Introduction, by K. A. Sarafian
Sponsored Link: Satellite Television
Head. Department of Education, University of La Verne Visiting Prof. of Education. University of Southern California (USC), Summer Session.
I was delighted to receive the urgent request of the publishers, asking me to write an introduction to the English version of the "Khent" (The Fool) of Raffi, translated by Jane S. Wingate.
This request I accepted with pleasure. For the translation into English of a choice number of masterpieces of Armenian literature, ancient and modern, has been one of my fondest dreams. I believe that we, the Armenians of America. Owe a great debt of gratitude to this glorious country, the United States of America, under whose protective wings we have been enjoying peace, prosperity, happiness and unlimited opportunities for growth in culture, material wealth and creativeness. In fact, we are all refugees of political persecution. We have found here a haven of safety after having been tortured mentally, morally and, at almost regular intervals, physically, at the hands of our merciless rulers in Turkey. And some of us owe our very existence to the generous philanthropy of the American people who have come to our aid and snatched from the claws of death our half dead and buried bodies from the burning sands of the Arabian desert, where our age-long persecutors, the inexorable Turkish authorities had driven us during the dark days of the First World War with the flimsy excuse that we were in sympathy with the Allied cause.
We enjoy now in America, "The Land of Liberty and The Home of the Brave," a cultural democracy, the likc of which is not found anywhere in the world on such a vast scale. To this cultural heritage every race has contributed something worthwhile from its precious spiritual resources. This fact explains why America is blessed more than any other country with an incomparably rich culture and a way of life which is a shining example of unity wrought in a framework of diversity and heterogeneity. This wonderful national unity and like-mindedness is not brought about by extraneous pressures but by a subtle spiritual force, embodied in friendliness, brotherhood, cooperation, sharing and a free and unhampered interaction of mind upon mind, of culture upon culture in the pursuit of a better, nobler, richer way of life.
I am convinced that we, the Americans of Armenian origin, have made some worthy contributions to this contemporary life of the United States. I am sure, however, that we can make and we ought to make still greater contributions.
It is well known that as an ancient people with an excellent culture, the Armenians have a rich intellectual and spiritual heritage. In their literary possessions they have many hidden treasures which have not been tapped adequately. These must be brought to light. Great scholars of Europe and Armenia, such as Hubschmann, Meillet, Keltzer, Marr, and Atontz and a host of others have attempted in the past to unearth some of the precious spiritual possessions of our ancestors. But this has been only a beginning. It behooves us, the intellectual leaders of America, to cultivate
the field further and deeper. Do many people know that numerous Hellenistic, philosophical, literary and religious works of great merit from the third, fourth, and fifth centuries exist in the Armenian language? And that they have been preserved for world-civilization in their Armenian versions, the original Greek copies having perished in the cataclysmic events of the past ages?
Who does not remember, as a student of history, the name of Eusebuis of Caesarea whose "Chronicles" were retranslated from the ancient Armenian into
Latin, the original manuscript having been lost? Again, it was in the Armenian language that the major part of the writings of Philo of Judea were preserved. This famous professor of the University of Alexandria was well known for his great contributions in effecting the fusion of the Christian, Greek and Hebraic cultures during the first century of the Christian era. And the works of last but not least among the cluster of great writers, the Stoic philosopher Zeno of the third century, was also kept from oblivion and obliteration thanks to the fact that it was translated into the ancient Armenian language during the Golden Age of Armenian literature.
Besides these great masterpieces of the ancient Hellenic world, we can be proud of the works of our own Armenian historians of the Middle Ages and also of the subsequent periods, whose chronicles and histories, if
brought to light, can shed new light upon the mysteries and problems surrounding the relationships of crusaders and the Eastern despots, and especially upon the history of the Middle East and the Near East. These works are chiefly buried in the Armenian language, and thus are not accessible to American and European scholars.
What about the many important liturgical, medical, mathematical, and particularly
exquisite poetic works of the Armenian authors, of ancient and modern times, which are hidden behind the curtain of language inaccessibility? Will it not be a great contribution to the civilization of the world in general and more particularly to the culture of the English speaking people of our adopted and beloved country if the best of these precious pieces of work could be rendered into English and brought to light thereby?
Now you understand why I greet with particular enthusiasm this noble labor of love, of Mrs. Wingate. Who has rendered into English, "Khent" (The Fool) one of the chief works of Raffi, the great novelist of Armenia, who was really the founder of the Armenian historical novel, and the novel of realistic portrayal of the life of a people, whose country, like ancient Gaul, was divided into three parts; one part suffering under the yoke of Turkey, the second part dragging its existence under the heels of the Czars of Russia, and the third part withering away under the oppressive rule of the Shahs of Persia.
The author of "Khent" whose real name was Hagop Hagopian, is well known by his pseudonym, Raffi. He was an Armenian hailing from that part of Armenia which was under the Mohammedan rule of the Shah of Persia. He made his debut as a writer in Tiflis, away from his native land, joining the literary school of "Mishag", which was an Armenian journal founded by Krikor Arzrouni in l872. This publication under the wise leadership of its founder and editor, played a very striking role in kindling sparks of enlightenment and causing the awakening of the Armenian people. from the deep lethargy in which the vast majority of the Armenians slumbered for centuries after they lost their political independence in 1393 A.D.
The editor of "Mishag" saw in the work of this bright young man the possibilities of a great writer and he encouraged him in his first faltering attempts at writing. Raffi, on his part, scrupulously attended the literary soirees given by the editor of "Mishag", and gradually attained refinement in his crude
literary endeavors. He published in "Mishag" several short stories based upon his observation of the Armenians in Persia, Russia and the Caucasus. These were fine beginnings. Gradually his observations became keener, his literary style became more fluent, colorful. attractive and of fine quality, and his insight into the complicated mysteries of the life of the Armenian peasant especially became deeper, and his forecasts for the future became more prophetic.
In all his works he protested against injustices, great or small, he exposed human foibles, individual or collective, and scathingly assailed tyrannies, and fiendish atrocities, perpetrated by the Persians, Kurds and Turks. As a teacher in different localities, at different times, he had opportunities to study the life of the Armenians, and their educational conditions. Without reserve, he ridiculed the tradition bound teachers in the imaginary person of Der Totig, and he censured the frivolities and laziness of the Armenian students attending the Russian Universities. On the other hand, he had words of commendation for the purposefulness and seriousness of the famous group of Armenian students of Germany. Some of these students became the champions of the movement for reawakening Armenian culture in Russia and
the Caucasus.
Raffi himself was the protégé of one of these products of German education, Krikor Arzrouni, the editor of "Mishag". Having been steeped in the ideals of this intellectual nobility Raffi himself used the novels as an instrument of
propagating these ideals of intellectual and political regeneration, and whipped public opinion into more promising and creative forms.
The novel for Raffi was not merely a literary genre the purpose of which was entertainment, but it was the most effective means of gaining the attention and
interest of a vast multitude of readers imbuing them with his cherished ideals and dreams of a perfect society.
"The Fool" is one of these novels in which the author has a thesis to expound and a sermon to preach. The theme of the story is taken from the bloody events which followed as the aftermath of the war of 1877 between Turkey and Russia. Raffi in his travels had witnessed the deplorable conditions to which the Armenian people were subjected. These were chiefly peace loving peasants whose sole purpose in life was to till the soil and to produce good harvests in peaceful enjoyment of their quiet and serene life. He had witnessed how these industrious and extremely docile villagers were oppressed and subjected to all kinds of inequities on the part of the Turkish officials. He had observed with indignation how these innocent people were menaced continuously by the rapes, plunder and criminal attacks of the hordes of Kurdish bands, whose blood thirsty instincts were sharpened to a keener edge by the
heated pressures brought upon them by the officials of the Sultans of Constantinople. ln spite of the fact that their living conditions were unbearable, the Armenian peasants did not utter a word in protest, having been trained in docility by the clergy for centuries with the Biblical exhortation: "If they smite thee on the one cheek, turn the other also to them."
Raffi having seen the Armenian refugees who had escaped certain death at the hands of their pursuing enemies, the Turkish soldiers, in the province of Alashgerd during the Russo-Turkish War of 1877, set his imagination into motion and gave us a novel of great merit, weaving a succession of captivating episodes, gruesome events, and portraying the fascinating pictures of the Armenian peasant, first in the enjoyment of his life in the confines of his serene home and then his wanderings away from his home, tortured in the clutches of famine, pestilence and unscrupulous people. This is a captivating story, which was read avidly by people of his time and which is read with the same consuming interest at the present moment
by people who are remote in time and space from the scenes of events depicted in this novel.
Raffi has one obsession, which comes to the surface, time and time again, namely, he finds himself unable to comprehend how human beings can be so peace loving, so docile and servile that they will not dare lift a finger in protest against the perpetrator of atrocities which transcend human imagination by their extreme brutality. Referring to the scene of slaughter at Bayazid, Raffi puts in the mouth of the imaginary hero, Vartan, these words: "Look, look! In all the city you do not find a man who raises his hand against his slayer. What more can be done to a man to move him to passionate resistance? They have burned his house before his eyes; they have roasted his children; they have dragged away his wife and daughters; the man has seen all this yet he humbly bows his head to receive the stroke of the sword!" ---Again, Vartan makes this trenchant remark: "this people do not know how to die with honor."
The thesis of Raffi is that his people should be taught to defend their honor, their wealth and their lives, he longs to restore in the hearts of the docile Armenian peasants the heroic spirit of the Armenian national hero, Vartan, who won for the
Armenians in the fifth century A.D. freedom of conscience by fighting with his small band of
heroes against the multitudinous hordes of the Persian Zoroastrian fanatics.
Leaving to the reader the unique enjoyment of reading the fascinating and intriguing events related in the novel, let us turn now to a brief analysis of the artistic texture and structure of the novel.
Raffi was a writer endowed with a vivid imagination, keen observation and unbounded idealism. His novel is a mixture embodying all these qualities. He is almost incomparable in the portrayal of types and delineation of characters. Some of his depicted personages are real and charming, such as old man Khacho, the head of the village who represents the practical wisdom, the admirable industry, the harmonious and virtuous life prevailing in the peasant home. Khacho's household is a beautiful picture, inspiring at times, artistically portrayed by this great novelist, who excelled in the art of depicting domestic scenes. One loves to look at this painting of the simple life of the Armenian peasant with its serenity,, quietude, its industry, its harmony and cooperative spirit. Another real character is Thomas Effendi, an Armenian who is employed by the Turkish authorities as the tax collector of the district. In him you will find everything that is corrupt, everything that is base, ignoble and unlovely. Der Marook, the village priest, in whom one sees the decadence of the splendid spirit of devotion and self-abnegation of the Armenian clergy of the bygone ages. In passing, I must point out that Raffi betrays, throughout the novel, a little exaggerated anti-clerical spirit, so prevalent in his time, and perhaps justified. In this novel one finds oneself face to face, in the panorama of kaleidoscopic events, with the picture of the cruel and wily Kurdish chieftain, the rapacious and salacious Fattah Bey. In contrast with these, one also comes across the portraits of some unreal characters, the heroes of the story, created by the fertile imagination of the author. Vartan is the chief hero, who is in love with the comely daughter of this good man Khacho yet he is more in love with his ideal, namely an intense yearning to save his people from the shackles of slavery, ignorance, and turpitude. We meet other secondary heroes also, the inexperienced Tiutiukjian. the apostle of new ideas and ideals, and Melik-Mansoor, the astute and capable agent of this new imaginary state of affairs, which is beautifully depicted in the final chapter of the book, the dream of Vartan. The epitome of the entire philosophy of the author is condensed in this dream which Vartan sees at the tomb of his fiancee. He dreams that the peasant has been emancipated from the chains of tyranny. Everyone enjoys genuine freedom from fear and poverty. He dreams that the ideal of the inalienable rights of the individual for the pursuit of happiness has been realized and people live at last in peace side by side.
The excellent qualities of the novelist lie chiefly in his superior style of writing, which is lucid as the limpid waters of a mountain spring, colored with fascinating metaphors; a style pulsating with life, imagination, poetic rhythm, vividness, and warmth. If R. Apovian was the founder of the novel for the Eastern Armenians, with pioneering efforts, and crudities of his newly introduced (vulgar) vernacular language, Raffi was the founder of the Armenian novel, with a perfection of style, with an intriguing structure.
