Five years passed.
Alfred stood in the center of a merry crowd where champagne flowed
like a river. Diamonds flashed; silks and velvets rustled. Sparkling
fountains, bright shadows on water, penetrating perfumes, splendid
gardens,--all this the Demon of Gold had brought together in one
place. Alfred, too, has changed. He is heavier and more round bodied.
His cheeks glow with health; his eyes shine with contentment. It is
evident that he had been drinking from the cup of pleasure, with the
careful discernment of the epicure. Over there sits his wife. Is she
that beautiful motionless maiden, whose vision had so moved him five
years ago? Not at all! The ice of her heart had melted under the glow
of Alfred’s blazing ducats. The vision charmed him no more, that had
once enticed him. He did not love her and she did not love him. They
treated each other courteously before the world, but in private--what a
difference.
The lack of character of Alfred was an open secret. Every one remarked
about it, yet he carried his head high, and everyone bowed before
him. His breast was covered with orders. The highest honors were his.
Fathers held him up to their sons as model. “See,”--they say--“how he
has advanced.”
In that same garret where he used to sit, there is a pale youth in
shabby slippers and ragged coat, dedicating to him a long poem about
the exalted goal of human endeavor.
And I--I would rather write an Ode to Gold! Such an one were worthy of
the age. Dershawin’s “Ode to God” is old fashioned. It has no merit for
our age except the form in which the Emperor of China has preserved
it--in letters of gold upon a banner of silk.
Gold is the god of the age! Heaven announces its glory; above the moon
(on the dollar), and the stars (on small silver pieces) shines the
giant ducat--the sun. Upon earth we pray to it--in the monstrance and
the cross. Under different names we serve it; some as faith, love,
right, truth,--others in sinful Mammon. For the sake of gold we preach
morality, we shed blood on the fields of battle. For the sake of
gold--with a dull pen--I write this satire. O! shining, mighty, divine
metal--I praise you, prostrated in the dust before you. Surely, Dear
Brothers in Gold, you will pardon me this diversion.
A servant resplendent in gold braid, announced to Alfred, that a dirty
Jew was waiting who insisted upon coming in.
“Take him to my study,” he ordered.
It is a softly sensuous, luxurious room. From base-board to ceiling,
the walls are covered with pictures of beautiful women, gorgeously
dressed.
Again Alfred and the ghostly Jew are face to face.
“You are late,” said Alfred, glancing at the clock.
“Yes--on account of bribes,” was the reply. “And I lost a noble
character, too, which I bought abroad. On the boundary they confiscated
it. One would think character contraband of war.”
“You bring my pawned pledge back, do you?” interrupted Alfred.
“Of course, Your Grace!” replied the Jew, and drew from his pocket the
little dirty box.
“Keep it! Keep it! I don’t care anything about it. I am convinced that
one lives better without character. But there is something I’d like to
sell you.”
“Well?”
“A little feeling of shame that has remained with me--and sometimes
makes me uncomfortable.”
Aron shrugged his shoulders, shook his head and laughed disagreeably.
“Nothing doing! The article is out of fashion--something nobody buys.
As a proof--Your Grace--I beg you to consider these portraits which
hang upon your walls--”
CHAI
By AWETIS AHARONEAN
AHARONEAN
In the village of Igdir--not far from the boundaries where Russia,
Persia and Turkey are close together--this writer was born in 1866. He
went to school in the village, and later attended the famous Armenian
cloister school, Etschmiadsin. After finishing the prescribed course
of study there, he taught for ten years, until, in fact, the Armenian
schools were closed. Then in order to earn a livelihood, he became a
news-paper man, and his activities took him to Switzerland and to the
Caucasus. Later he obtained an editorial position in Tiflis.
He has published a good many short stories and he is particularly
popular among his people. He belongs to the new school of Armenian
writers. The scene of a good many of his stories, is the little village
where he was born.
CHAI
It was night; winter and snow. The night was so dark, so full of
terror that people in the little mountain village of O-- could not
remember when they last saw day and the sun; bright light and blue
sky. The wind blew, too! And what a wind it was. It was as if it came
from some world of the dead, because in its voice there was something
that made the nerves tremble and painted horror before the brain. It
played with the snow, and the play was the play of a demon. Not only
people shivered, but the entire mountain village, its poor little
houses, its hay stacks, and the dry mounds of manure piled up for
burning. And one could not tell whether the shivering was because of
the cold, or because of the accursed storm that was raging. For these
mountain village dwellers, thunder and lightning, storm and cold, were
not merely harmless caprices of nature. The peasants knew how sad the
result might be. Why should they not be afraid and tremble! But it was
lucky that the sign of the cross was sure protection against lightning;
and for the snow storm there was the stable and the _sakhi_.[1]
_Woi_--_woi_--howled the storm. Every time its terrifying voice rang
out, the men in the _sakhi_ of Melikh-Shalim, who were lined up along
the wall facing each other, ceased speaking, took the pipes out of
their mouths and drew nearer together.
