AN ARMENIAN
PRINCESS
_A Tale of Anatolian
Peasant Life_
BY
EDGAR JAMES BANKS
[Illustration: ARTI et VERITATI]
BOSTON: THE GORHAM PRESS
TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED
Copyright, 1914, by Edgar James Banks
All Rights Reserved
THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I AK HISSAR 7
II CHILDHOOD DAYS 14
III THE PARTING 21
IV THE TAX COLLECTOR 27
V THE LETTER 37
VI A VISITOR 40
VII THE PADISHAH 47
VIII ARRESTED 53
IX THE TRIAL 59
X THE BUYUK ZAPTIEH 63
XI THE TURBANED MOLLAH 70
XII BEFRIENDED 78
XIII HOME 81
XIV THE SILENT APPEAL 87
XV MARKET DAY 93
XVI THE REWARD 99
XVII CAPTIVES 105
XVIII THE CHAOUSH 109
XIX FOR THE PADISHAH 112
XX AS FROM THE DEAD 122
XXI VASSINAG 128
XXII THE ANSWERED PRAYER 131
XXIII IN THE HAREM 138
XXIV ON THE TRAIL 148
XXV BEHIND THE LATTICE 152
XXVI IN DISGUISE 159
XXVII FIRE 168
XXVIII THE DERVISHES 175
XXIX THE WANDERERS 182
XXX MINGLED JOY AND SORROW 189
XXXI DRIVEN ON 193
XXXII HOPE 202
XXXIII THE PASHA’S PROPOSAL 212
XXXIV REJECTED 222
XXXV THE CHARM 228
XXXVI TOO LATE? 234
XXXVII DARKNESS 237
XXXVIII THE REAL HAKIM 245
XXXIX FORWARD 251
AN ARMENIAN PRINCESS
CHAPTER I
AK HISSAR
Nestling among the hills of Central Asia Minor is the little village
of Ak Hissar, or Aksar, as the natives call it. The name comes from a
neighboring old castle, a relic of the early days when the wild Turkish
hordes from the distant East swept over and conquered the country. The
white ruins of this ancient fortress are now almost hidden by mulberry
trees. Its dungeons, once dark and damp, but now lighted by the warm
sun, had they the power to speak, could narrate tales of horror to the
children who make them their innocent playhouses.
On a little square in the heart of the village stands the great wooden
government building, before whose rickety, half-closed door the little
folk often stop to gaze at the soldiers quartered within. It is here
the governor lodges when he comes to the village. Here the passports
are issued. Here the tax collector stores his money. Here the prisoners
are chained. And it is here the villagers learn the latest news from
the outside world, or discuss weighty questions, while lounging and
smoking and sipping their coffee.
At one end of the single street of the village may be seen a little,
whitewashed mosque. From its slender minaret, towering above a roof of
reddish tiles, the muezzin rubs his sleepy eyes at the appearance of
the first rays in the east, and sings to the Faithful that prayer is
better than sleep. And by the side of the mosque, in a thatched hut
with bare openings in its walls for windows, the little Moslems go to
school, where they sit from early morning till late in the afternoon,
squatted on the dirt floor in a circle about the priest and teacher,
and imitating his nasal accent obtain their education by memorizing
verses from the Koran.
At the other end of the village stands the Armenian church, a small
building surmounted by a wooden cross. As in most Protestant churches
in Turkey, for the protection of the worshipers, the few windows are
grated with iron bars. Nearly opposite the church is the Armenian
school, where it is taught that other countries than Turkey exist; that
czar and emperor and king are not governors appointed by the Sultan,
and that there are other things worth learning besides the Koran.