We must not forget that everything is not perfect in Raffi's works. He is weak at times, especially in the denouement of events and development of his characters. His delineation of characters and types is fascinating yet some are unnatural and artificial. However it may be, all his novels, and we have a host of them, are extremely interesting and captivating. They are readable and they have powerfully influenced all Armenians of succeeding generations, not only the common people but also intellectuals and writers as well.
The translation of the "Khent" (The Fool) by Mrs. Wingate, is therefore an effort worthy of our wholehearted commendation and applause. We are confident that not only Armenians of American origin, but Americans of diverse origins will appreciate this novel, and all the novels of Raffi, one of which "Samuel" was recently translated serially in an Armenian American publication.
Mrs. Jane S. Wingate is the daughter of Reverend John F. Smith, a missionary under the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, who was located at Marsovan (Merzifoun), Turkey. Knowing Armenian from childhood she attended the Girl's Boarding School established there by the Mission. After her graduation she came to the United States for further study and was graduated from Monticello College at Alton, Illinois in 1885.
After a year or two of teaching in Wisconsin she was invited to return to Turkey to teach in her former school at Marsovan. Six Years later she rnarried the Reverend Henry Knowles Wingate and went with him to Caesarea, Turkey, to build up a boys, school in that city, which later moved to a nearby suburb, Talas.
While living in a Turkish speaking community, she felt the need of preserving and improving her knowledge of Armenian and so she devoted herself to the study of Armenian literature, ancient and modern, and commenced translating folklore which she sent to the Folklore Society of England, of which she had become a member. Several of these translations were published in their magazine "Folklore" in 1911 and 1912. In 1930 they published her translation of the Scroll of Cyprian (Gibrianos). This scroll is in the possession of The Union Theological Seminary in New York City.
Because of her interest in Armenian literature she was shown many honors by the Armenian clergy of the region. Before leaving Turkey in 1917, she had translated a portion of the Armenian Church Liturgy and Raffi's "The Fool".
Some learned scholars from whom she received aid were Minas Tcheraz, Frederic Macler and Basmadjian; and in later years Rev. Manoug Norhadian; last but not least, Dr. K. H. Mallarian of Fargo, North Dakota, without whose assistance the translation of the twelfth century prayer poem "Jesus Son" written by Nerses Shnorhali would never have been completed. This was published by the Delphic Press several years ago.
More recently the women's division of the Armenian General Benevolent Union published in pamphlet form, the translation of H. Toumanian's epic poem "David of Sassoun." A more ambitious undertaking has been the translation of the saga of the entire race of Sassoun heroes, now ready for publication.
From time to time a number of translations appeared in the Mirror-Spectator but the greater number remain unpublished. In the same category is the translation of Basmadjian's "Coins of Armenia," lent by the Numismatic Society of New York City, in which all designs and legends in the brochure have been copied. Mrs. Wingate resides in New York City.
We take this opportunity to extend the heartfelt gratitude of the Armenian people to Mrs. Wingate for devoting her life to this noble task, to bring to light some of the priceless jewels of Armenian literature by translating them into English for the benefit of a vastly greater reading public, for the connoisseurs of art in the English speaking world, who, I am confident, will deeply appreciate her fine translation of this thought-provoking novel by Raffi.
Chapter I
"The fool rolled a stone into a pit; a hundred wise men came to the rescue but they could not draw it out."
"While the prudent man is considering the fool is across the river and away."
"The replies of the fool become the proverbs of the people."
Turks, Kurds, gypsies, vagabonds, and more than twenty thousand lawless freebooters, together with the regular Turkish army, surrounded the half ruined city. Its fires smoked like a
wide spreading hearth. The houses of the Armenians seemed deserted. Some of the inhabitants had been put to the sword, and some had been taken captive. Only a small number had
escaped, having been warned in time to enable them to flee across the frontier, into Persian territory, toward Macou.
The citadel of Bayazid remained impregnable.
A few Russian soldiers, together with the Turkish and Armenian militia were entrenched there and were awaiting their doom, with the fortitude of fatalists. The fort was encircled as if by a ring of iron which, as it contracted day by day, would inevitably strangle the hopeless prisoners. Communication with the outside world was entirely cut off.
The siege began on the sixth day of June, 1877, and had continued twenty-three days. It was at the time when the conquering sword of Russia was suddenly bereft of fortune in its course. The local Mohammedan populace, which had at first accepted Russian control with such willingness, now rebelled and sided with the army of Ismail Pasha.
General Lord Lucasoff, the commander of the division of Erivan, was then between Zeitekan and Tali-Baba, and he had fought gallantly against Moukhtar Pasha, whose outnumbered his own, five to one. He seemed not to have heard what had occured at Bayazid, which he had left under the protection of Commandant Ishdogvitch.
It was night. The horns of the crescent moon had just disappeared below the horizon, leaving dense darkness behind. Up to that moment it had betrayed the garrison with its silvery beams.
But even the darkness did not prevent the continuance of the firing. The citadel was dimly outlined upon the crest of the hill, and the guns were trained upon the spot, furiously attacking it.
Nearly a thousand Russian soldiers, and about an equal number of Armenian and Turkish volunteers were fighting against Ishmail Pasha's twenty thousand.
The replies from the fort were infrequent now, for the ammunition was nearly exhausted. Only an occasional shot was fired from one or two cannons toward the spot from which the enemy fired.
That same night in one of the shattered buildings of the fort which had served as barracks, and which the Turks had left in ruins after having conquered the Russians, a crowd of men lay on the ground, a worn and fainting multitude, who were driven to desperation by hunger and thirst.
"One drop of water, I beg of you!" I am dying of thirst!"-- such were the cries on every side.
"Oh, for a bit of bread !" "I am dying of hunger!" cried others faintly. These poor wretches had scarcely eaten or drunk for nearly a week. The siege had begun so unexpectedly that they had not had time to bring up sufficient provisions, and now the besieged were obliged to fight against three powerful adversaries, against thirst and famine within, and the fire of the enemy without. On the eighth of the month the besieged had been deprived of hot food. They had killed and eaten the artillery horses and that of the commander. That left the barley for the soldiers, but that also was exhausted. At length provisions were so scarce that each man received only two ounces of hard-tack and a spoonful of water daily. And the heat of June was intense at that time. The condition of the sick was little better than that of the others.
There was no water in the fort. Outside the fort, about three hundred feet distant, there was a
spring which the Turks had stopped up. Every night an attempt was made to go down after water, but often of the twenty or thirty who went down not one returned.
"Bread!" "Water!" Again were heard the despairing cries. But the roar of cannon drowned the cries of the wretched sufferers with its grim note of menace.
This was one of those moments when man loses his feeling of sympathy for his fellowman -- loses it because he has nothing with which to help him. This is why no one paid heed to the cry of the hungry, and no one cared for the thirsty. Each was waiting for the final moment when the enemy should pour in upon them like a flood, sword in hand and each should bravely meet his fate.
Within the citadel, entrenched behind the ramparts, some soldiers were standing guard, and were watching the movements of the enemy from the loopholes. They did not dare to show their heads above the ramparts. From the heights above, the enemy shot at them unsparingly, and the bullets frequently flew near enough to these men to scorch and burn their faces.
From here could be seen the city, which presented a frightful spectacle. It looked as though it were illuminated also. The atrocious festival of man's inhumanity was being celebrated. It was a festival of wild beasts assembled by the Turks.
The homes of the Armenians were burning. Streams of fire poured from the doors and windows of each house, and mingling with the dense smoke, rose high in the air spreader* in every direction a steam of sparks. The conflagration steadily increased in violence, consuming the entire Armenian quarter. The burning timbers fell crashing into the courtyards, and buildings came tottering to earth, covering the inmates with a blanket of fire. These poor creatures having been surrounded by fire on all sides, had been unable to escape. The groans and cries of the wretched were mingled with the roar of the flames which writhed and twisted in the air like gigantic dragons, and spread a lurid glare of light in all directions.
In that illumination terrible pictures succeeded one another as in a mammoth panorama. The Mohammedans were massacring the Armenians; massacring those who escaped from the flames, sparing neither age nor sex. Young girls were being dragged away by the hair. From all sides were heard piteous cries and screams. But the tears of the doomed creatures did not avail to soften the hearts of these brutes.
Not only did the Kurds take an active part in these barbarities, but the soldiers of the regular Turkish army as well; and more dreadful to relate, the Kurdish women also. The latter, like furies, forgetting the love and pity which are woman's especial characteristics, snatched infants from the arms of their mothers and tossed them into the flames. The least resistance was punished with the sword.
A few Armenian volunteers were watching the scene from the fort, and wept as they saw such horrors. The massacre had continued three entire days and nights. "Oh, what butchery!" they groaned.
But one of their number shed no tears. His heart was filled with indignation, not against those who were burning and slaying, but against those who were letting themselves be slaughtered like sheep. "Look, look!", he exclaimed. "In all that city you do not see a man who raises his hand against his slayer. What more can be done to a man to move him to passionate resistance? They have burned his house before his eyes; they have roasted his children; they have dragged away his wife and his daughters; the man has seen all this but he humbly bows his head to receive the stroke of the sword! Curse you, fellow! You also are a man. Kill some of them yourself first and die fighting!"
"Vartan, you are always saying such heartless things," observed one of his companions.
Vartan turned away without deigning to reply. It was more than he could bear to look longer on that scene in which he saw presented the cowardly picture of his race. "This people does not know how to die with honor," he muttered.
A short distance from this spot, in a retired corner of the fort, among another. group of Armenian soldiers, the following conversation was taking place: "If Bedros doesn't return, that means that we have lost five more men tonight."
"He is very late; I fear we shall not see him again."
"No, listen! that is his signal. Don't you hear the cawing of the raven?"
"It is he. Let down the rope ladder."
They lowered the ladder, and in a few moments a young man appeared at the top of the rampart bearing an enormous leather water bottle. His comrades helped him down and expressed their joy at his return. One of them embraced him but drew back affrighted, asking, "What makes your face so wet, Bedros?"
At that moment the flames of the burning city leapt up so high that they could see his stained face. "It is blood!" they exclaimed in horror.
"Oh, that's nothing," replied Bedros, with a laugh. "I hadn't washed my face for days. It got a good washing tonight."
Bedros related his story briefly,. on reaching the spring he found a number of Kurds on guard, watching to prevent any from coming to get water. They attacked him, and by the time he "had stopped their mouths" as he expressed it, he had received a cut on the head.
"What became of Hanness, Thomas, Atam, and Nerso?" they asked.
"Devil take them," replied Bedros in his usual sarcastic manner. "One would think that those fellows had agreed together to betake themselves to their ancestors tonight. One fell beneath the wall of the fortress. He must have been hit by a bullet as he was climbing over. The next toppled over on the path; another lay like a log by the spring; while poor Thomas went a few steps further holding his hand against his side and cursing the Kurds; but I silenced them."
These four young Armenians of whom Bedros spoke, had been dispatched one after the other to fetch water, but had not returned. Such events occurred so often that death and murder had become common-place events and scarcely elicited remarks from his hearers. They did not even make any great haste to bind up Bedros' wounded head, nor did he pay it any attention.
"Devil take those Kurds!" he continued. "They seem to be able to see in the dark like the wolves, from which they get their name." (Kurds are koorts,
i.e. wolves) "In whatever direction they hear a sound, there they send a bullet, and it seldom misses its mark."
Thus they talked on in the dark, till at length they bethought themselves to bandage Bedros' head; then taking up the bottle of water, upon which depended the lives of over a thousand men, they bent their steps towards the courtyard of the fort.
"Boys," said one of the fellows, "we will not give the Turks a drop. I am not joking. We have lost four comrades for this bottle of water and not one of them offered to go after it."
"No, that would not be right," replied Bedros. "We must share it with them, also."
"Why is it wrong?" retorted the first speaker. "They brought some water one day, but they hid it, and drank it all themselves."
"They were selfish, but we ought to show them what it means to be fellow-soldiers. "
They now entered the courtyard of the barracks. "Water, water," rose the glad cry, and all began to crowd around the young men.
It is impossible to describe the soul felt joy, the frantic rejoicing with which that thirsty multitude pressed forward --- water.
There was great confusion as each tried to be the first to obtain water.
"Bring a light, and don't trample upon us. You shall each receive a portion," said the young man who carried the bottle, as he set it down.
