Archag, the Little Armenian

ARCHAG
The
LITTLE ARMENIAN

OTHER VOLUMES IN THE
“LITTLE
SCHOOLMATES” SERIES

Edited by FLORENCE CONVERSE

[IN SUNNY SPAIN] Katherine Lee Bates

UNDER GREEK SKIES Julia D. Dragoumis

A BOY IN EIRINN Padraic Colum

THE LAIRD OF GLENTYRE Emma M. Green

ELSBETH Margarethe Müller

GENEVIÈVE Laura Spencer Portor

KATRINKA: The Story of a Russian Child Helen E. Haskell

TREASURE FLOWER: A Child of Japan Ruth Gaines

THE VILLAGE SHIELD: A Story of Mexico Ruth Gaines and Georgia Willis Read

A BOY OF BRUGES: A Story of Belgian Child Life Emile and Tita Cammaerts

THE CART OF MANY COLORS: A Story of Italy Nannine La Villa Meiklejohn

Archag Rides Towards Mount Ararat

ARCHAG
The
LITTLE ARMENIAN

Translated from the French of
CHARLES H. SCHNAPPS
BY
MARGARET P. WATERMAN
ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 Fifth Avenue

Copyright 1920, by
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

The frontispiece is from a drawing in colors by Margaret Ely Webb.

The black and white drawings are by B. F. Williamson from photographs taken in Armenia by Charlotte F. Grant.

A Letter to the One Who Reads This Book

Dear Schoolmate:

This new story in our series is about a people whose name you heard often during the Great War; perhaps you even sent some of your own pennies across the ocean to help them; for no one, not gallant little Belgium itself, suffered more in the war than did the Armenians. We sometimes think of them as the Belgians of the East, for their resistance delayed the advance of Turkish battalions, just as Belgium’s brave stand prevented the first onrush of the Germans; and the Turkish revenge has been more horrible than the German.

The bulletins of the Near East Relief Committee, which raised money for food and clothing and medicine and helpers in Western Asia, tell us how the Turks tried to annihilate the Armenians, and how, among the four million Armenians, Syrians, Jews, Greeks, and Persians who survived, four hundred thousand were orphans. In those first four months after the armistice, they were still dying every day, by hundreds, of starvation and disease, they were homeless and naked. Miss B. S. Papazian, an Armenian, has written a little book about her people, “The Tragedy of Armenia,” in which she says: “The Armenians of Turkey to the number of about a million, old and young, rich and poor, and of both sexes, had been collectively drowned, burned, bayoneted, starved, bastinadoed, or otherwise tortured to death, or else deported on foot, penniless and without food, to the burning Arabian deserts.” The whole story of their sufferings is too terrible for children to read; yet, American children are not willing to shut their eyes and ears to the sorrows of their brothers and sisters, whether in France or Belgium, or close at home in our American city slums, or far over seas in Asia Minor. I wonder how many boys and girls who read this letter, adopted a French orphan, or gave a little refugee a merry Christmas? And how many had a share in feeding and clothing and educating some little forlorn Armenian child?

But this story of Archag, and his life at the missionary school, is not in our Schoolmate Series merely because Armenians are a persecuted people whom American children ought to love and to succor; it is here also because there are a good many Armenians in America, and more are coming, whose children will be American citizens in another twenty years. The Armenians, like our own Puritan forefathers, came here to escape religious persecution; so those of us who happen to be descended from the early settlers in New England ought to have a strong fellow-feeling for this other race of Christians who have suffered for the sake of their religion and have hoped to find religious freedom here with us.

The Armenian Church, for which Armenians suffer martyrdom in our enlightened twentieth century, is one of the most ancient of the Churches of Christendom. Its founder was St. Gregory, called the Illuminator, who received a heavenly vision and built a little chapel, in A. D. 303, on the spot on which the vision came to him. It was this Gregory who converted King Tiridates of Armenia to Christianity, and it was King Tiridates who proclaimed Christianity the State religion of Armenia, some years before the Emperor Constantine made it the state religion of Rome. The Armenian Church is a democratic church, for the clergy in the villages are appointed and paid by their own congregations, and often in poor places the priest and his wife work in the fields with the peasants. The Armenian’s Church is the true home of his spirit. He has no country of his own, for the region which we think of as Armenia was, before the Great War, divided among three nations, Russia, Turkey, and Persia, and arbitrarily ruled by them. The Armenians were a subject people; but in their religion they were free, and they have endured torture and death for the sake of this dear freedom.

