CHILDHOOD DAYS
Dicran’s history was long and mysterious. All that the neighbors knew
of his early life was that many years before he had come from an
Armenian town in the far east of Turkey, bringing with him his only
child, Takouhi, a little blue-eyed girl. Dicran himself seldom spoke
of his past, yet it was whispered about that he was descended from a
branch of the ancient family of Armenia, supposed to be long extinct.
His stately bearing, together with his last name, Lucinian, “son of the
moonlight,” a name by which the early Armenian kings are known, may
have given rise to the story; however, those who knew him best believed
in his royal lineage.
In his native land Dicran had prospered, but the Turkish officials,
perhaps suspecting his origin, or coveting his wealth, had confiscated
his property, and slain his son and his son-in-law while defending it.
With his little girl Takouhi, whose mother had died in her infancy,
he wandered from home to find peace; and at the age of forty, by some
chance, he came to Ak Hissar. He was the first Armenian who settled in
the village. But gradually other Armenians came, forced by continued
oppression to leave their homes, and soon they equaled the Turks in
number. During the twenty years of voluntary exile, Dicran had partly
regained his fortune.
The little blue-eyed Takouhi grew up, and married Vartan, a clever
Armenian lad whom Dicran had taken into business. Two children were
born to them, both girls. Vassinag, the older, who resembled her
father, was dark, with large black eyes and thick glossy hair. Her
features were of the pure Armenian type. Europeans might think her nose
somewhat prominent, and call her swarthy, but beneath her dark skin
glowed a ruddy tinge of health, and it was not surprising that the
Armenian lads of the village cast their glances at her.
Armenouhi, the other child, a decided contrast to her sister, was her
grandfather’s favorite, and his constant companion. It seemed as if
all his affection for his long-lost wife and daughter centered in her.
He never tired of holding her on his knee to tell her stories; and at
night he himself put her in her cot near his own bed. Armenouhi was of
a type rarely seen in Eastern countries. Her eyes were blue, her hair
a rich dark brown, her soft fair skin clear and transparent. In her
chin was the suggestion of a dimple, and every word or smile brought
others to her cheeks. She was a vivacious, light-hearted little maiden,
ever happy, but happiest of all when in Dicran’s presence. The old man
would often sit and gaze inquiringly into her innocent eyes. There was
a tradition in the family that the great Armenian king, Dicran, or
Tigranes, as he is sometimes called, married the beautiful daughter of
Mithridates, king of Pontus, and that the fair young wife bequeathed
her likeness to her descendants; so that if at times her likeness
seemed to vanish for several generations, it would at length reappear
in all its beauty. Armenouhi, so Dicran was always fond of thinking,
was the very image of the daughter of the famous king; she had the same
features, the same blue eyes, the same sweet expression; and already,
in her early childhood, she gave promise of surpassing beauty. Her
blue eyes, the more beautiful because so rare in the East, captivated
all who saw them. As the pet of the village, she was at home in every
household, and the other children were not jealous, for was she not
Armenouhi, granddaughter to the wise and good Dicran?
Death knocked again at Dicran’s door, and Armenouhi’s mother died.
Armenouhi was then cared for by Yester, the wife of the thrifty Herant,
who lived next door. The people used to say that Herant was more
fortunate than some of his neighbors, for in return for his thrift and
labor his mulberry trees always yielded a bountiful supply of leaves
for the silkworms, and with the profits of his industry he bought
the cocoons of others to send to the royal silk factories at Hereke.
Armenouhi grew up in this good family, loved by Herant and his wife,
and having as her playmate their only child, Takvor, a manly lad some
four years her senior. He shared with her his playthings. He took her
to Dicran’s shop and to the village well, and to the playhouse in
the old castle. From the first they were always together, and each
was at home in the house of the other. He acted as her safeguard,
and looked after her wants. Once he caught her when she was on the
point of falling into the well. For her he often had his pockets full
of walnuts. To save her little hands, he pulled the burrs from the
chestnuts she gathered, or climbed the mulberry trees, and threw the
ripe fruit into her checkered apron. To see the two playing in the
shade of the plane tree by the well, or listening to the stories in
the grandfather’s shop, or romping hand in hand over the hillsides, or
riding Dicran’s horse, was a familiar picture.
Badiark, the young money changer, alone envied them their happiness.
When he saw them together, he sneered at a boy who would play with a
girl. Finding them on one occasion in the shade of a tree outside the
village, happily pulling grass to feed their horse, he thought to annoy
them by driving the animal away. He raised his heavy stick, and struck
the horse in the mouth. Then frightened at the blood spurting from
the wound which he had so maliciously caused, he hurried away to the
village, while the horse, accustomed only to kindness, held down his
head and came nearer the children. With tears filling their eyes, they
gently stroked his nose with their little hands, and tried to ease the
pain with comforting words. They found that one of his lower teeth had
been broken.
When Takvor and Armenouhi played with the other village children
among the ruins of the old castle, there was one little room which
they called their own. Here they kept house together. Some blocks of
wood were the chairs and tables. An ancient brasier was the stove.
On a shelf stood a row of broken bottles, for Takvor was the hakim,
as they called the physician, and Armenouhi was the hakim’s wife.
Together they cured the pretended diseases, and healed the imaginary
wounds of their playmates. The medicine prescribed was from the long
black bottle, or from the green or the blue bottle. Whatever the
trouble was, however, the cure was always the same cold water from the
well. The patients more often clamored for pills or tablets, for they
were manufactured from little lumps of sugar broken from the cone in
Dicran’s shop. One day when their patients had left them, Takvor took
his playmate’s hands in his, and looked into her great blue eyes.
“Armenouhi, some day when I am a man, I shall be a real hakim, and
I shall have real patients, and real medicine. Will you then be the
hakim’s real wife?”
“Just the hakim’s wife,” she whispered, and her steadfast eyes rested
in his.