They lighted a torch, whose flickering light fell upon the faces of the motley crowd, beside itself with joy. One of the men took a small wine glass and began to dole out the water with it. It had a horrible stench, and its taste was exceedingly offensive. Several drank without noticing anything amiss. Then one exclaimed, "What is the color of that water?"
"Drink it, and never mind the color," commanded Bedros. "The Kurds have colored it like this for our sakes.
"How have they colored it, we would like to know," cried the men.
"They have colored it with our blood. May you never see how many bodies have fallen into the pool from which I took this water."
The men were horrified, but still they continued to drink the foul, reddish liquid into which the blood of so many of their fellows had been spilt, and in which their putrid bodies still lay.
One of the men attempted to treat it as a joke, and exclaimed: "How fine! The water is enriched, and so gives us more strength!"
The careless talk of the rejoicing men was soon interrupted by the whistling of a bomb over the fortress, and in another moment one fell into the enclosure and did deadly execution among them.
During this period, in one of the rooms of the fort, which the Ottoman commander had formerly occupied, the Russian commander, lshdogvitch, was holding a council of war with his officers. The captains of the Armenian and Turkish volunteers. took part in the deliberations. A lamp standing on a small table dimly lighted their sad and careworn countenances.
For several days past letters had been sent them in rapid succession by the enemy, calling upon them to surrender. The letters were written by Lieutenant General Schamyl, the son of the famous Schamyl, who was now on the side of the enemy and had the honor of being the commander of the Sultan's troops. The last letter was full of threats and promises, and this was the occasion of this conclave. They were deliberating upon their reply.
"We will not surrender," cried the commander, ..not as long as we are alive!"
"If the siege continues but a few days longer, it will be impossible for us to hold out," commented an officer.
"Our position is hopeless henceforth," added another. "We have neither bread to eat nor ammunition to use. I don't understand why the Kurds haven't fallen upon us before now. How can we help ourselves?"
"Yes, we have been very imprudent," said another officer.
"We are not able to correct the past; let us speak of the present," observed the commander, who presided over the council, and who according to military usage occupied the position of commander-in-chief during the siege, and was vested with full military powers. "We will not surrender as long as we live," he repeated.
"If help does not reach us from without, we are lost," responded a Khan, who was a captain of the Turkish volunteers.
"We have not strength enough to wait for assistance," said a Bey. "it is my opinion that we should throw open the gates of the fortress, break through the cordon of the enemy and make our escape as beat we can. Then we shall either succeed in becoming free or we shall fall into the hands of the enemy.,,
"The latter is the more probable," remarked the captain of the Armenian volunteers, "but the consequences will be terrible. This fort now serves as a barrier for holding back the Ottoman army. When we lose it, then we open the way for Ismail Pasha's regular and disbanded soldiers, and in a few days they will take Erivan, Nakhitchevan, and many other places, unhindered. It is evident that the local Mohammedans were impatiently awaiting the arrival of those self-invited guests; but the Armenians are defenseless. A very insignificant number of soldiers was left to protect the country, for our principal force is now concentrated near Kars. Before they can reach us the Turks will have destroyed all before them."
The words of the Armenian officer aroused the anger of the Turkish Khan, and he exclaimed, "You express distrust of the Mohammedans!"
"My suspicions are not unfounded, for proofs are not wanting to confirm what I say. At this moment, among the besieging hosts, there are many from Zila who were Russian subjects before the war, but a crazy "molla" (priest) near Nakhitchevan dreamed that Islam was soon to rule over this land, and the people are ready to help bring it to pass."
The president of the council silenced the dispute, saying, "We must hold on and fight until our last breath. I hope aid will arrive soon. General Lord Lucasoff is not far from us. As soon as he learns of our condition he will hasten to save Bayazid. But he must be informed speedily.
"How?" several asked at once.
"By letter," he replied.
"Who will take it?"
"I think that among so many men there will be at least one brave soul."
"That may be; but how will he be able to reach him? We are surrounded by the enemy."
"He will make the attempt."
The council then decided to write a letter to General Lord Lucasoff, and after an hour, the commander, letter in hand, came out of the council chamber followed by the officers.
A muffled beat of the drum, assembled the men in the square in front of the officers! quarters. The commander addressed them confidently. "Men, our condition is evident to you all. Now our, hope rests upon God, and with His help, on aid from without. If help is delayed we are lost. Therefore, it is imperative that we make haste to give information of our condition in the necessary quarters. This letter must reach General Lord Lucasoff who is not far from us. As soon as he receives this letter he will hasten to our relief. Now which of you brave men will attempt to do this? Let him come forward and take the letter. I promise him a reward such as befits the magnitude of the undertaking. Speak up, men! Who will take the letter?"
Dead silence. Not a sound was to be heard.
"I repeat," continued the commander, in a more impressive manner, "that our salvation depends upon this letter. Who will win glory for himself, and become our deliverer?"
Again, not a sound was heard.
"Is there not one brave heart among you all," he cried with a tremor in his voice, 'who will attempt this daring deed?"
"I will," came the reply from one voice, and an Armenian youth drew near and took the letter.
This youth was Vartan.
Chapter II
Early the following morning, when the first rays of the sun were lighting the heavens, a frightful scene was revealed, in and around Bayazid. Now the result of the massacre, which had been carried on by the barbarism for three days and three nights, was clearly to be seen. A deathly silence reigned over the city, broken only by the croaking of ravens who flew about in flocks to batten on carrion.
The streets of the unfortunate city presented a sad and mournful spectacle: houses had become reduced to heaps of ashes; here and there smoke arose from ruins; beside the ruins lay the charred remains of old and young, women and children. Half-famished dogs dragged forth the corpses, growling and snapping at the flocks of ravens which disputed the feast with them. From every quarter arose the stifling stench of putrid corpses.
Rising above this city of the dead, stood the citadel Of Bayazid, waiting for its melancholy fate.
The siege increased in rigor. Mountain, valley, hill, field and plain were covered with armed men-besides a host of freebooters. The camps were separated into distinct groups, and each was the scene of great activity. Fanaticism and cruelty had made men become worse than the wild beasts, who put to death their fellowmen with unspeakable outrages. After having satiated their lust for blood, in some measure, they began to gratify their greed for plunder. The supposedly wealthy Armenians of the city were collected together in one spot, and were being put to torture to force them to reveal the hiding places of their money. The wretched men wept and groaned, protesting that they had delivered up all they possessed and nothing remained. They were not believed, so their children were butchered before their eyes, to force them to reveal their hiding place.
In another spot, the Kurds were dividing the heaps of plunder, and their wives were joyfully loading their individual shares to take to their homes.
A little further on they were loading their horses with Armenian slaves, and many were the fights among themselves over the more beautiful girls.
In another spot, some distance from the bustling multitude, wolves, wildcats, and birds of prey were breakfasting off the unburied corpses. And not very far from these, pious Moslems were zealously performing their morning devotions, and raising their bloody hands to heaven, giving thanks to the God of Islam for His blessings.
The smoke rising from the fires and hearths, clouded the horizon with a thick fog which prevented the sunlight from shining through.
The cannon still thundered; shot and shell poured down upon the fortress, but it stood firm, and seemed to deride the constant attacks of the enemy.
But in one part of the camp one individual attracted the attention of the whole camp. Leaping about and clapping his hands he proceeded to the middle of the camp, chanting as he went, a nonsensical Kurdish song:
"A crazy man!" shouted the Kurds, and they flocked around him to have him repeat the song.
And truly, he seemed to be a crazy man. He was dressed like a clown or juggler's assistant who performs tricks between acts to amuse the audience.
He was a tall, wild-looking fellow. He wore a tall square-topped cap with bells attached to the four corners which jangled harshly at his every motion. He had smeared his face with shoe-blacking and streaks of red, yellow and blue paint. His clothing consisted of a single garment, a ragged military cloak fastened at the waist with a piece of rope. His feet were bare.
"Now bray like a donkey," they commanded.
The crazy fellow stuck his fingers in his ears, stooped, opened his mouth and began to bray with all his might. The crowd applauded his performance and threw him some copper coins. He picked up the coins and looked at them stupidly, then throwing them aside he said, "Give me bread." They gave him some. He snatched it from their hands and thrusting great chunks into his mouth swallowed them whole.
"Now let us see you dance like a bear," said they. The fellow then went through a number of grotesque motions, creeping on all fours, walking on his hands and various other tricks.
The fellow remained in the Kurdish camp all day, entertaining crowds of men. He spoke Kurdish like a Kurd; he swore; he cursed the Russians; he raved against the "giaours" (infidels) saying, "kill the giaours." His voice could be heard all over the camp till after midnight. But the next morning the "fool" had disappeared.
Chapter III
The noonday sun shone with scorching heat upon the highway. It was the hour of day when travelers seek shelter from the heat. But at this hour a lone traveler was hastening along the road leading from Bayazid to Alashgerd. The road twisted and turned through the mountain pass, and was a succession of ups and downs. He walked rapidly, with never a stop and never a backward glance. Some urgent duty appeared to drive him on, and every moment was precious.
The traveler was young, and dressed like the crazy fellow of the night before. He wore the same ragged cloak, and a girdle of rope. He had discarded the cap and bells and the stains bad been washed from his face. His head was protected from the heat by a mat of freshly-woven rushes, such as mowers often weave for themselves. This rustic hat shaded his melancholy face-a face of deep despair. Even in his uncouth garb his was a figure to attract attention.
Presently he heard the whinny of a horse. He paused and looked about. The sound was repeated. He perceived that it came from a ravine near by. After a moment's thought he turned his steps thither. His first step was to climb a crag from which he might peer down into the ravine. There he saw a luxuriant growth of grass in which a saddled horse was grazing. That appeared to be all, but looking more closely he discovered near a clump of bushes the glittering point of a spear. "There is some one resting there, and he is alone, for there is only one horse in sight," he thought to himself. His further conclusions were that the man must be a Kurd, judging from his spear and from the trappings of the horse; also that he must be asleep since the horse's feet were fettered to prevent him from straying. Now he descended the hillside and reached the bed of a stream which flowed through the narrow valley, its bank,, hidden by a thick growth of rushes. Then he began to creep silently toward the bushes near which he spear stood planted in the ground. A snake could not have slipped through the reeds as noiselessly as did this lithe and fearless creature.
At that moment a slight breeze bent the heads of the rushes and their murmur drowned the rustling caused by the foe if, perchance, he made i careless move. Everything promised success.
He had reached the bushes where the spear was planted. He paused within a few paces of it, and preserving his former attitude, he began to peer through the rushes. The sleeper's dress showed that he was a Kurd. The noonday sun had driven him here to rest. Was he asleep, or awake? It was hard to say for his head was turned away from the traveler. He was stretched full length upon the soft grass.
The traveler continued to observe the Kurd from his ambush. He was keenly interested to know whether the Kurd was awake or asleep. If his face were only turned toward him he would be able to know whether he was asleep or not. He was greatly disturbed and racked with anxiety. Unclothed and unarmed, he was about to attack a man accoutered with arms. But he must make an end of indecision. Time was flying. Every moment was precious. But how should he act? While he was in this dilemma he saw the Kurd raise his head and look about. He looked at his horse, and seeing that it had not strayed away, he settled his head again upon his saddle-bags in lieu of a pillow and lay still. So he was not asleep, or, if he had been asleep, he was awake now,. The traveler was still undecided. His nostrils dilated and his lips quivered. Then he noticed that the spear was planted some distance from the sleeper and in line with his own hiding place. This circumstance relieved him somewhat. His muscles became less tense and something akin to joy shone in his eyes. A weapon! That was what he needed to carry out his intention.
Suddenly, like a tiger from its ambush, he sprang from among the rushes, snatched up the spear and stood over the outstretched Kurd.
"Give me your weapons," he cried.
The Kurd, seeing the outlandish figure in a tattered military cloak and ridiculous hat, looked at him contemptuously and without rising, raised his rifle and aiming it at the crazy fellow, said: "Take it; there it is!"
The rifle went off and the bullet grazed the man's side.
"Rascal. do you resist?" replied the fellow, thrusting the spear straight into the Kurd's throat. The hot blood gushed from the wound, and the man's head fell back on the ground.
The Kurd made an effort to rise once more and he drew his sword half-way out of its scabbard, but his hold weakened and the sword came no further.
