HOPE
On the evening following the departure of the innkeeper, Takvor made a
welcome announcement to Armenouhi.
“I have been to Scutari, to see Miss Ireland, principal of the American
school for girls, and she will receive you at once.”
“Oh, how thoughtful, how good of you, Takvor!” and she threw her arms
about his neck; “but how can I leave you and Aunt Vartouhi?”
“I know of no safer place for you now,” he continued; “and the holidays
you can spend here. And I shall not feel alarmed about you when I am
gone; for I must finish my studies if I am to become a physician. You
would have me go, would you not, even if we are lonely for a time?”
“Yes, dear, yes. I will try to be brave until you come back--and
then--and then you will not leave me any more, will you, Takvor?”
“No, Armenouhi, never any more,” and he held her close and kissed her
good night.
Having thus arranged for Armenouhi’s future, his thoughts, for the
first time since his parents’ death, turned to himself and his own
ruined prospects. Until long after midnight he lay awake, asking
himself questions which he could not answer. Was his father’s property
waiting for him to claim it, or had it been plundered and confiscated
by the police? Should he find that he was penniless? Should he have
the means to return to his studies? If not, what then? Never would he
use a single one of the liras that Dicran had entrusted to him; they
were Armenouhi’s. What mattered it if he had nothing but a few piasters
remaining to him? Others had succeeded, and why not he?
Early the next morning he crossed the Golden Horn to Hasskeui, and with
beating heart climbed the hill to the spot which was once his home.
Every trace of the massacre had been removed. The dirty Jewish urchins
were playing their games in the streets, and the venders were hawking
their decaying fruits and vegetables, while squalid women were chatting
on the doorsteps as happily as ever. From a rickety house half way up
the hill came the rich tones of a piano. Surprised at this sign of
wealth amid such squalor, he glanced in at the open door. At the sight
of the piano he stopped amazed, for it had been his mother’s.
“What do you want?” asked the child, in words that were half Jewish,
half Spanish.
“I was listening to the piano,” he replied absently. “It is a good one.
Where did you get it?”
“Padre bought it of a soldier.”
“How much did he pay for it?”
“Five piasters; it was too heavy for them to carry away.”
Takvor looked into the child’s face to see if he was telling the truth.
There was little doubt of it. Enraged at the idea that his mother’s
piano had been stolen and sold to a Jew for twenty cents, and that
there was no redress, he hastily climbed up the street. Finding the
shades of his own home drawn and the door fastened, he knocked and
listened; then he knocked again. A soldier who was watching him from
across the street approached while he was knocking the third time.
Convinced that entrance by the front door was impossible, he made his
way to the narrow lane leading to the garden. The garden gate was
locked. He scaled the high wall, only to discover that the rear door
was also fastened. He tried the windows. They would not yield, but
through one of them he was able to look into the large hall. Furniture,
carpets, draperies, books, everything was gone; the house was as empty
as if its occupants had moved away.
“What are you doing here?” thundered a rough voice behind him.
He looked round. The garden gate, which a moment before had been
locked, was now open, and before it stood the soldier whom he had seen
in front of the house.
“It is my father’s house; I have just come home.”
“Get out of here,” roared the soldier, starting toward him, gun in hand.
“But it is my own home,” Takvor insisted.
“Get out of here,” again shouted the soldier, raising his gun in a
threatening manner.
There was nothing to do but to obey. His worst fears were realized;
for evidently the house and its contents had been confiscated, and his
father’s valuable papers were lost. Closely followed by the scowling
soldier, he left the garden, and turned down the narrow lane toward the
Golden Horn.
“Nice furniture, very cheap,” cried a Jew, from the doorway of a shop
down by the water.
Takvor looked in. Stuffed chairs, plate glass mirrors and marble-topped
tables were heaped in confusion about the room. A glance sufficed to
convince him that they were stolen from the houses of the missing
Armenians. He entered, not to purchase, for he had but ten piasters,
but to see if he could recognize any objects from his own home. Half
hidden in the corner was his father’s writing desk. Its price was
one mejidieh, one twenty-fifth of its original cost. In a box along
with various knickknacks his eye fell on the bright gold frame of his
mother’s miniature. Thinking from his silence that he was admiring it,
the Jew urged him to buy.
“The gold frame is worth four liras,” continued the merchant, “but you
may have it for one.”
“It is a pretty face, but a useless thing,” observed Takvor, and threw
it back into the box as if he did not care to purchase.
“What will you give?” pursued the Jew, not at all discouraged by his
customer’s indifference.
“Ten piasters,” answered Takvor, naming the entire amount of money he
possessed.
“You may have it for sixty,” and the merchant held the picture
temptingly before him.
“Ten,” repeated Takvor, moving toward the door.
“Thirty,” cried the Jew.
“Ten,” and Takvor had reached the doorway.
“Twenty,” wheedled the Jew, approaching and patting him on the
shoulder, as if the concession were a mark of special favor.
“Keep it,” rejoined Takvor, stepping into the street.
“Fifteen,” cried the Jew, pretending to be exasperated at his obstinacy.
Takvor was leaving the premises.
“Give me eleven, and it is yours,” shouted the Jew, following him.
“Ten!” called back Takvor, as he turned the corner.
“Come back then, and give me the ten,” mumbled the Jew.
Takvor slowly returned, and indifferently taking the ten piasters from
his pocket, exchanged them for the miniature for which his father had
paid twenty liras. Happy that he possessed as a souvenir of his mother
the very thing which he valued more than all else, he hurried from the
shop lest by some chance it might be taken from him.
His money was gone. He had not even the ten paras required for toll
to cross the Galata bridge. Though he could return to Kum Kapu afoot
by way of the Sweet Waters of Europe, his next duty was to show his
gratitude to his friend Taviloudes, of the English store, and he made
his way along the arsenal walls to Galata. The Greek had long given him
up for dead, and was greatly surprised when he saw him enter. He ran
to meet him, and took him up to his little room, where, uninterrupted,
he might learn from him all that had happened. The long story was
concluded by Takvor’s gently taking his mother’s miniature from his
pocket, and remarking that he had purchased it with his last ten
piasters.
“It is not quite so bad as that,” Taviloudes assured him. “Your father
was a shareholder in this store, and we recently deposited a check to
his account.”
To verify the statement, they went below to the manager of the store
and then to the bank.
“Your father has an account of twelve hundred liras with us,” explained
the director, who appeared to be acquainted with the circumstances.
“The rest of the property is lost beyond recovery; according to a
recent law, Armenian houses remaining unoccupied for three months are
confiscated by the government, and soldiers are stationed to see that
they shall not be occupied before the expiration of that time. The
furniture and papers of your father have been stolen.”
Twelve hundred liras from a fortune of as many thousands seemed little,
yet Takvor was not penniless; with the five thousand dollars he could
at least complete his education.
Three days later, when he had finished all the preparations for his
departure save the passport which he could not obtain, he went to
Scutari to bid Armenouhi farewell.
“Armenouhi, do you remember our playhouse in the old white castle at Ak
Hissar? I was the hakim, and you were the hakim’s wife.”
“Yes. Could I ever forget?”
“When I come back, I shall be a real hakim. Will you be the hakim’s
real wife?”
Her eyes were gazing tenderly into his.
“When we played together in the castle,” she whispered, “and you were
the hakim, I was always your wife. I am still yours. And when you come
back a real hakim, I can be only yours.”
Takvor seized her in his arms and covered her face with kisses; then he
released her and hurried from the garden to the street. Only once did
he look back. She was standing motionless where he had left her.
Late that night, dressed as an English sailor, he was smuggled into a
vessel bound for Athens; he was on his way to England.