Owan about the body and he cried out. Mcher
knew his voice and would have gone to him, but his grandmother said to
him: "That is not the voice of thy kinsman. It is the noise of children
and the beating of drums."
When Mcher heard the voice for the third time he beat down the door and
went out. One door destroyed the other. By a blow of his fist he sent
the first door against the second, the second against the third, and so
all seven doors were shattered.
Mcher saw his uncles from afar, but his father was not there. He asked,
and his uncle told him the men of Chlat had slain his father. He fell
upon his face and wept, and as he lay there his uncles wished to lift
him, but exert themselves as they would they could not move him.
The tears of Mcher furrowed the earth and flowed like a river. After
three days he arose, mounted his father's horse, and rode to Chlat. He
circled the town and destroyed it--as it is even to this day. Then he
ascended the mountain Memrut[34] and saw the smoke of the ruins grow ever
denser. Only one old woman remained alive. He seized her, and, bending
two trees down, bound her feet to the trees and let them loose. And thus
he killed her. Since then no smoke ascends from Chlat.
[34] A high mountain not far from Chlat northwest of the Sea of Wan.
Many interesting legends about it exist. Haik, the ancestor of the
Armenian Nimrod, is said to be buried here.
Mcher permitted his uncles to return to their own dwelling-places and
himself rode toward Tosp.
Men say he is still there, and they show his house, and even now water
flows from the rocks for his horse.
On Ascension-night the door of Mcher's rock opens. But it is decreed
that he shall not go out: the floor holds him not, his feet sink into
the earth.
Once on Ascension-night a shepherd saw Mcher's door open, and the
shepherd entered. Mcher asked him: "By what occupation do you live?"
"By brains," said the shepherd.
Then Mcher said: "We shall see what kind of brains you have! Take the
nose-bag of my horse and hang it around his neck."
The shepherd tried with all his might, but could not lift the bag. He
led the horse to the bag, opened it, and put the straps around the
horse's neck. The horse raised his head and lifted the bag. The shepherd
led him back to his place and said, "That is the sort of brains by which
we live in the world."
Then the shepherd said, "Mcher, when will you leave this place?"
Mcher answered: "When plum-trees bear wheat and wild-rose bushes barley,
it is appointed I shall leave this place."
And three apples fell down from heaven--one for the story-teller, one
for the hearer, and the other for the whole world.
* * * * *
THE RUINED FAMILY
BY
GABRIEL SUNDUKIANZ
[_Translated by F.B. Collins, B.S._]
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
OSSEP GULABIANZ, a merchant.
SALOME, his wife.
NATO, his daughter.
CHACHO, Ossep's aunt.
GEWO, a merchant, Ossep's friend.
ALEXANDER MARMAROW, a young official.
BARSSEGH LEPROINK, a merchant.
KHALI, his wife.
MOSI, Leproink's relative.
MICHO, shop-boy at Leproink's.
DARTSCHO, clerk at Leproink's.
MARTHA, Salome's friend.
Guests, an executor, his secretary, creditors, witnesses, and several
servants.
The scene is Tiflis. The first and third acts take place in Ossep's
house, the second in Barssegh's.
THE RUINED FAMILY
ACT I
_Well-furnished room with open door in centre and ante-room behind. To
the left in foreground a window looking out upon a garden. To the right
a sofa, in front of which is a table. To the left a tachta[35] with a
ketscha[36] and several mutakas.[37] A side door._
[35] Broad, low sofa.
[36] Carpet.
[37] Long, round pillows.
SCENE I
_Salome. Chacho_.
SALOME [_from back of stage_]. You're welcome. Come, come, I beg of you.
Dear aunt, how can I thank you for taking the trouble to come here!
CHACHO [_covered by a tschadra[38] enters from the right of the
ante-chamber_]. Good-morning! [_Taking off the tschadra._] Why did you
send for me in such haste?
[_Gives one end of the tschadra to Salome_.
[38] A long veil, covering the head and upper part of the body.
SALOME [_taking hold of one end of the tschadra_]. Dear aunt, I am in
such a desperate mood that if someone were to pierce my heart not a drop
of blood would flow.
[_While she is speaking they fold the tschadra_.