"You dog, why have you killed me?" he cried in mortal agony.
"You have killed many of our people, and have carried away many; I learned from you how to kill and how to carry away. I am going on a long journey, You see I have neither clothing, weapons nor horse. needed your clothing and weapons and your beautiful horse grazing yonder in the meadow. I knew that as long as you drew breath You would give me none of these; that is why I have relieved you of them. Perhaps I am depriving you of the spoil of Bayazid; no matter - Your brothers have been very busy there."
The Kurd heard nothing. His eyes were already closed and his lifeless body lay outstretched upon the ground.
All this had taken place in a very few moments. The traveler stripped his victim and dragging his body away, hid it among the bushes, covering it with his ragged cloak. Then arraying himself in the Kurd's clothing and girding on his weapons, he flew forward on his journey mounted on the beautiful steed.
Chapter IV
The day after these events occurred, a horseman, dressed like a Kurd and whistling like a lark, entered the camp of Gen. Lord Lucasoff. He said he had brought an important dispatch addressed to the general, so he was taken to the general's tent. He sent the letter in by the band of an officer while he remained without to care for his horse. After a few moments he was summoned to present himself to the general.
A martial figure of medium height and with a haughty leonine face was seated in the tent. This was Lord Lucasoff. His gray head was bent over the desk on which lay numerous letters just received. He picked up one of them and read it, smoking all the while. His expression indicated agitation and sympathy.
Turning toward the messenger he asked: "Are you an Armenian?"
"Not only an Armenian, but the son of a priest," was the reply.
The general, giving a searching glance at his bold face continued his questioning. "Was there any food in the fort?"
"If they wish to keep alive, they must soon begin to eat each other."
"Have they no water?"
"None. it has to be brought from outside. It is impossible to leave the fort by day, but at night ten or twenty men are let down from the ramparts to go after water. The Kurds know this well and fire upon them from a distance; often not one returns."
"How about the supply of firearms, powder and bullets?"
"It was exhausted, but an Armenian -- give the Armenians credit for this -- found some which had been concealed by the Turks, and they are buying a reprieve with this,"
"How were you able to escape from the fort?"
"I climbed over the wall one morning before sunrise and walked right into the Kurdish camp. I entertained them for a whole day, singing and dancing and doing other foolish things. I went all through the camp, seeing everything. Then I said goodbye and came away."
The General looked at the young man in astonishment, "What are you saying?" he said: "Were you crazy?"
"Yes, sir," he replied quietly. "It is my fate always to play the role of the fool. It is not so bad. It has saved my life before. I pretended I was crazy and so entered the Kurdish camp." And he proceeded to describe his dress, the ridiculous garb in which he made his appearance in the Kurdish camp.
A faint smile appeared on the General's stony countenance, and he asked in a friendly fashion: "But where did you find this clothing?"
"God gave it to me. On the way here I found a Kurd. I took from him this clothing, these weapons and that beautiful horse that stands outside," replied the young man telling further how he killed the Kurd.
"You seem to be a fearless fellow," said the General. Then with his former look of anxiety, he resumed his interrogations.
"Are there many Kurds?"
"They say there are more than 20,000, but they are not all Kurds. There are Mohammedans of every tribe mingled with them. Whoever has a horse and a weapon or two has run to Bayazid, and so a great multitude has assembled. On my way here I saw many more groups hastening in that direction."
"Have they cannon?"
"They have."
"What is their intention?"
"They are trying to hasten the capture of the citadel of Bayazid; then to go to Erivan, and the next week to Tiflis, for the lovely Armenian and Georgian young women attract them greatly."
Again a faint smile appeared on the General's face, and he asked with a sneer, "Are they going to Tiflis with 20,000? Nonsense!"
"20,000 is not too few when there are not 1000 soldiers opposing them. Besides, Ismail Pasha's entire force will soon join them; while in our region the Mohammedans are waiting impatiently with open arms to receive their co-religionists."
A mist of sadness, like a dark cloud passed over the General's face and his heart, which the varying vicissitudes of fate had not been able to disturb, began to swell. He raised his hand to his forehead, rubbing it as though trying to dissipate the melancholy which oppressed it.
After a brief reflection, he raised his gray head and asked:
"Did you enter the city of Bayazid?"
"I did. There is not a soul left of the Armenian Christians. They have massacred old and young. They took captive all the young women, girls and boys. They burned the dwellings and plundered their possessions. Only about a hundred families who were forewarned, escaped to the Persian town of Macou, before the arrival of the Kurds. But they left their possessions in the hands of their enemies. Oh, these Mohammedans, how cruelly and shamefully they have treated the Armenians."
"How?"
"At the beginning of the war, when the Russians approached Bayazid, the Mohammedans were in great fear. They thought the Russians would surely take away their goods as the Turks do. With this idea they concealed their possessions in the homes of their Armenian neighbors, saying, "You are Christians, the Russians will not touch you, so our goods will be safe in your houses." The Russians came, and naturally they took nothing. They treated Armenians and Mohammedans impartially. Seeing this, the Mohammedans were put at their ease, and proceeded to take back, without loss, the articles which they had put in the custody of the Armenians.
"And now, when it was rumored that the Kurds were coming, the Turks said: 'You did us kindness, so we wish to do something for you in return. The Kurds are coming and, will rob you -- give us your goods and we will keep them for you.' "The Armenians believed them and gave all they had into their custody, and some hid themselves and their wives and daughters with their Turkish neighbors. But when the Kurds entered the city, the Turks said to the Armenians: 'Get out of our houses. If the Kurds learn that Armenians are hiding in our houses they will massacre us together with you.' And, thus they delivered the poor Armenians into the hands of their enemies, and possessed themselves of their riches. And when the massacre began the local Turks were the first to set their houses on fire -- those Turks, General, who only six weeks ago swore in your presence to obey the Russian Government. They fired their guns in every direction. Even the Turkish women shot Armenians."
The General had listened in silence, and the young man continued:
"Oh, if you could only know, sir, how many fine young men perished in that conflict! We fought the Kurds stubbornly before yielding Bayazid to them. As you are aware, sir, there were very few Russian soldiers left to defend the citadel along with the Armenian and Turkish militia. lshdogvitch, the hero of Bayazid, guarded the fort with his Russian soldiers, while the militia guarded the city. News had reached us of an immense host of Kurds under the leadership of Sheik Chellaladdin, and Sheik Abadoullah, advancing toward Bayazid. The Armenians at Van had sent us this information. We made haste and demanded that they fortify the citadel in time and send sufficient troops to enable us to withstand the enemy. But there were some who tried to make us believe that all those reports were false, and that no preparations were needed. Why those traitors tried to prevent us from being in readiness for the arrival of the enemy, I am unable to say. You, General, will surely learn the reason. But I can say this, that the Armenian is and will always be faithful."
There appeared to be points in the young man's narrative which it was difficult for him to make clear. The General interrupted him, saying, "Tell me what you did after the arrival of the Kurds?"
"When the Kurds came, after a few unsuccessful fights, lshdogvitch hastened to entrench himself in the citadel, to defend it. Part of the militia remained outside, for there was neither room nor provisions for all in the fort. Some of our Turkish militiamen fled to lktir, and some into Persia. But we Armenians determined to defend the city, or perish in the attempt. We were few in number but many of the Armenian inhabitants of the city were ready to join us. The poor creatures knew the fate that awaited them should the Turks take Bayazid once more. You are aware, General, with what rejoicing the Armenians had received the Russian conquering army on its arrival at the city. The Ottoman could not forgive this demonstration and wished to wreak vengeance on a people who preferred to bow to the Russian eagle rather than to the Ottoman crescent."
"You have strayed from my question, again" interrupted the General. "Tell us how the affair ended."
The young man tried to check his loquacity, which had been occasioned by the fullness of his heart, and continued. "Perhaps we might have succeeded in saving the city, with the help of all the Armenians of the place, if we had possessed sufficient weapons. But they could not obtain arms; still many did join us. To tell the truth, at first the fight was glorious. A small company was fighting against a vastly more numerous foe. A few hundred Turkish volunteers took part with us. But, suddenly, we saw our Mohammedan comrades fleeing. It was not pleasant for them to shoot their co-religionists. So, we Armenians remained alone and held out for a long time. This continued for several hours until our store of ammunition was exhausted. Then began a hand to hand fight. Many fell; many were captured, and the remainder, seeing that their efforts were in vain, left and fled. Then the enemy took possession of the town."
"I understand," said the General, and rising he approached a small casket from which he took a cross which he pinned on the young man's breast, with his own hand, saying, "You deserve this, and I will recommend to those in command that they give you some office and a salary. Henceforth you must remain with us, I need brave men like you."
The young man bowed gratefully and replied, "This cross is sufficient, General. You will do me a great favor if you will allow me to go where I please now."
The General, surprised at the young man's lack of ambition, asked: "Where must you go?"
"To save the life of one who is very dear to me."
"I see you have a secret," said the General, kindly.
"Yes, it is my heart's secret."
"Then, accept this small gift," said the General, you may need it," handing him a roll of gold pieces wrapped in paper.
"I shall consider it a great favor if you dismiss me quickly," replied the young man, taking his leave.
"Go, and the Lord be with you," returned the General clasping his hand.
He bowed and went out.
Chapter V
Let us turn back a few years.
In the province of Pakrevant, not far from the monastery of St. John (now called lutch Kilisah) there was the Armenian village of 0..... It was situated in a large valley where Nature had not spared any features that could enhance its beauty.
The valley extended between two mountain ranges whose slopes, rising one above the other held it in their bosom where it lay like a green lake, oval in shape. Through its midst the Euphrates river wound and twisted. This part of it was called Ak Soo (White Water) by the people of the region, and it was worthy of its name.
The uplands surrounding the valley were covered with rich meadows in which cattle grazed contentedly, while the whole extent of the lower stretches was devoted to the cultivation of wheat, barley, flax and various grains and legumes.
Here the industrious hand of the laborer left not an acre of ground uncultivated.
All along the valley were scattered small Armenian villages so hidden among the orchards and vineyards that from a distance they appeared like verdant forests which were especially noticeable because the remainder of the valley was treeless.
At the upper end of the valley, in a little hollow, lay the village of 0..... The dwelling of landlord Khacho, or Khachadoor, was the largest in the village. Each morning a hundred cattle were driven out through its gate. His horses and cows, buffaloes and oxen were the finest in the place. Besides which there were a thousand sheep being cared for by shepherds up on the mountains.
To this house belonged the village oil press, and a mill whose wheels were ever busy grinding grain for the villagers.
But the outstanding possessions of old Khacho were his seven sons. All were mature; the seven pillars of the house. Six were married and the house overflowed with their children and their children's children. So old Khacho had several generations growing up around him, all living together, working together, forming a little world by themselves. It had become a saying in the village: "old Khacho has as many children as he has cattle."
The youngest son of Khacho was unmarried, being a lad of sixteen, who was called Stephanie. He had not yet the maturity which is common in a land where youths mature early. His features were fresh and childlike, and he looked more like a woman than a man.
All of Khacho's older sons were occupied away from home, looking after their cattle or their farms. But Stephanie took very little share in their labors. He was Khacho's "Joseph, the beloved", whom the old patriarch did not wish out of his sight.
There were many similarities between Stephanie and Joseph. Not only was he beautiful, modest, quick-witted, attractive and sympathetic but his garments, like Joseph's were of the choicest He wore a striped tunic of Aleppo linen embroidered with colored thread; over this a jacket of crimson velvet embroidered with gold thread. His girdle was of fine Kirman wool, and his full trousers of broadcloth from Van. On his feet he wore red leather shoes made in Erzeroum, and on his head a red fez wound about with a dainty silk turban.
A profusion of auburn curls fell from under his fez to his shoulders. But in one regard he differed from Joseph in that while Joseph's brethren envied him, Stephanie's did not, but loved him dearly.
From a distance old Khacho's house looked like an ancient castle. It was built on a knoll and in form and location had all the advantages necessary to keep a dwelling safe from attack by enemies. This fortress was surrounded by walls on four sides enclosing quite an extensive tract in which stood several buildings.
From without all that could be seen were the four high towers at the four corners of the enclosure. Inside there were all the buildings and storehouses needed for a well-ordered domain.