The rest of the narrow street is lined with buildings peculiar to
Anatolia. The low houses with latticed windows to shield the faces
of the Osmanli women from the polluting eyes of the stranger are at
once distinguished as Turkish homes. Here and there are grouped the
shops, their entire fronts open to the street. Year in and year out the
grocer sits patiently behind his stock in trade, consisting of a box of
coarse salt, a cone of sugar, and a few glass jars filled with spices,
candles, and cigarettes. The saddler exposes for sale huge gorgeously
decorated packsaddles and long strings of blue glass beads, which, good
as they are as ornaments for the donkeys, are even more potent to
protect the animals from the influence of the evil eye. Half concealed
behind his dark-brown loaves of bread, the baker mixes his dough, and
with long-handled scoop pushes it far back into the stone oven. On
a shelf before the little eating house is displayed a row of bright
copper pans, filled with boiled rice, eggplant floating in oil, curdled
milk, and other dainties savory to the palate of the Anatolian peasant.
In the fruit shop are baskets overflowing with grapes and figs, and
huge piles of delicious melons, which provident nature has bestowed so
lavishly on the improvident Turk. The little village, remote as it is
from the busy world, can boast of its money changer too. Badiark, a
young Armenian, sits from morning till night at his little glass case
rattling his silver coins to inform the passers-by that he has money to
sell. For a coin worth twenty cents he gives nineteen cents in change;
the other cent is his profit. To the distressed villager who is able
to pawn a family jewel, a house, or a piece of land, he lends his idle
capital at what in his eyes is a moderate rate of interest, twenty
per cent a month. And the village is so small that the young money
changer has leisure for another occupation when not collecting interest
or making change. Conspicuously arranged with his money is a bunch of
reed pens, and some ink; and for the villager who would write to a
distant friend, the versatile Badiark, with scholastic air, selects one
of a stock of flowery-worded letters which he keeps on hand, adds the
date and the name of the sender, with awe-inspiring seal, and collects
therefor a goodly fee. Thus the young money changer grows wealthy.
Ak Hissar is not without accommodations for the stranger. The quaint
doorway of the dilapidated inn opens into a single large room on the
first floor. In the farther corner, under the great stone arch, the
innkeeper prepares the coffee, and keeps alive the coals for the
nargilehs furnished to his guests. About the sides of the room, and
raised slightly from the ground, runs a wide platform, upon which
sleep side by side the travelers who cannot afford the luxury of a
bed in one of the little chambers above. A door in the rear leads to
the stairway, and out to the spacious stables. The inn is more than a
stopping place for strangers. All day long the idle villager, loitering
in its shade, lazily sips his coffee and smokes his pipe, or watches
the graceful maidens filling their earthen jars with water at the well.
Here, too, during the summer evenings, the simple peasants gather to
listen to the tales of a wandering story-teller; or they are held by
the weird Oriental strains which the village musicians improvise on the
clarionet and pompoms; or proudly they watch a pompous soldier as he
flourishes his sword before an imaginary enemy; or, if not wearied by
the labor of the day, they join hands, and sway about as they execute
the fantastic step of their national dance.
The pride of the village is the shop of the old Armenian merchant
Dicran, for it is larger than the others, and, like some of the shops
in Stamboul, possesses both door and window. Displayed within are
silks from Brusa, print goods from England, bright colored sunshades
for Turkish ladies, and boots and slippers worthy even of the Moslem
priest. Dicran is justly regarded as the chief of the village. When
disputes arise among the villagers, does not Dicran settle them to the
satisfaction of both parties? Does not Dicran sell goods to people who
have no money, and trust them till better times come? When the tax
collector is severe, extorting more than the people can pay, does not
Dicran intercede for them? If the soldiers are dragging a debtor to
prison, does not Dicran pay the debt? When a villager is in trouble
with the government, does not Dicran alone dare to take his part?
When the mayor is in doubt, is not Dicran consulted? And when work is
scarce, is it not to Dicran the poor villager goes? Dicran is old, and
his hair has long been gray, but his form is powerful and erect, and
few even of the younger men would care to grapple with him. Some call
him severe. When his dark, penetrating eyes look from beneath those
gray, shaggy brows, as if to search the very soul, and detect fraud or
deceit, none could be more severe; but kinder heart than Dicran’s never
was.