According to one of their own writers, Aram Raffi, the name “Armenia” first appears in the fifth century before Christ, but the Armenians themselves have a name of their own, which they like. They call themselves “Hai,” and their country “Hayastan,” because they have a tradition that they are descended from “Haik,” the son of Torgom, great-grandson of Japheth, Noah’s son. If you will look at your map of Asia Minor, you will find that Mount Ararat, on which Noah’s Ark rested after the flood went down, is at the meeting place of the three divisions of Armenia, the Russian division, the Persian, and the Turkish; and it is not strange that with this beautiful snow mountain soaring over their enslaved country, the Armenians should trace their ancestry back so directly to Noah.

It was during the latter part of the last century that the Turkish Government set the Kurds on to massacre the Armenians. The massacres of 1895–96, the massacre at Van in 1908, and those at Adana and in Cilicia, in 1909, were all carried out by the consent of the Turkish authorities. And because of these persecutions the Armenians began to leave Asia Minor for America.

The Kurds, who committed the atrocities under the instigation of the Turks, are a semi-nomad race, living part of the year in tents; a picturesque, wild, ungovernable people, practicing a sort of highway robbery as a trade, and a sort of Mohammedanism as a religion. The Armenians, on the other hand, are farmers and merchants, thrifty, intelligent, peaceful, eager for education, and, as you have read, devoted Christians. It is not strange that two peoples so different in habits and temperament should find it difficult to live together, as neighbors; and the Turks, who are jealous of the intelligence and industry and ability of the Armenians, and hate them also for their Christianity, have not scrupled to stir up the Kurds against them. What is still worse, they have compelled the Armenians to live unarmed among their armed and fierce Kurdish enemies. We sometimes hear the Armenians called cowardly, but if we had to live unarmed among a hostile race who carried good modern rifles, we, too, might be called cowards.

No; we need not think of Armenians simply as a down-trodden and feeble folk, who have run away helplessly from danger, and to whom Americans must be compassionate and charitable. They have something to give us, as well. Their diligence is a good gift; they work hard, and they are intelligent in their work. Their faithfulness to God is the best of gifts. And they have a great love of education. This gift, if there were no other, would win for them a place in the Schoolmate Series. In a book called “Travel and Politics in Armenia,” by Noel and Harold Buxton, published in 1914, which you may like to read some day, we get a vivid idea of the love of the Armenians for their schools. The authors say:

“There is a remarkable contrast between the villages of Armenians and the villages of Kurds. We had traveled for days in a Kurdish district, a waste of bare, sandy hills, with never a tree or any sign of cultivation. Our halting-place for lunch proved to be an Armenian village, and luscious melons were put before us, which the arid soil produces in abundance as soon as a little irrigation is applied to it. While we sat in the Khan (inn), the local schoolmaster appeared—a wonder still more remarkable than the melons, for whoever heard of a school in a Kurdish village? We seemed to be suddenly transported to a center of civilization. This educational activity is beyond all praise. Here was a man of some ability, prepared to live a lonely life in an isolated village, for the sake of his nation and the younger generation.”

They go on to tell us of the school system, which is voluntary and without Government aid. There is—or perhaps since the War, one should say was—a National Committee for Education which sat at Constantinople; the teachers were paid by the Committee, and there were School inspectors for each district, in Turkish Armenia. Pupils who could afford it paid for their schooling, but those who were poor were not kept out by their poverty. Does not this sound very modern, and American, and democratic? Surely, these are people who will make good Americans.