_Lord God!_--snow and cold must come in their time, but this
storm--this fearful storm--for what can it be good? No one dared
interpret the voice of the great storm. For each one of them it was the
mighty song of destiny, which the storm-wind--the eternal wanderer--had
constructed out of the sorrows of the world, out of the sighs of the
helpless, and the tears of suffering. Thus thought the frightened
peasants in the _sakhi_.
_Woi_--_Woi_--the wind grew stronger. The _sakhi_ creaked and trembled.
Sometimes it sounded as if someone were walking heavily across the roof.
“Hell has broken loose!” declared one, in order to have something to
say. “I would not wish my worst enemy to be upon the mountain tonight!”
“Upon the mountain!” answered another scornfully. “As if you had
courage enough to walk to the wine garden. And you talk of the
mountain! Heaven and earth are fighting each other tonight.”
Again silence reigned in the _sakhi_. They were busy thinking.
The door creaked ominously. All looked in that direction. In the dim
light, the form of a man, wrapped in a herdsman’s cape was visible. He
looked like a heap of snow.
“Good evening,” said the newcomer, shaking the snow from his shoulders.
“God is good to you, Chai. Come up--you must be frozen.”
“Make room! Give him a place to sit.”
“By heaven, I’m frozen”, he replied. “I couldn’t stay out another
minute. I thought the sky was cracking over my head. They are
frightened in the village, too. I said to myself, I’ll go to the
_sakhi_. I’ll warm myself, and then I’ll go out again.”
He seated himself beside the wall.
Above the _buchar_[2] in a blackened space, hung the oil lamp. The sad
flame trembled and wavered, as if it, too, were terrified by the voice
of the wind. But it gave sufficient light to show some of the faces
under the lamb’s fur caps. An occasional pale line of light fell upon
the new comer. It was a peasant’s face which hard work and suffering
had made harsh. He was a young man but he had the appearance of having
lived much. Under his short mustache were two thick lips so tightly
pressed together that they gave the impression of stubbornness. The
eyes were small, but full of fire. He was the village watchman. And he
was an Armenian. Many of his race had attempted to live in the mountain
village, but they had been driven away. Only this one had remained like
a deserted crane. He did not want to beg, so he became watchman. The
villagers did not know his name. Instead of Nacho they called him Mcho,
some even Mko, but at last they agreed upon the name of Chai. It was
an easy word to say. And he was really Chai[3] from the village Osm.
The _sakhi_ was warm. The snow storm continued. The wind roared like a
wounded bull.
“’Twas a night like this when that poor fellow was surprised--_yes_,”
declared Gewo, the magistrate. “How could he help it?”
He spoke of a peasant who had perished in a snow storm on the mountain
a few days before.
“How often have we said it--it is not wise to run about in the snow,”
observed another.
“What nonsense you talk! He _had_ to go!” thundered Melikh. “Who can
escape fate?”
“True, true, Melikh,” some agreed. “What is written by fate is written.”
They agree that man is the toy of fate. Against this nothing prevailed.
“I don’t believe in fate!” called a voice from the corner by the
_sakhi_. All eyes turned toward him. The surprise was universal.
“Who is this brave man?” inquired Melikh scornfully.
“I am your servant, Melikh. But I do not believe in fate,” repeated the
same voice doggedly.
The men did not know whether to laugh or to be angry. The one who did
not believe in all powerful fate was the miserable Chai.
“The meanest goat can lose his temper,” murmured Melikh, half in
scorn and half in wrath. The declaration of Chai had aroused them.
Melikh, the rich, powerful Melikh, believed in fate--and feared it.
The magistrate, Gewo, before whose decisions they trembled, like aspen
leaves, was afraid of it. And the head of the church--no matter what he
sermonized about--in the end reverted to the subject of fate. They were
all subject to this powerful influence.
“_No--I don’t believe in your fate_,” repeated Chai, as he took notice
of the scornful looks directed toward him. “I could prove to you all
in a moment that I am right, if I did not have to go out and make the
round of the village again.”
“Stay! Stay!” they called.
“Magistrate tell him to stay.”
At command of the magistrate Chai sat down again.
* * * * *
In that year there were ten of us--ten mad men. The Turks and Kurds
called us conspirators. The Armenians called us defenders and saviors.
We and the eagles became the lonely lords of the mountains. We were
alike, too, in the way we swept down upon our prey. How many dogs of
Turks and Kurds did we not kill! Sometimes they hunted us. Then we
disappeared and they could not find us. It was not easy to find us, and
when they did find us, it was not easy to meet us.