Here was the sheep-fold, dug down into the earth, there the corrals for the horses, cows and water buffaloes. Here a shed where all the implements were kept; there the hayloft, the straw-crib, where the fodder was kept. There were various bins and dugouts for storing the farm produce. Besides these there were the huts occupied by the servants and herdsmen and their families -- these were Kurdish families. The wives acted as servants on the place while their menfolk were shepherds, herdsmen and plowmen. In a word, a small village dwelt within that fortress whose lord and master was old Khacho.
The dwellings assigned to the family were not as large and commodious as would be required in the Western World. They still preserved patriarchal simplicity as when a whole family lived in one tent, with only this difference that instead of a tent they lived in a house built of stone.
For his numerous sons, each of whom, together with his children, formed a large family, there were no separate rooms but all lived under one roof and in one room, and there was nothing there but the four walls crossed overhead by great beams. Here they built their fire, baked and cooked their food. Here they all ate, and here they all slept.
Here were to be seen new-born calves and young kids who skipped about with the children, running, jumping and filling the room with a lively racket. Often the hens entered and picked up crumbs from the floor or other things dropped from the hands of careless children. In a word, it was a Noah's Ark where all kinds of creatures were found.
A second building stood next to this one. It differed from the first only in this, that one side, overlooking the courtyard, was entirely open. This was called the kiosk, and was used as a summer living room. One door from the kiosk opened into the large room, serving it as a foyer. Next to these was a small room, called the "oda", or the guest room. It was used only when guests visited there and was always kept clean and neat.
Chapter VI
In spite of living in such plain and unpretentious surroundings those who lived there were happy and contented. Labor was unremitting but the blessings of God were shed upon it abundantly.
Old Khacho's barns were always full of grain and fodder, his store rooms with butter, oil and wine. He was blessed with some good in every season of the year, and plenty of work to fill each day.
It was spring. The snow was melting on the mountains; the fields were beginning to smile with their verdant green. The air was full of a warm, delightful fragrance, spreading fresh life in every direction. Rivulets ran through the valleys and through the meadows. The returning swallow invited the laborer at his work.
The sun had just risen, and the mountaintops were rosy in the morning light. The old man was returning home at this early hour wishing a "God have mercy" on everyone he met. His sons were going to bring the cattle out of the stables today, for the first time, after their winter confinement where they had had nothing to do but eat, rest, and grow fat in the dark, never seeing light of day. It gave great pleasure to the villagers to watch this sight, and many of them had gathered about old Khacho's gate to see the cattle driven out, and to observe how well they had been tended. "Light to your eyes, Khacho!" said a neighbor., "Aren't your boys going to bring out the buffaloes today?" "Yes, it is time," be replied. "I asked the priest how much longer we should keep them in, and he said they are coming out today."
From within, the tinkling of bells was heard, and the crowd drew back to make way. "That is Chora!" they cried, Chora was the name of a famous buffalo belonging to the landlord. It had a crescent-shaped mark on its forehead, and was famous for its strength and size. The gigantic creature leapt out snorting and bellowing. Stopping suddenly in the square before the gate, it raised its head and gazed about. At that moment the old landlord threw a raw egg at his head. As the shell broke the yellow yolk ran down his white forehead. This was done to keep off the Evil Eye. Chora was startled by this performance, and lowering his head, he gave a mighty roar and plunged toward the crowd gathered there. The old man's sons arriving at this moment, used clubs and poles trying to control the frantic animal. Human strength contended against animal strength. Coming out of the stable into the light of day Chora's eyes, unused to the light, saw nothing distinctly. He did not even recognize his masters who had cared for him all winter, and whose hands he had often licked. In frantic frenzy he charged first this way then that. It was impossible to control him. Old Khacho's six sons dealt blows upon him from every direction, but they had no more effect upon him than if the great clubs had been twigs. The old landlord watched the conflict from a distance, with as much delight as he might had it been a Roman circus. He saw before him two powerful forces; on the one hand his sons, and on the other the great bull. They were about equally prized by him. Upon these two forces all the labors of his management depended. The conflict grew fiercer. The chain which had fastened Chora's neck to a huge block of wood now broke. The villagers brought ropes with which to bind him, but at each rush of the ungovernable beast these, also, were broken, and as he plunged about, the crowd scattered like flies before him.
In this frightful commotion a deed of great daring was accomplished. One of the sons, named Abo, ran and seized Chora by the tail. The enraged beast, observing this indignity, tried to turn and punish the offender. He whirled around and around, but Abo circled with him, holding onto his tail firmly as he did so. This performance continued for several minutes. Cries of astonishment arose from every side. The furious beast bellowed and dug his hoofs into the ground, filling the air with clouds of dust. By this time Abo's brothers arrived with chains with which they finally bound the bull amid general rejoicing. Now the old man approached Abo, and, kissing him on the forehead, said, "May the Eye of God be upon you, my son. You have made my face become white!" (the opposite of blackening one's name), meaning that Abo had saved him from being disgraced before the people. He then approached Chora, as though he was another son, and patting its head, said "You rascal, why did you behave so badly?" By this time Chora was quiet, and could see clearly. He recognized his master and seemed sorry for his wicked behavior. A chain was fastened to his neck, and passing it between his forelegs, was attached to a great log which he must drag with him wherever he went. And finally he was driven down to the river for a swim, and a cooling bath in its waters.
The crowd of villagers still hung about old Khacho's gate to watch the rest of the buffaloes come out, for there were fierce ones among them but this time the old man's sons took greater care and no special difficulty arose. Then followed the fine, healthy sheep and well-fed cattle, any one of which was worthy to carry off a prize in a village fair.
The landlord broke an egg against the forehead of each to keep off the Evil Eye. Besides this he had had the priest write a charm for each one, and had it sewn in a triangular bit of blue leather,, and hung it from the neck of each of the cattle. The villagers spoke words of praise for the care which the sons had bestowed upon the cattle, and the father's heart rejoiced at hearing them praised.
Each day the animals were brought out of their confinement for a little exercise until they became accustomed to the out-door air and light and were ready to work and plow the fields.
Chapter VII
The April sun brought with it warmer and brighter days.
On the mountains red, yellow and white iris were already in bloom, and the Kurdish girls brought bunches of them to the Armenian villages to give in exchange for pieces of bread. Mushrooms and various kinds of wild herbs used for greens were so abundant that year that the Kurdish women would exchange a whole donkey-load of them for a few pounds of flour.
Old Khacho's sons had begun to plow their fields. Work had begun everywhere. There was not an idle man to be found in the entire village. All were busy with their farming.
It was morning. The hearth fires were lighted at old Khacho's. In one fireplace food was being cooked in pots and kettles. In another, bread was baking. The daughters-in-law and the maids were all busy around the fires. The house, filled with the smells of food, was one great kitchen, and one would think enough food was being cooked to feed an army. And, indeed besides the old man's large family, there were the shepherds and plowmen with their families who had to be provided for. There was a legion of them. Every day a great amount of food had to be prepared, and the old man's industrious daughters-in-law had not a moment's rest. They must care for all and please all.
Besides the cooking, there were other household tasks. One must milk the cows and sheep; another must heat the milk at a small fireplace and make the madzoun. A third must prepare the culture for cheese, and a fourth was churning butter.
A troop of Children were running about and playing with the young calves and lambs. Children and lambs grew up together---two forms of wealth which rejoice a villager and are his glory.
On the south side of the court, under a wall, was a row of beehives. The warm April sun shed its warmth here. While the women were busy at work on the other side of the wall, old Khacho opened the doors of the hives. The bees poured out gladly and fluttered around his gray head, humming and buzzing, making the air vibrate with sound. There were some bad ones among thorn, who gave the old man's face sharp stings. But he felt no pain, but drove them off, saying, "Go away, you devils. What harm has Khacho done you?"
In the meantime Stephanie stood a little distance away, watching his father with interest. "Go away, my child, the bees will sting you," he cried. "But why don't they sting you'!" asked his son. "They do, but it doesn't hurt me much." "Why doesn't it hurt you?" "Oh, I am used to it." "Let me become used to it, too," the lad replied smiling. The old man laughed kissed his son.
At that moment, the kizir (tax-recorder) appeared, having come to say that the Kurdish chief, Fattah Bey, had sent a messenger with word that he was coming to visit the landlord, and would arrive very soon for he was out hunting on the near mountains. A dark cloud seemed to pass over the old man's forehead, and his smiling face was darkened by sadness. But controlling his displeasure, he ordered the kizir to call some of his sons from the fields to wait on the guests, while he, himself, attended to providing fodder for the horses.
Fattah Bey's goings and comings were of such frequent occurrence at old Khacho's that the household knew beforehand what preparations were necessary for his entertainment. For this reason, as soon as the women heard the news, they had several lambs killed and cooked a great kettle of pilaf, knowing that he would have a retinue of at least twenty or thirty men with him.
Fattah Bey was the chief of a tube of Kurds whose sheep grazed on the mountains in the confines of the village 0...
Not infrequently, quarrels arose between the Kurdish and Armenian shepherds, when the Kurds had, perhaps, stolen a sheep or had begun to graze their flocks in the pastures belonging to the Armenians. But these quarrels always ended without serious consequences, not only because the Kurdish chief was a good friend of landlord Khacho, but was also his "kirvan" (godfather). He had stood as godfather to some of the old man's grandchildren at their christening, and the old man had occupied a similar position during the circumcision of some of the Bey's sons. This brought the two into close relationship.
But why was the old man sad when he heard of the approaching visit? Khacho was not a stingy man that he should be afraid of having to entertain the Bey with his troop of followers. Khacho's table, like Father Abraham's, was free to every man. Every day travelers and strangers ate of his bread. Khacho prided himself on being able to say that he never sat down to a meal without a guest. He would say, "God giveth the bread, therefore it belongs to Him, and His poor should eat of it."
But what caused him sadness when he heard that the Bey was coming? In silent meditation he stepped out of the house and stood at the gate to receive his guest. Seeing him there, some of the villagers joined him, and one of them remarked, "The Bey is coming. I wonder what belly-ache he has this time." "When the Kurd comes to the house of an Armenian," replied the landlord sadly, "he does not come without a belly-ache."
The points of lances appeared over the top of a hill, and in a few minutes a group of horsemen came in sight. "Here they come," said one of the villagers. The landlord couldn't see at that distance, but when another shouted, "It is they!" the landlord said, "Stand by and look after the horses until our boys arrive from the fields."
The Bey now drew near with his pack of hounds, and a troop of more than twenty horsemen, who were more or less related to him, and who surrounded him like a guard. Today he was mounted on a beautiful gray, an Arab courser, whose trappings were profusely ornamented with precious stones set in silver. The Bey was a man of forty years of age though he appeared much younger. He was large and well-proportioned and had a fine, manly face. He was dressed in fine linen, handsome broadcloth, beautifully embroidered, while his weapons were ornamented with gold and silver. On seeing him, the landlord stepped forward and stood beside the bridge which crossed the moat surrounding the house which the Bey must cross. But he, instead, dug his spurs into the steed's flanks, which then flew like a bird across the moat, and after prancing and curvetting gracefully, stood proudly before the landlord. "What do you think of that, old Khacho?" asked the Bey, patting the head of the magnificent creature. "You know horses. What do you think of this one?"
"May God keep off the Evil Eye. He is a beauty. Koroghlou himself hasn't a steed like that, and truly, he is worthy of you. Where did you find him? You didn't have him before."
"I received him as a gift from the Vali of Erzeroum," replied the Bey, much pleased. 'The Vali would rather lose his two eyes than this stallion but he gave it to me, his friend. It was given to him by the Sheik of Aleppo."
"He's a beauty," repeated the landlord.
The Bey, stirred by this praise, dug his spurs into the horse again showing off its fine points as it pranced about in the square in front of the gate, showing off his own skillful horsemanship at the same time. Then he dismounted and handing the bridle to one of his servants, ordered him to walk it about until it had cooled off.
Now the landlord, taking his guest by the hand, led him into the oda, which had been handsomely furnished in honor of the guest. Expensive Persian rugs were spread on the floor. Cushions were arranged against the wall, and a fine divan provided especially for the Bey.
Then the landlord, inviting his guest to be seated, said politely, "My house is your house. You own a place upon my head and in my eyes. I am your humble servant. My sons are your slaves, and my women your handmaids. You are welcome, a thousand times welcome. All that I have is at your disposal. Command me. Pray be seated."