And going to school in Armenia was an exciting adventure, before the War. Listen to the story which the Buxtons tell of a Secondary Boys’ School founded more than fifty years ago at Varag, by an Armenian Bishop, a pioneer in modern education in Armenia:

“At the time of the massacres (1909) masters and boys had to fly to the mountains, and while they were absent, the buildings were completely destroyed by fire. Nevertheless, an entire reconstruction was undertaken. The Church, which happily was not destroyed, occupies one side of the courtyard and the new buildings occupy the other three; a second courtyard is now nearing completion (1914). A second attempt was made less than three years ago to despoil this institution. The attacking party, about a hundred strong, was repelled by five Armenian revolutionaries, aided no doubt by the ‘young blood’ of the college. Now (1914) there are seventy boys and seven teachers, all laymen. The system is pre-eminently practical. The pupils are destined for teaching, and since it is considered part of a village schoolmaster’s duty in Armenia to be able to assist peasants in agricultural matters, thorough instruction is given in fruit, vegetable, and poultry culture, dairy work, and general gardening. The school grounds form a delightful oasis of irrigated lands in the midst of surrounding desert. The school printing press was stolen by the Government and the compositor abducted; but a more modern machine has taken its place. Every boy takes his share, out of school hours, in carpentry and house-work. The court-yard forms a fine play-ground, and here, having mentioned Boy Scouts, I found myself surrounded by an ardent crowd, thirsting for scout lore, and begging to be enrolled at once as ‘tenderfeet.’”

What may have been the fate of this boys’ school at Varag, since 1914, I dread to imagine. As it was a native school, there is no mention of it, so far as I know, in the reports of American Missionary Schools. We can only hope that some of those seventy boys and their seven masters still live, and will one day take heart to build up the old school again.

Besides the native schools, there are the schools and colleges established in Asia Minor by American Missionaries, and to these also the Armenians flock. The author of “Archag” has laid some of the scenes of his story in one of these famous missionary schools, the Central Turkey College at Aintab, and has given us a lively picture of the ardent young Armenians at their games and their studies. Ever since “Tom Brown at Rugby,” school stories have been the fashion, and it is reassuring to see how curiously akin schoolboys are, all the world over, whether they be English lads at Rugby, or Oriental youngsters at Aintab. Beneath their fezzes and zoubouns, our Armenian hero and his friends are genuine boys at heart, with a boy’s sense of honor and love of good sport. The picture of the school, too, is one for Americans to be proud of, with its devoted teachers, its high intellectual standards, and its Christian atmosphere. And its record during the War has been very fine. In the Report of the American Board of Missions, 1918, I read that the four missionaries who were able to stay there “have all been carrying a heavy burden for, unlike many of our stations to the north which were practically depopulated, Aintab has had an ever-increasing number of refugees to care for. At times the attitude of the local officials was distinctly hostile and the danger of further massacre was great, but the opportune arrival of a British force on December 15, 1918, saved the day and already there are signs of recovery. Christian services are being attended by great crowds. The Mission paper, Rahnuma, is being published by the College press, and has practically become the official organ of the British Commander. Schools will doubtless open soon.”

But if schools and schoolboys are much alike, the world over, vacations in Armenia are very different from American holidays. No boys’ camps for Archag and his friends! Their adventures are much more thrilling than your summer hikes and canoeings. There are no patriot-outlaws in our mountains. But I must stop, or I shall be telling you Archag’s story, and that would not be fair. Only this, let me say: our author, like all good story-tellers, uses his imagination to make his story come alive; he embroiders, as the French say, upon his facts; but if you will read in the “New York Evening Post,” for Saturday, November 29, 1919, the account of Antranik, the Armenian patriot who came to this country to ask help for his countrymen, you will find that fiction is no more romantic than fact, in Asia Minor; and you will find Antranik,—this very same hero, I think,—mentioned in our story.

Read the story, dear Schoolmate, and make friends with these Armenian boys, who suffer so steadfastly for their country and their God.

Affectionately yours,

Florence Converse.