CHACHO. So it seems that it cannot be managed?
SALOME. How could it be managed, dear aunt? They insist upon having
8,000 rubles. Ossep will not give so much. You know what a miser he is!
CHACHO. Yes, he is really odd.
SALOME. But, dear aunt, God would surely not allow an affair like this
to come to nothing for the sake of 2,000 rubles. What, am I to let a man
of such social position and such brilliancy escape me?
CHACHO. Great heaven, how can anyone be so obstinate!
SALOME. That is just why I begged you to come to us. Speak to Ossep
about it, and perhaps your words will soften him.
CHACHO. I will talk with him; yes, indeed, I will talk to him. We cannot
neglect a matter of such importance, my child. [_Lays the tschadra under
the tachta covering the ketscha and sits down on it_.] Great heaven, how
sore the pavement has made my feet!
SALOME [_seating herself on a chair_]. May God reward you, dear aunt!
May the Holy Mother be a protectress for your children as you are now
for my Nato.
CHACHO. Is not Nato my child also? Is she a stranger to me? I am
altogether charmed with her beautiful form. But where is the child? Is
she not at home?
SALOME. Yes, certainly; she is dressing. You understand, dear aunt, how
you are to talk to him? Perhaps you will succeed with him. They expect
the final answer to-day; this morning the young man's sister was here,
and she may be here again any minute.
CHACHO. Don't be afraid, dear child. Calm yourself. Where is Ossep? What
does he think about it?
SALOME. He is busy, but he will be here directly. He says, and insists
upon it, that he will allow our daughter to marry no one but a business
man.
CHACHO. He is right, my child; a good business man is worth much. Yes;
is not one who has money in his pockets the best?
SALOME. Oh, how you talk! What business man is to be compared with
Alexander Marmarow! Is there any business man worthy to untie his
shoe-strings? His politeness alone is worth more than ten business men.
Lately he honored us with a visit, and I was so fascinated with his
manners! and beside he is still young; is handsome; is educated; has a
good position and a good salary and will advance every day--everybody
says so. Perhaps some day he will be governor.
CHACHO. That is all very well, dear Salome; but if the thing cannot be
done, what then? One must submit, to some extent, to the head of the
family. A good business man never suffers from hunger, and lives without
wanting anything. I don't know what has gotten into your heads.
Officials! always officials!
SALOME. You speak well, dear aunt, but Nato would not marry a business
man at any price. I would thank God if she would. Would I be so stupid
as not to be glad of it? The deuce take these times! This comes of too
much study: the girls now mind neither father nor mother!
CHACHO. Yes; how the world has changed! The streams and the hills are
the same, but the people are different! But, by the way, Salome, do you
know what I have heard? They say that Leproink is trying for him also;
is that true?
SALOME. Yes, yes, dear aunt, a lot of go-betweens go to his house. But
God will surely not let a man like that become his son-in-law while my
daughter is left to become the wife of a shopkeeper.
CHACHO. Who would have believed that this Barssegh would have worked
himself up like that! Yet God be praised! Perhaps it is the times that
bring it about. Yesterday or the day before he was a shop-boy at
Basaschoma,[39] and now! I can picture him as he was then! He wore a
_tschocha_[40] of green camelot with a narrow purple belt. The wadding
stuck out at his elbows and his boots were mended in four places. Great
piles of goods were loaded on the poor devil's shoulders. Many a time,
with the yardstick in one hand, he came to our houses with whole pieces
of calico and got a few pennies from us for his trouble. And now he is a
man of some importance! Many's the time we gave him a cuff and sent him
back and forth with his goods. And, Salome, do you know that he lied?
God save us from such lies! But what could he do? One would die of
hunger, to be sure, if one always told the truth.
[39] A bazaar in Tiflis.
[40] A long overcoat.
SALOME. Yes, yes, dear aunt, it is the same Barssegh--whom they all call
"Wassil Matwejitsch" now.
CHACHO. What! have they turned Mathus, his father, into Matjewitsch? Who
is good enough for them now? Many a time has the cobbler, Mathus, mended
my shoes. His workshop was in the Norasch quarter. O good heavens, the
world is upside down!