The Bey expressed his thanks, and after one of Khacho's sons had removed his shoes from his feet he proceeded to seat himself in the seat of honor. Near him sat two of his cousins, and his other relatives. Some of his servants came into the oda, and stood, hands resting upon their pistols, ready to wait upon the Bey. Others had remained outside to care for the horses and hounds which were being fed from the old man's haylofts and storerooms. The Bey and his men were armed with rifles, pistols and spears, which they did not remove, although in the home of a friend. The Kurd does not lay aside his weapons whether at home or abroad, in time of peace or in time of war. His weapons are a part of his body. Khacho's sons, who had returned from their fields by this time, went out and continued to perform their father's commands; they carried no weapons.
They first offered the guests unsweetened coffee in small cups.
"Where is Stephanie? I don't see him," said the Bey. "Heretofore he has always served my coffee."
Concealing his displeasure, the landlord ordered Stephanie to come. Stephanie entered, his face beaming with pleasure. He went up to the Bey and kissed his hand. (Kurdish chiefs expect that act of courtesy). Then, stroking his silky head, the Bey said, "Do you know what I have brought you?"
"Yes, I know," replied Stephanie. "A beautiful fawn. I gave it grass but it would not eat."
"Just see, he has taken the gift already!" exclaimed the Bey.
"I knew it was for me," replied Stephanie, "so I took it."
"There, go now and play with your fawn," said the Bey. The lad bowed and withdrew.
"He is such a gentle lad," said the Bey, "he seems disappointed if he doesn't receive a gift from me every time I come here."
"It is not his fault. You have led him to expect one," replied the landlord, with a forced laugh.
"Oh, what fine mountains you have, friend Khacho," said the Bey, turning to another subject. "At every step you find game, wild goats, hinds, stags, and countless partridges and pigeons. This fawn, which Stephanie has, one of my hounds caught alive. You should see what fine hounds I lately received from the chief of the Zelantz tribe. I sent him a couple of mules in return. Just between ourselves, we had just seized the mules in a raid on some Persian pilgrims on their way to Mecca. But those hounds are wonderful. They run like the wind."
Dinner was served. The floorcloth was spread, and upon it were set great trays containing lambs, roasted whole, and pilaf.
First of all sherbet was served in small cups, and then tann, made of yogurt, or madzoon, which was drunk out of ladles. There was no liquor. All then began to eat.
"Haven't you sent your sheep out to pasture yet?" asked the Bey.
"Not yet," replied the landlord. "We can't be sure of the weather yet. April is apt to be chilly. I am waiting till it's over."
"Heat and cold are in God's hands, friend Khacho. What is to happen will happen," replied the Bey. "Our sheep went to pasture a week ago. Do you know how quickly our feed was exhausted this year? Our shepherds have gone hungry the last few days."
The landlord understood the Bey's hint, and replied. "Isn't our bread yours? Command me, and I will send as much flour as is needed."
"May Your house prosper and increase in wealth," said the Bey. "That is as it should be. Who shall distinguish between us? What is mine is yours, what is yours is mine. Isn't that so, friend Khacho?"
"God knows it is so. How much flour shall I send?"
"Ten donkey loads will be enough for the present. When that's gone, we'll take some more. Your granaries will not be emptied."
An unwilling smile crossed the landlord's face, and he nodded in assent.
After they had eaten, Stephanie brought water for them to wash their hands, and after that. passed the coffee.
The Bey then ordered his servants who had remained standing throughout the meal, to go outside and eat with the others, where a separate table was set on carpets spread in the courtyard.
In the guestroom there remained only the Bey, a few of his relatives and old Khacho. Now the talk turned on the gift of the Vali of Erzeroum. The Bey told of the breed of his fine stallion. He said its records dated from the time of Antares, the most famous breed of all. "But this gift is going to cost me dear," he concluded.
"How so?" asked the landlord.
"Don't you understand? I must give the servant who brought it to me at least a hundred pounds."
Now the landlord understood what had given the Bey his "belly-ache," but he made haste to say, "What of it? Give it. A hundred liras is not too much for such a stallion."
"Who gives money to a Kurd?" retorted the Bey, angrily. "Only Armenians have plenty of silver."
The Bey's relatives, who had taken no part in the conversation until now, began saying: "What! Are you troubled about money?" "That's right," said another. "God knows it is so," and another added, "Goodman Khacho is so kind, there's no one like him .among all the Armenians."
Old Khacho saw that in spite of all he could say he was caught in a trap, and burdened with the debt, so, in order to prevent their suspicion, he replied, I wouldn't hurt the feelings of the Bey for a thousand liras."
"May you prosper," replied the Kurds.
The landlord arose and, leasing the oda, called his oldest son and told him to go secretly and bring hire a hundred pieces of gold from its hiding place in the hayloft.
"Why?" inquired the son.
"Don't you understand? These wicked men have come, eaten and drunk and now we must pay tooth-hire'," he replied sadly.
"Curses on them!" cried the son. "May God cut them off, root and branch!" He then proceeded to the barn as if to bring straw.
"Tooth-hire" means having to pay the Kurds for their kindness in coming to the home of an Armenian and eating there. The host must pay or be beaten unmercifully by his guests. Although this custom was not general, some form of payment was expected.
While the old man was out of the room, the Kurds were indulging in the following conversation. "If the old fellow doesn't bring the gold, I will order his house set on fire this instant," said the Bey, angrily.
"That won't be necessary" said another, trying to calm him. "Khacho is a good Armenian. We don't want to harm him. His door is always open to us, and we can have everything we wish from him. He's a good fellow. We must not forget his bread and salt."
Just then the old man returned, and laying a purse of gold before the Bey, he said, "God is my witness. I was keeping it for my soul's sake, to go on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to become a "mahdesi" (hadji) but for love of you, I give it to you, Bey."
"Don't lie, Goodman Khacho, you have much more, very much," replied the Bey, taking up the purse and putting it in his bosom without counting it.
The day was well along. The Bey ordered his men to be ready to set out again. He came out of the oda and walked about with the landlord until the horses were ready. He saw Stephanie playing with the fawn, and spoke to him.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
"It is very pretty, but the dogs have wounded one of its feet, but I will cure it. Poor creature! It is in pain, and that is why it eats nothing," replied the lad, tying up the fawn's wound.
"I see you are fond of animals," returned the Bey. "I'll send you one of my young colts."
"I don't like horses."
'"What do you like, then?"
"I like goats, and deer, and partridges."
"Very well. then. When I go hunting, I'll bring you all the creatures I take alive."
Then, as the servants brought word that the horses were ready, the Bey expressed his thanks to the landlord, and went out where his beautiful courser was standing before the door.
Old Khacho himself held the stirrup, and helped the Bey mount his horse. This act denotes that the host is at the service of his honored guest.
Mounted on his steed, the Bey put it through its paces again, after which he bade old Khacho farewell, and rode away.
The old man stood there motionless for a long time. He watched the Bey make the steed leap the moat once more, spurning the bridge, as though only the weak and feeble had need of that. He saw him swoop down on a rabbit that had chanced to cross the road and thrust his spear into its side. As he watched all this, he thought, "Why doth Heaven order thus? The Kurd has no bread to eat, but the Armenian sows and plows and prepares his provisions. The Kurd receives the gift of a fine steed, which causes the earth to tremble under its feet, but the Armenian pays for it--the Armenian who is not allowed to ride on any beast save an ass."
Chapter VIII
That evening when all old Khacho's sons had returned from their labors, an oil light was burning in one corner of the room. The landlord and his sons were seated around the table. They were eating in silence. The fresh spring breeze brought refreshing coolness into the room. From outside came the bleating of sheep returning from pasture. In the bake-house the daughters-in-law were preparing food for the shepherds and plowmen. All must eat before the women could eat. The children, tired of play had gone to sleep without any supper. After eating, the sons went out. They had still much to do. They must look after the cattle, and water the fields, for this was the night when it was their turn to have the water of the stream turned onto their fields. And some one must go to the mill for flour. All sorts of jobs were waiting to be done.
The table was removed, but old Khacho and his oldest son, Hairabed, remained seated there. Hairabed prepared his father's pipe for him. Their silence continued. The spirit of sadness seemed to have spread its black wings over the hearts of that peaceful family.
"How much flour did the Kurds take?" asked the father, after taking a few puffs on his pipe. "Exactly twelve loads," answered his son, with displeasure, "and they were large sacks, filled to the brim. They had brought the sacks with them. They acted as though they had paid for it."
"Whose oxen drew the loads?"
"Ours, but, thank the Lord if they return the oxen. I fear they will eat the oxen along with the flour."
"The Bey wouldn't do such an ignoble deed," said the father.
"Who has given nobility to the Kurd? It won't be the first time they have swallowed the load and the beast at the same time. To tell the truth, I don't care so much about the hundred pounds, nor the twelve loads of flour, but it vexes me that after giving them food freely, we have to give them flour besides, and send it to them with our own cattle. What an affliction this is! I don't know how long these Kurds are going to continue to plunder us. They come and they come. They carry away, and carry away. They ask and ask. They have neither conscience nor shame. God seems to have created us to feed them."
"Don't you know it is true?" replied the old man choking on his pipe as his gorge rose at the thought. "What can we do? If we don't give it with our own hands, they take it by force. We may be thankful they rob us in the name of friendship."
"We have taught them this way of robbing, ourselves," replied the son. "We might refuse, then the Kurd would be obliged to sow and reap and work for his bread. But we have taught him to be lazy and live off us."
"That is true," replied his father, sadly. "But it is hard for us to do other than the way we were taught by our fathers. We are reaping the bitter fruit of their folly. Now listen, my son. I can see that hatred has been stirred up in your heart, and that this slavery has wounded you sorely; but, again, I ask, what remedy is there? What can we do? If we don't give them what they demand, they will become our enemies and next you know they will carry off a whole flock of sheep. To whom can we complain? Who will hear our voice? Those who have been set over us to suppress wrong and to administer justice are all robbers, from Vali and Pasha down to the smallest Mudir and Kaimakam. They are brothers in robbery. You have seen with your own eyes how the Vali of Erzeroum, instead of sending chains with which to hang such a noted robber as Fattah Bey, sends him a fine horse as a gift. A gift to a criminal who has flooded our entire province with blood and tears. When the Vali, the governor of the province does this, who is left to whom we can make known our sufferings? Only God is left, but even God does not hear our voice. Our sins are many."
The son made no reply, so the father continued: "We are Armenians. God's curse is written upon our foreheads. We have torn down our dwelling with our own hands. Dissension, disagreement, envy, and enmity, and many other evils have nestled in our hearts,: and we are suffering for our sins. The Kurd is not to blame. If we were agreed, if we were brave, the Kurd, the lazy, ignorant Kurd could not harm us."
He asked his son to light his pipe once more, and as he did so, his son said: "We are six brothers, Father. If you had given us a sign today, we six could have driven Fattah Bey and his horsemen from our home, and they would not have crossed our doorsill with such insolence."
"I know it, my son. But what would be the gain? You would have fought them; you might have killed one or two, or even many of them, but soon the whole tribe of Kurds would pour down upon us and would have laid us level with the dust. What Armenian would come to our aid? Not one. Many might rejoice. That is the way Armenians are. But the Kurds are not so. If you kill one, the whole tribe rises to avenge his blood. The blood of one member of a tribe is the blood of the whole tribe. They all seem to be children of one family. But is there such a unity among us? Each man bears his own burden; each man thinks only of himself, let come to others what may. What does he care as long as he is comfortable, and no one touches him. The fools don't understand that it must be one for all and all for one."
Old Khacho was not a man of learning, but life, experience and affairs had taught him much. His naturally vigorous intellect had developed under the storm and stress of life, and there sometimes appeared as much wisdom in his observations as in those of persons who devoted their lives to the study of human behavior. He continued to speak: "There is no remedy. We are obliged to work for and feed our enemy. We must keep the friendship of those who rob us. It is true, Fattah Bey has robbed us, but, still we cannot refuse his friendship, false as it is."
"Why?" asked his son.
"The reason is that by being friends with a great robber we escape from the hands of the lesser robbers. Now other tribes, knowing that Fattah Bey is on good terms with us, dare not touch our flocks and herds, or if they should steal anything, he will find it and return it to us."