One day we were on the summit of Mount Sim, when supplies gave out.
It fell to my lot to forage food. I knew where there were villages,
but whether the inhabitants were destroyed or alive I did not know.
In broad daylight I climbed down from our mountain nest, without a
weapon, without even a stick. For a time all went well and I met no
one. Before me rose another mountain. I must go over it and down into
the valley on the other side. I climbed and climbed. Just before I
reached the top, a Kurd jumped up, a _hornidie_,[4] well armed.
“Good day,” I said carelessly.
“Good day, Armenian,” the Kurd replied. He did not pass me, but stepped
in front of me. I continued my way, but I felt that the Kurd was still
standing there, and following me with his eyes. I did not hasten. I was
afraid of arousing suspicion.
“Armenian--_wait!_ Wait!” suddenly called the voice of the Kurd. I
looked back, then stopped. It is fate, I thought. Fate might well take
the form of a Kurd. A gun rested upon his shoulder; there was a moon
shaped blade by his side, a dagger with an ivory handle stuck in his
girdle. I saw that his eyes were those of an angry wolf. He came nearer.
“At this time, in this place, there should be no Armenians. Who are
you? Where are you going?”
“Kurd,” I replied, “the time is bad, I know, but do not forget that
we are neighbors. I say to you as a neighbor that I am from Chnt. We
are starving there--that you know. I am on the way to Derdschan to get
bread for my children. Let me go in peace.”
“You can’t deceive me, Armenian! You are a bad lot.”
“You have a God, too, Kurd. You see I have no weapon. There is not even
a knife in my pocket. If I were a bad lot what could I accomplish with
just two hands? I beg you, let me go in peace!”
“Walk in front of me. I’ll give you over to the law.”
“To the law! You could not do anything worse when you know the police
are seeking us. Do not do that, Kurd! Even if I were set free, it
would delay me. My children are suffering. They are dying of hunger.
For God’s sake, Kurd,--brother, neighbor, let me go!” The Kurd was
unshakable. It is my fate, I thought and walked on. What could I do? He
was armed. I was not.
Around us the world was beautiful. The sky was clear and blue, the
mountains green. Birds flew about; everywhere was life and happiness.
Above, high in the air, a crane flew, free and bold. Forgetting the
danger of my position, I looked up at the bird and envied it.
The Kurd walked on in silence. He looked at me. Our eyes met, and for
some seconds we were both unable to look away. Each tried to find
out what was hidden in the thought of the other. Is not the eye the
involuntary betrayor of the mind? I understood that the Kurd had made
up his mind to kill me. That I read plainly. I began to meditate. I
sought for help. But what help was there for me? At this moment my eyes
rested upon the handsome dagger which the Kurd carried in his girdle.
If I only had that in my hand!
“Go on,” commanded the Kurd. “Why are you stopping?”
I walked on. We were going through a lonely, uninhabited valley. The
Kurd became restless, and began to look about. He kept taking the gun
from his shoulder and then putting it back again. I felt that my end
was near. I began to walk slower. I did not dare step in front of the
Kurd. That would make him angry.
“Quick--_quick!_ Go on!” he urged. He was constantly trying to make me
walk in front of him. I made an effort to walk evenly with him. We both
seemed to understand that we were fighting a silent battle for life.
Suddenly I stopped. My sandal strings were untied. The Kurd came up
beside me and paused. Without lifting my head I observed his position.
He stood on my right, and the ivory handle of the dagger gleamed from
his girdle close beside me.
“Make haste, Armenian!” he called angrily.
I lifted my head quickly, snatched the dagger from his girdle, and
before he knew what had happened, I buried the entire blade in his
breast. He roared like an animal, then fell to the ground. I was saved.
And this is the dagger that saved me.
Chai drew from his girdle a dagger with a handle of ivory, and held it
up for his listeners to see. They fell upon their knees and examined
the weapon carefully. The poor, shabby Chai had become a hero. He was a
brave man who ruled his own fate. He snapped his fingers at it.
“I don’t believe in fate,” he declared again doggedly. This time his
words brought forth neither laughter nor scorn. Chai took his dagger,
stuck it in his girdle and went out. The others were silent. Outside
the wind howled, but it no longer terrified them with the implacability
of fate. Under the manifold wild voices of the night, they seemed to
hear human voices crying--“Revenge! Revenge!”
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Sakhi, a windowless room, containing a fire place.
[2] Buchar, an open fire place.
[3] Chai, colloquial for Haj, meaning Armenian.
[4] Hornidie--name of a Turkish regiment.
IN PRISON
By AWETIS AHARONEAN
IN PRISON