ARCHAG
The
LITTLE ARMENIAN

CHAPTER I

A DAY AT SCHOOL

The boys had just finished a grammar lesson, and as a reward for paying attention their master was reading them a bit of history. Jousif hodja (schoolmaster) was a tall young man of twenty, very slight, and frail in appearance, with dreamy black eyes. Perfect silence reigned in the smoky old schoolroom while he read in a strong, clear voice:

“The day of battle had come at last![1] Our men, commanded by Vartan the Mamigonian, had pitched their tents that night on the plain of Avaraīr. The snowy peak of Ararat was just becoming visible in the early light of dawn, when a sentinel burst into Vartan’s tent, crying: ‘The Persians! The Persians! they are coming!’ The chief went out from his tent and climbed a hill around which we had made our camp. His piercing eye quickly distinguished a black mass moving slowly, like surging waves, along the Tabriz road. From time to time the silence of the plain was broken by a dull threatening sound like the distant rumbling of thunder.... Vartan was fighting in the thick of the fray; he seemed all unconscious of his wounds and of the blood streaming from them; in despair he saw his soldiers, overpowered by numbers, fast giving way. The ground was strewn with the dead bodies of Armenians; the cries of the wounded were drowned by the yells of the Persians. Vartan, with several brave followers, had made his way almost up to Khan Mustapha, general of the hostile forces, when a Kurd rushed upon him and dealt him a violent blow with his scimitar, striking the back of his neck. Stunned by the shock, the Mamigonian sank to earth, and was immediately surrounded by a dozen devils; one cut off his legs, another, leaning over him with a grimace, thrust his cutlass into the breast of the ill-starred hero——”

“But I don’t want him to die,” sobbed a boy of twelve. “Oh, master, why did God let him?”

Some of the older boys began to laugh, but Jousif hodja sternly silenced them, and going to the child, said to him:

“Come, Archag, quiet yourself; envy our Vartan, if you will, admire him, but don’t give him pity. His martyr’s death has sustained and fortified thousands of Armenians; even to-day, after so many centuries of oppression and sorrow, to whom should we lift our eyes if not to our national hero? We all love him, and in the hour of danger we shall fight and die as worthy sons of Vartan.”

At these words the child gradually became quiet, dried his tears and said:

“I want to follow his example.”

The master stroked Archag’s black curls; then, the bell having already rung, he dismissed his pupils with the benediction. In the twinkling of an eye the boys had put on their pretty red slippers, strapped up their books, and were running through the streets of Van, shouting, and chattering like a flock of sparrows. Archag was among the first to scamper out; he ran like a shot as far as the Cathedral, then turning at the back of the Bishop’s house, he followed a lane which led to the shore of the lake.

His parents lived outside the city in one of those flat-roofed dwellings so common in Asia Minor. His father owned a great deal of livestock, herds of sheep and goats, as well as droves of horses and camels; Archag breathed a sigh of content as he caught sight of his father’s house at a turn of the road. A young girl of sixteen was coming to meet him; it was his sister Nizam, who made a great pet of him. He threw his arms about her neck, and asked in a wheedling tone:

“Tell me, have you been making something good for my supper?”

“Fie! you greedy boy,” replied the young girl. “You think of nothing but eating. Tell me instead what you did at school to-day.”

At these words a shadow came over the child’s face.

“Oh! Nizam, to-day is Vartan’s Day, so Jousif hodja read us a description of the battle of Avaraīr. Only think! Three thousand Persians fell upon the Armenians, who had only five hundred soldiers, and they killed Vartan and all his men. Don’t you think our hero must have been like Jousif hodja?”

Nizam blushed at the name of the schoolmaster; for, to tell the truth, the two young people were secretly in love.

“Now Archag, stop; what are you talking about? Come along to supper. Mamma has been making tomato pilaaf for us.”

“Pilaaf![2] how jolly!” and Archag ran gayly toward the house. He burst into the kitchen like a gust of wind, went to his father, Boghos[3] Effendi, and kissed his hand, threw his books into a corner, took off his slippers,[4] and then sat down on the floor between his mother and his little brother Levon.

At Van, as in other remote towns in Asia Minor, chairs and tables were still objects of luxury, and were rarely seen. People just sat down on the floor.