"What is the good of that?" replied his son. "It all comes to the same thing. Fattah Bey gives us an egg but he gets a horse in exchange. He will not let another Kurd steal a sheep from us, but when he needs it he takes a hundred liras from us. We are his milk cows which he keeps and protects only in order that he may have our milk."
"That is true, my son," replied the father, "but we must remember that our ancestors, long years ago, taught the Armenian to keep his head on his shoulders in that way. I have read no books, but a bishop at the monastery at lutch Kilisah once told me that every time enemies have attacked our land, the Armenians, instead of meeting them with sword and weapon, have met them with rich gifts -- with trays full of gold. They taught us to bribe our enemies instead of fighting them. They taught us to give away our possessions to save our heads."
"But we need not continue to perform the mistakes of our ancestors forever," interrupted the son.
"It is very difficult to correct a wrong of longstanding. It has been repeated for thousands of years, and many more will be required to correct it. Go tell the people that we should deal differently with our enemies; that they are men like ourselves; that their bodies are not made of iron; that when they come armed to rob us, we shall use our own weapons against them. Preach to them continually. Do you think they will understand you? They will consider you a fool, and laugh at you."
The son made no reply. He saw a truth in his father's words, which was incontrovertible. But at the same time he wondered whether it was impossible to change the fixed beliefs of a people, so he asked:
"Suppose our fathers have walked in that path, should we not try to teach the people that they are on the wrong path?"
"It should be done, but who will do it? Those who have accepted the responsibility of educating, instructing and directing our people should be the ones to do it. Our priests and our bishops should do it, but they preach, 'If they smite thee on one cheek, turn the other also to them'. The school teachers should do it, but there is not one fit to do it in the entire province."
"I cannot agree with you, father," replied his son.
"Why does the Kurd who has neither priest nor bishop nor teacher, know how man should treat man? Who taught him that without weapons a man is like a blind hen, that will give its head to whoever comes along?"
"The Kurd has no priest, bishop, or teacher, it is true," replied his father, "but he has a sheik, and the sheik, although he is his spiritual leader, bears arms himself, and goes to plunder unarmed people along with his people. He never preaches that these things are sins. But what do our priests teach?"
The son was silent. His father continued: "There is one comfort in all these misfortunes, that much as they carry away, our granaries remain full but the Kurd goes hungry."
"Do you know this proverb, Father? The thief can build no house for himself, but destroys the house of the houseowner. Although the Kurd does not plow nor reap, he has no bread in his house; he is always hungry, but snatching bread from the industrious Armenian, he leaves him hungry also. Do not quote us as an example to the contrary. Think how many Armenians have been impoverished by Kurds who lack food.
"That is true, my son. But there is another thing to notice. See how many sheep are killed; how many are lost, but still they increase and multiply and become great flocks. While the wolf, although be destroys an devours the sheep, still is always hungry, and never multiplies. Do you ever see a large pack of wolves? The wolf is a wild beast. Today he seizes a sheep, eats and is filled, but he doesn't know where he shall find his next meal. He must always be on the hunt, but he doesn't find his prey every time. One who lives by hunting is full one day and empty the next. The Kurd is the wolf, while we are the sheep."
This was the old man's explanation of a bloodless combat.
"I think, Father," said his son, "that if the sheep had no shepherd or protectors, the wolves would not leave a sheep alive, and no flocks of sheep would be formed. It is true, we are sheep, but without shepherds. Since our condition is thus, there remains only one way for us to escape from the wolves. We must have teeth and claws like them."
Chapter IX
On the side of the highway leading from Erzeroum to Bayazid, which was the only caravan route from Trebizond to Persia, were pitched the tents of a detached Kurdish tribe. From the number of tents which covered the greater portion of a large, grassy plain, one could estimate the size of the tribe. Herds of horses, sheep, and cows scattered on the surrounding hills gave evidence that this pastoral tribe enjoyed wealth and prosperity.
On his return from the house of old Khacho, it was quite dark when Fattah Bey, who was the chief of his tribe, reached these tents with his followers.
In front of some of the tents the evening fires were still burning with food being cooked or milk heating and their flames threw a glow over the scene.
When the Bey's company approached, the dogs set up a loud barking and here and there were heard the subdued voices of the night-watchmen giving word to each other of the approach of horsemen. One of the Bey's followers spoke to the watchmen, telling them who they were.
The Bey rode up to the tent in which was lodged the guest who had brought him the gift from the Vali. He was a middle-aged Turkish officer, tried and tempered in all manner of deceit. He had at one time held the office of Mudir in the region of Van, but had been removed from the office because of taking excessive bribes.
"You have kept me waiting a long time," said the Mudir, rising as the Bey entered his tent. "I had intended to bid you farewell tonight."
"The head of the Sheik be my witness that you are a very impatient guest," answered the Bey with a laugh. "We have not seen enough of each other yet. Why do you hasten " I hope you are not tired of my tent?"
"Not at all! Your hospitality is most agreeable to me. If I am ever taken to Paradise (of which I haven't much hope) I wish it might be to your dwelling there! Nevertheless I must beg that you allow me to set out in the morning."
"Well, well! I have learned this much of the characteristics of the Osmanlis. They are accustomed to the smell of the cities, and to lying on soft couches from morning till evening. But what is there in this desert? It is my fault, I admit. I haven't entertained you as I ought. What could I do? You don't care to hunt; You don't care to ride; and there is no other amusement to offer in our hills."
The Mudir replied, again employing Turkish compliments. "The light of your countenance is above all other delights for me. I shall ever consider myself fortunate for having been privileged to become acquainted with you. But remember, Bey, that your servant is not an independent creature. His time is not at his own command. The Vali set ten days as the limit of my leave of absence."
"I will write to the Vali that I detained you. You know how highly he thinks of me."
"I know that the Vali would give up both his eyes rather than you. He treasures your words as if they were pearls. He said in the presence of all, that the Sultan has no chieftain so brave and faithful as Fattah Bey; and for this reason he has proposed your name as a recipient of the Majidieh of the First Order".
The Bey smiled disdainfully, and replied: "I don't care much for those things called decorations. They are mere ornaments for women."
"Then what do you like?"
"I like gold mejidiehs."
"You shall have those too, Bey. The Vali is most generous. Don't you observe that he has placed your name on the salary list, and that you will henceforth receive a salary from the Imperial Treasury for guarding the frontier and keeping the peace in this region? He accepted your request that no Mudir nor Kaimakam be placed here but that all the command shall be vested in yourself. He has done that and he will do anything else you desire."
"I thank the Vali."
While this conversation was going on, the servants of the Bey were sitting on the ground outside the tent enjoying themselves in their own fashion. Each was relating the great deeds he had performed; how many women he had carried off, and so forth.
"Osman has stolen as many sheep as he has hairs an his head," said Omar. "You are no better yourself," retorted Osman. "You have carried off as many Armenian girls as I have sheep."
"Shapan doesn't like Armenian girls, they cry so easily," said another.
"That's so," returned Shapan. "The hearts of those creatures seem to be made of glass; if one touches them they are broken. But our women, God knows, have hearts of stone. Give them into the claws of a wolf and they won't whimper. I have no patience with women who cry."
"But there is this to be said," interrupted another Kurd who was the oldest of the number. "Those infidels never give up their cursed religion. I can't truly say that I seldom beat them, and you know I keep three. I always see them praying in secret. And there's another good thing about them, they can work like oxen and they are not such sleepyheads as our women are."
"Oh, but what lovely daughters-in-law landlord Khacho has!" exclaimed another young fellow." If their father-in-law were not our Bey's god-father, I would help myself to one of them."
This talk was interrupted by the barking of dogs and again the signals of the night watchmen were given. Several of the men took up their weapons and ran in the direction from which the sound was heard.
As they approached. they heard groans issuing from the darkness.
"For the love of God, take us to the Bey! We have a petition to present."
The dogs would have torn the poor fellows to pieces if the servants had not arrived in time to prevent them. It is impossible to approach the camp of the Kurds except at the risk of meeting these dogs, or the equally formidable sentries who, without warning, may thrust a spear into your side.
The strangers were a handful of men who threw themselves down on the ground outside the tent where the Bey was seated with his guest. The light of the lantern which hung in front of the tent showed them to be merchants and muleteers, one of whom had his head bandaged, another his arms, and others were wounded in other parts of their bodies, and blood was still flowing from their wounds.
The Bey, hearing the disturbance, called to one of his men, and asked to know what was the matter.
"Some merchants have come to make a complaint; they say their caravan has been robbed," was the reply.
An expression of displeasure crossed the face of the Bey, but concealing his inward uneasiness as well as he could, he commanded them to be brought in.
"This is a most astonishing occurrence," he said, turning to the Mudir; "such irregularities have never taken place on 'my land'." The Bey liked to call the territory occupied by his tribe 'his land', while really 'not a handful of that soil belonged to any Kurd whatsoever, for they shifted about from place to place like gypsies.
"How did it happen that their caravan was robbed?" he continued.
"Robbery occurs everywhere," replied the Mudir, tranquilly. "There is no land without robbers. Devils entered Heaven itself. There isn't a day when complaints are not brought to the Vali at Erzeroum."
The Bey, encouraged by the reassuring tone of the Mudir, resumed: "Believe me, Mudir, the head of the Sheik be my witness that I have kept these regions so well that even the birds of the air do not dare to cross 'my land'. I am amazed! What devil can it be who robbed these poor fellows?"
The wounded and bloodstained men now entered. One of them who was able to stand, advanced and addressed the Bey. "We have come to kiss the dust of your feet, Bey Effendi. We recognize only God above, and you below. For the love of the Prophet, help us! We are poor merchants, our caravan has been robbed; most of our company has been killed and you see the remainder here before your eyes. They are mortally wounded and cannot live long. The robbers have taken all we had; they left us nothing."
The wounded men, unable to remain on their feet, sat in front of the tent, those who were able to do so, stood.
"Where were you robbed?" asked the Bey.
"Here among the mountains not far away. The robbers led our caravan out of the highway, drove us into a lonely valley, and there they bound us hand and foot and threw us into a ditch. After that they began to rip up our bales and they took all that was of any value."
"What time of day was it?"
"About noon. We remained bound in that ditch until evening. God had mercy upon us. One of our number succeeded in untying his hands and then he released ours also. if it had not been for that we should have remained in that ditch to die of hunger and to be the prey for wild beasts."
"Where are you from? Where was the caravan from, and where was it going?" the Bey continued.
"Your servants are Persian merchants. The caravan was made up at Trebizond, being composed of goods brought by ship from Constantinople. We had passed through Erzeroum and as far as this place, in safety, and were going to continue our journey and go through Bayazid on to Persia, but here we were overtaken by misfortune. Our caravan was loaded with the most costly merchandise, but nothing was left. The robbers took away what they pleased and burned the remainder."
"The bead of the Sheik be my witness, this is the first time I ever heard of such cruelty," exclaimed the Bey, turning to the Mudir, who had been an attentive listener to the conversation, and who now began to question the men.
"Were you able to see the faces of the robbers?" he asked.
"How could we?" replied the spokesman. "Their faces were concealed, and only their eyes were visible, and when they seized us they bound our eyes; then they began to open our bales; but we saw this much that they were Kurds."
"How many of them were there?" asked the Mudir, once more.
"About fifty."
"In what direction did they go?"
"We could not see. As I said, they had bound our eyes, as well as our hands and feet and had thrown us into a ditch."
"That is enough," angrily interrupted the Bey, to stop the Mudir's questioning. "I understand." Then turning to the merchants, he said: "Now go and rest. If the robbers are from our region, I will try to find them, and you shall not lose a sliver of anything. But if they come from some other quarter, I can find that out also. Be at rest. I will not excuse injustice perpetrated on 'my land'."
The merchants bowed, and called down on the Bey a hundred blessings.
"Gurbo," called the Bey to one of his servants, "take these men to your tent and treat them well, as you would treat guests from Heaven. Call the physician quickly that he may cure their wounds. I commit them to you. If they complain of you, you shall not escape punishment."
The merchants blessed him once more, and bowed themselves out of his presence.