Boghos Effendi was a tall man about forty years of age. Like his sons, he wore the zouboun, a long robe with a flannel girdle, opening over white cotton trousers; on his head he wore a turban of yellow silk. His wife, Hanna badgi,[5] the mother of our little friends, wore a brown silk dress made in European fashion. Her hair hung down over her shoulders in two long black braids. We have already made the acquaintance of pretty Nizam and Levon. Two menservants, Bedros and Krikor,[6] and an old serving woman named Gulenia, completed the family circle.

Seated around an earthenware tray,[7] each one, armed with a large spoon, dipped at will into a dish of pilaaf. On their knees they had, each one, a large piece of bread piled with olives, but this bread was quite different from ours; it was thin and flat, rather like a soft pancake than bread. For ten minutes no sound was heard but the crunching of jaws and the clatter of spoons (sounds which I would by no means advise my readers to imitate); then, before standing up, each rinsed the mouth and fingers again in a bowl of water.

HAPPY ARMENIA

After supper, Archag and Levon ran off together to the stable to say good-night to their favorite little goat. Because of the terrible cold which prevails in Asia Minor during several months of the year, the stables are built under the ground; in this way they have the advantage of being warm in winter and very cool in summer. Boghos Effendi had a stable for the horses, one shed for the sheep and another for the goats. Our two children had brought a handful of salt from the kitchen, and the pretty Belette seemed to consider it a treat. Levon amused himself by pulling the long silky hairs of the little animal, a magnificent Angora goat. They would no doubt have stayed all night with their horned friends if their mamma had not called them in to go to bed. And even when called they did not obey very promptly; it was so delightful in the stable.

When they got back to the house they took a large mattress and a thick wadded coverlet and spread them on the floor. In one corner of the room there stood a little altar with a picture of Saint Gregory the Illuminator,[8] dimly lighted by a night lamp. The two children knelt down before the picture of their patron saint to say their prayers. Then they took off their zoubouns and stockings, rolled themselves up in a quilt, and were soon fast asleep in spite of the hardness of their bed. The people of the Orient are not accustomed to iron and wooden beds like ours.

After supper Nizam had gone, as was her habit, to sit on a great rock high above the house. At her feet was spread the lake, with its marvelous frame of high mountains whose snow-crowned peaks, now flushing red in the rays of the setting sun, seemed to be in the heart of a vast fire. But the young Armenian girl had no eyes for the beauty of the landscape; she was thinking of her mother whose delicate health caused her great anxiety.

Twilight falls rapidly in the Orient, and now the jackals were yelping, and the dogs were howling in reply, and the moon, a pale yellow crescent, was reflected in the dark waters of the lake. Aroused from her reverie by the growing darkness, Nizam hurried back to the house, where her parents were waiting for her that they might close the doors. Orientals go to bed soon after the sun, and before long perfect stillness reigned in the solitary house.

[1] During the fifth century, A. D., the Persians, then dominating Armenia, were determined to crush out Christianity in the land, and to compel the people to become Zoroastrians or fire-worshipers, like themselves. But the Armenians withstood this, ready to die rather than deny their faith. Led by the valiant Prince Vartan, they fought and made a brave resistance against an enemy greatly superior in numbers. They were vanquished, and Vartan, their commander-in-chief, fell, with many of his followers, at the Battle of Avaraīr. [↑]

[2] Pilaaf, or pillau, a favorite dish of Oriental people, consists of rice boiled with mutton-fat; it is usually highly spiced, and often contains raisins or almonds. [↑]

[3] Boghos Effendi: Mr. Paul. Family names are seldom used by Armenians. [↑]

[4] Orientals always take off their shoes before entering a house. [↑]

[5] Badgi: Sister, the title commonly given to women. [↑]

[6] Bedros: Peter; Krikor: Gregory; Gulenia: Rose. [↑]

[7] In some parts of Armenia, the meal is served in the middle of the floor; the food is placed on a round tray of wood or copper, about three feet in diameter, and standing about six inches from the floor. All the food is in one dish, from which each person helps himself; the thin, soft bread can be twisted into a sort of spoon, and used to convey liquid food to the mouth, gradually disappearing with the food. There are thus no dishes to be washed. It is customary to wash the hands before and after a meal. [↑]