After they had taken their departure, the Bey turned to the Mudir, with these words: "See this now! Behold such events have taken place! Can you tell, my noble friend, what Evil One has taken their goods? I am confident that they cannot be the Kurds of our region. I am a terror to robbers. For fear of me no one dares to do such things, but they come from other places, often from Persia, and rob in our territory. Who can tell a Persian from a Kurd when they wear the same dress? That often happens and causes us much annoyance. Nevertheless I must try to find these robbers. Ahmeh!" he said, turning to his cousin who had been sitting there in silence all the time. "Go this moment taking with you twenty horsemen. First go to the spot where the caravan was robbed; observe the prints of the horses' feet, and question the shepherds you may meet; in a word use every means to discover the rascals. I will not forgive robbery committed on 'my land'; that touches my honor."
Ahmeh set out by night to perform the Bey's bidding.
"Ahmeh has a dog's keenness of scent," remarked the Bey. "If the robbers have not gone far he will surely find them."
"No doubt," replied the Mudir, significantly.
It was already late. The Bey ordered supper to be served. They ate and drank in comparative silence. After promising to start the Mudir on his journey in the morning, the Bey bade him goodnight and retired to his own tent.
The Mudir lay awake a long time, thinking of many things.
Chapter X
The Bey's private tent consisted of two parts, one of which was allotted to his women, while the other was his sitting room. The material of which the tent was made was plain, like that usually used by pastoral Kurds. It was made of strips of black sacking, woven by his maid servants. The Bey entered and ordered the servant to secure the tent and then leave. Sitting there alone he seemed to be waiting for someone. The lantern suspended from the ridgepole gave only a dim, smoky light. No sound was heard from the women's side. They all appeared to be asleep.
Soon Gurbo appeared, the Kurd to whose care the Bey had committed the merchants who had been robbed.
"Are your guests comfortable?" asked the Bey, "with a meaningful look.
"Thanks to my lord's kindness, they are quite comfortable," replied the crafty Kurd. "They ate and drank, blessed you and went to sleep. Perhaps they will find their lost goods in their dreams."
"The dead do not return from Hades," added the Bey. "Well, where did you hide the goods?"
"Over in our village, in the house of lame Alo."
"Were they fine things?"
"God never gave such rich stuff into our hands before, Bey; gold, silver, velvets and cashmere; in short, everything you can wish."
"Didn't anyone see you enter the village?"
"Who should see us? There is no one left in the village. They have all gone to the mountain pastures, and only a few Armenian families are left; and like blind hens they don't dare to step out of their huts after dark, but lock their doors, cover their heads, and go to sleep."
"Where did you hide the stuff?"
"In lame Alo's house, as I told you. There are a hundred holes in that old wolf's den. We piled the stuff into one of them and locked the doors. I have brought you the keys," he said, handing the Bey two keys.
"Alo is faithful to us; it is not the first time he has served us in this way," observed the Bey.
After telling what disposition he had made of the booty, Gurbo began to tell how they had pounced upon the caravan, how they had plundered it, what prowess they had shown, and so on.
"Well done, Gurbo! I have always had a high opinion of your bravery," said the Bey. "When we get rid of that scamp (meaning the Mudir) I will divide the booty and you shall each receive your proper share."
Gurbo bowed, but made no response.
"But one thing troubles me," continued the Bey, impressively. I didn't wish this business done while that man was here."
"You mean the Mudir?"
"Yes, the Mudir."
"That's no harm!" said Gurbo, laughing. "We will send the Mudir from here loaded with gifts and honors, so that he will carry away a good opinion of us. But we will send a couple of horsemen after him, and before he reaches Erzeroum they will cut off his head and bring back the gifts we gave. Then the Mudir will not be able to go and tell the Vali what he must suspect. Isn't that a good plan?"
The Bey did not reply immediately. He was meditating. "The murder must necessarily be done beyond the boundaries of our land, near Erzeroum," continued Gurbo. "Then the sin will be far from us, and no one can connect us with the occurrence."
"It is not necessary," said the Bey, after a few moments' reflection. "If he reports us to the Vali, I will find some other way to avoid punishment."
Then Gurbo, as if he had just thought of it. put his hand in his bosom, and drew out a casket wrapped in a handkerchief. The casket was of silver, richly ornamented. He gave the casket to the Bey, saying: "I didn't leave this in Alo's house. It was such a small object I was afraid it might get lost."
The Bey opened the casket. In it there were arranged in order various ornaments for women; rings and bracelets of gold enriched with precious stones.
"Their owner was a Jew, who had ordered those things made in Constantinople for a Persian prince who was to marry a Princess this winter," said Gurbo, adding with a sneer, "The poor bride is robbed of her jewels. The Jew begged that we let him keep the things. I gave him a blow that stopped his noise." With Gurbo this meant that he had killed him.
"You may go now," said the Bey. "Pay good attention to your guests. We will decide in the morning what must be done next."
The leader of the band of robbers bowed and took his departure.
After Gurbo departed the Bey sat for a long time examining the beautiful objects before him. He could not have explained why those bright jewels attracted him so greatly. "I will send this casket to the Vali at Erzeroum. I can find no gift more suitable than this," he meditated. Suddenly he changed his mind. He recollected a person dearer to him than any one else. "No, no, this lovely necklace must adorn her beautiful neck; those priceless bracelets are worthy only of her matchless arms, and those rings for her dainty fingers," he said with deep feeling.
His savage soul was under the spell of love; it was changed and became more tender. Wild beasts are rendered more fierce when they begin to love, but man is softened, and in so much the Bey differed from the beasts.
I must keep those ornaments for her, only for her." In his absorption he had forgotten himself, speaking these words aloud, and he was not aware that someone had raised the curtain of the women's quarters, and entering had silently stationed herself behind him. It was his wife Koorsit famed throughout the region for her beauty. But at this moment she towered over him like a pale and angry goddess, or an evil spirit about to destroy him. He looked up and was transfixed with terror.
For a few moments the two faced each other in silence like gladiators debating how to attack each other. The silver casket with its brilliant jewels still remained open before the Bey. The woman gave them a mere glance and crossed to the opposite side of the tent and seated herself upon a cushion. Those objects which would have excited the desire of most women, especially Kurdish women who are like children in their fondness for shining things, seemed to be no more to her than bits of broken glass whose sharp points pierced the heart.
The Bey, regarding her anxiously, said: "Why are you angry? I will give you part of these also."
"I need nothing but a shroud; that is all I need," answered the woman, with a trembling voice.
The murky light of the lantern fell directly upon her pale face more beautiful in its anger, like that of an avenging angel.
"What is the matter, Koorsit?" asked the Bey gently. "I hope you have only had a bad dream."
"I do not dream. I have seen what has been going on with my own eyes."
The Bey knew very well that his crimes, and robberies, and bloodshed were not the occasion of his wife's agitation. For he knew that Koorsit as well as every other Kurdish woman, would give her husband no peace if he should cease from stealing and plundering. Therefore there must be some other reason for her anger. Koorsit was the Bey's only wife, although according to Moslem law he was not forbidden to have several wives; but there were two reasons why he had not taken others. One, because the Kurds are few in number, and beautiful girls rare; and the other, that Koorsit was the daughter of the Kurdish Sheik, an influential man whose spiritual jurisdiction extended over all the tribes, and one word from him would be sufficient to remove the strongest chieftain from his position. And the Bey was beholden to him for his position. To add a second wife to his harem would be to offer an insult to the Sheik. The Bey thought of all this as he sat and studied his wife's sad countenance. The Bey saw the practical bearing of this reasoning, but made no account of its moral aspect. It would be impossible to displace his wife because she was a sheik's daughter, but when he turned his eyes towards the gaudy trinkets, again his fancy pictured the dainty creature for whom he coveted them.
He very well understood the reason of his wife's anger. Now the savage rage, which is found in wild beasts when they are smitten with love, filled his heart.
"Koorsit," he said menacingly, "what is it you demand?"
"I demand that our marriage vows be severed," she said firmly. I will not be your wife any longer. I will mount a horse and return to my father's house in the morning."
"Why?"
"I do not consent to have the wifehood of a sheik's daughter shared with a vile Armenian girl."
"I will keep her as your hand-maid."
"I have plenty of hand-maids."
"But I love this one."
"Love her as much as you please; but that love will cost you dear."
"What are you going to do?"
"I know."
"You threaten me, do you, you wretch! I will crush you under my feet like a potter's vessel."
"Don't you move from your place! Do you see this?" cried the woman -showing him the revolver she held in her hand. She had sprung to her feet.
The Bey was terrified. He had not anticipated such a bold step on the part of his wife. They stood confronting each other in a state of suspense, she with her revolver pointing at his breast, and he with his hand upon the hilt of his dagger.
At that moment the sound of an infant crying was heard from the other side of the partition. And the mother hastened toward the crying baby, saying only: "I will yet have my revenge."
Chapter XI
Goodman Khacho's wife had died upon giving birth to Stephanie. Khacho had not taken another wife, although it was not customary for men in his village to remain widowers. In the management of the household Sara, the wife of the oldest son, assumed control, and she was famed throughout the village for her wise management and good sense. She often went to the old man for advice, and all the household accepted her decisions.
One day, when all the family were busy with their usual occupations, a servant-maid, who had been to the fountain for water whispered to her, "A Kurdish girl is asking for you outside."
"Tell her to come here," said Sara, "You see I am busy."
"She will not come in. She says she has a very important message," replied the maid.
Sara went out. The girl was standing near the gate. She was a tall, slender girl with a dark skin, but not unattractive in appearance.
"Let us go away, over to that tree. No one will disturb us there," begged the girl, pointing to the spot.
Sara, noticing the girl's bright eyes began to feel suspicious of her. Why should this wild creature wish to take her to a distant tree where no one would be likely to pass? What business had she with her? "Come in," urged Sara, taking her by the hand. "We will go into the house. If you do not wish others to hear you, our house has many secret spots."
The stranger accepted the invitation of the mistress of the house without protest. Sara led her to a spot in the garden shaded by willows.
They sat down near each other on the grass.
"Now tell me, my dear," she continued, clasping the girl's hand in a friendly way. "What have you to tell me?"
"Koorsit Hanum sent Chavo to you," began the girl. "You surely know Koorsit, don't you? She is Chavo's mistress. She doesn't beat Chavo, and she always gives her her old clothes saying, 'You may have these, Chavo, you are a good girl.' But who would call them old clothes? They are quite new, don't you see? The mistress gave them all to me. She wore them one day, and the next day they were old for her." And indeed the Kurdish girl was dressed quite neatly.
But Sara could not imagine what all this irrelevant talk had to do with the message to her. The girl spoke in the third person. Sara understood so much, that the girl's name was Chavo, and that she was the hand-maid of Koorsit Hanum, whom she knew to be the wife of Fattah Bey, the friend of the family. But why had the lady sent this half-witted maid to her? This puzzled her not a little. Sara allowed her to make known the purpose of her visit in her own fashion.
"So your name is Chavo? What a pretty name!" she said.
"My mother named me Chavahir, (a corruption of Jevahir, or Jewel) but my mistress calls me Chavo. She says Chavahir is too long."
"I will call you as your mistress does. Chavo, my daughter, what did your mistress say when she sent you to me?"
The girl was not to be trapped into giving a direct answer. Her brain seemed to be confused with too many ideas, and she didn't know which to utter first.
She replied, "Chavo's mistress quarreled with the master last night. Don't look at me like that. Chavo isn't a child. She is very smart. When the mistress quarreled with the master, Chavo was hidden behind the curtains and heard it all. Oh, how angry the mistress was. She tore her hair and rent her clothes. Alas those clothes! Even Chavo can't wear them."
Noting that the light-minded girl was very fond of fine clothing, Sara said: "Surely Chavo knows how to sew. She will mend them and then wear them."
"Sew? Don't I sew? See these fingers!" and she exhibited the fingers of her right hand. "Just see! How many times Chavo's mother pricked these fingers saying, 'May you perish if you do not learn how to sew!'
"I see you are a very smart girl; now tell me why the master quarreled with the lady."
"The master said: 'I must have a new wife.' Isn't that a sin? Who is there like Koorsit? And what is the use of a new wife?"
Little by little Sara was getting hold of the facts. "There is no one to compare with Koorsit," she replied. "But tell me Chavo what new wife does the master wis
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Bayazid was besieged.
"An old granddad became a frog,
Became a frog and went to sea;
Drew up some sand from out the sea;
The sand it turned to shining gold.
The gold he spent to buy a goat,
Oh, such a hobbling, scurvy goat:
Goat, goat, goat my love,
Bless you, goat my love:
Oh, tell me why, oh, tell me why,
You scurvy are, and hobble so?"
Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 11