[8] The patron Saint of Armenia. He lived in the third century, and was the restorer of the Church in Armenia, suffering hardship and persecution for many years. The Armenian Church is very ancient, Christianity having been brought to the people in Apostolic times. [↑]

CHAPTER II

AN INTERESTING JOURNEY

Fine weather had followed the April showers, and as was his custom, Boghos Effendi was making preparations for a visit to his farm at the foot of Mount Ararat,[1] on the Persian frontier. This time, Archag was to go with his father, and the little boy was beside himself with joy. He was to be absent several months, galloping about all day on his pretty Mustang; and the Highland Farm with its great herds of horses and flocks of sheep seemed to his imagination an earthly Paradise indeed. Every morning when he woke up his first question was: “O, papa, are we going to-morrow?” He talked of nothing but this famous journey, and dreamed of it at night.

At last the longed-for day arrived. It was still dark when Hanna badgi went to wake Archag. She gave him a little shake:

“Get up quickly, my son; your father is saddling the horses already.”

In the twinkling of an eye the child was on his feet; he ran to the courtyard to wash himself in cold water, then came back to eat his breakfast. A bowl of goats’ milk, still warm, two pieces of flat bread, and some cucumbers which Nizam had gathered the evening before, were waiting for him in the kitchen. He ate heartily. His mother’s face was sad, as she sat watching him, and from time to time she stealthily wiped away a tear. Her boy was leaving her for the first time, and her heart sank as she thought of the dangers of the journey. The Persian frontier was infested by bands of Kurds, living by rapine and plunder, and as there was no mail service between Van and the villages of Ararat, she would be without news of her dear ones, and under a constant strain of anxiety.

The moment for departure had arrived. Two zaptiehs (police-officers) were to accompany Boghos Effendi; indeed the only safe way to travel in Asia Minor is with an escort of police; travelers are thus under the protection of the Government, and the brigands will not venture to attack them.

“Haīdé, Archag, make haste,” called his father, “we can’t wait for you any longer.”

The women and little Levon came out to bid the travelers a last good-by. Archag cried as he embraced them, and his mother put around his neck a medal, blessed by the Catholicos of Echmiadzin,[2] as a protection against all danger. “May our holy Virgin guard you, my dearest boy,” said she. “Don’t forget to ask her that every night.”

Mustang, Archag’s handsome Tartar stallion, was getting impatient, so his master leaped lightly on his back. The horses, exhilarated by the fresh morning air, broke into a gallop; Boghos Effendi and his son waved their handkerchiefs; one more last look, then the house disappeared behind a clump of trees.

The sun had just risen, and its first rays were gilding the blue waters of the lake. After following the shore for two hours, our travelers began to ascend toward the higher ranges of mountains. Archag was leaving Van for the first time, and his eyes were charmed by the beauty of the landscape. At this season the vegetation was wonderfully luxuriant; the horses now trod on carpets of hyacinths and wild tulips, or again, they pressed their way between hedges of yellow eglantine. Great blue-green butterflies chased each other, flitting from flower to flower. Presently the travelers entered an immense tract of pine forest, and the horses neighed with content as they sniffed the good resinous odors. Occasionally, their way was impeded by a stream, swollen to a torrent by the snows of spring. The water leaped over huge bowlders, sweeping along in its mad course the trunks of ancient pines weary of battling against the elements. At this time of year it was often difficult to find a ford, and when his horse had bravely gone breast-deep into the stream, Archag, confused by the deafening noise of the water, would be seized with dizziness, close his eyes and cling to his Mustang. But what joy to arrive safe and sound on the other side! He would dry himself in the sun, and then go on his way. Toward evening, they observed, far away to the north, an isolated cone of purest white, rising above the dark mountains which loomed up all around, and glistening in the sunlight.

“Ararat!” cried Boghos Effendi, pointing it out to his companions.

Ararat! What memories the name awakened in Archag’s mind! He gazed with awe at this storied mountain, which was said to have been the northern boundary of the earthly Paradise, and the resting-place of Noah’s Ark. Presently it vanished in the clouds, and the little boy had a fancy that now, after having bounded the Garden of Eden, it was about to become part of the heavenly Paradise.

Soon after this, they arrived at a khan (a sort of inn), and on entering the courtyard they found the place in a state of great excitement. The harem of the kaimakan (governor) of Erzeroum had just arrived, and the ladies, veiled in black from head to foot, were hurrying out of their carriages, and gliding into the house like shadows. Eunuchs followed carrying their baggage, and the sight of these supercilious-looking black men made Archag draw closer to his father. At the farther end of the courtyard there were merchants engaged in unloading their camels; they stacked against the wall great bales of rugs, woven in far-away Kurdistan, which they were taking to Trebizond. From there the Kurd rugs would go to Europe and find their places in the homes of rich people in Paris or London.

In front of the house some Gregorian priests, returning from a pilgrimage to Echmiadzin, were drinking coffee and smoking narguilehs (water-pipes). They were sitting on the ground around a mangal,[3] for in Armenia the nights are still very cold in the month of May. Boghos Effendi approached them to kiss their hands, as a mark of respect due to hadjis (pilgrims), whereupon the priests received him in a friendly way, and made room for him by their side.

Night had fallen, a dark night, with no moon. The other travelers drew near to the pleasant warmth of the mangal. There they all were: the Armenian pilgrims, the Kurd merchants, the Turkish pashas with their suite, traveling on official business, an old Persian on his way to Angora, and the camel-drivers, with their weather-stained faces, chewing balls of resin, without pause. Pretty soon, an Arab, a native of Bagdad, began to tell a story worthy of a place in “The Arabian Nights.” Except for his voice there were no sounds but the bubbling of the narguilehs or the distant cry of a hyena lying in wait for prey. Our friend Archag, sitting beside his father, with his pretty red slippers placed in front of him, heard the monotonous drone of the story-teller as if in a dream. The gurgling of a camel roused him from his drowsiness for an instant, but he soon relapsed into the blessed sleep of childhood. His father had to take him up in his arms, and lay him as he was, all dressed, on the bed which had been prepared for him.

Boghos Effendi stayed several days at Bayazid, a fortress on the Russian frontier, crowning a great rock; and here Archag was much impressed by the Tartars, with their high boots, their poniards at their side, and their tall Astrakhan caps. These men spent their evenings in wild rides about the valley below the town, flourishing their sabers above their heads, and uttering shrill cries which re-echoed from the great rocks. But the boy was beginning to grow impatient at the length of the journey, so he was very glad when his father told him that they were to leave Bayazid the next morning, and would arrive at their destination two days later.

The country now was quite barren and uncultivated; from time to time they would meet a Kurd shepherd, clad only in a sheep-skin, who cast unfriendly glances at them. Everyday, at noon, the travelers stopped near some spring to eat their luncheon; then, wearied by the long hours in the saddle, they would stretch themselves out and take a good nap, before proceeding on their journey.

This hour of quiet was the hardest part of the day for our friend Archag; he hated to sleep, and his father had strictly forbidden him to roam about. The two zaptiehs used to snore away with a good conscience, without compunction, and Krikor would respond to them with a nasal grunt very much like a pig. Usually, Archag amused himself by plucking a spear of grass and tickling the sleepers under their noses; sometimes, to give variety to his diversion, he would pinch the tips of their ears or pull their hair. Then the men would swear in their sleep, turn over, or strike out into the air with their fists, to the great amusement of the culprit. Luckily for him, they never woke up, or they would have made him pay well for his impudence.

Now, on the second day after leaving Bayazid, Archag found no amusement in his usual sport; he was bored, and began to throw stones at the cones on the pine-trees. He seldom missed his aim, and gave a shout of triumph whenever a cone fell to the ground. In the midst of this sport a slight noise above his head made him look up, and he saw a pretty brown squirrel perched on the branch of a tree. The little creature looked at him in a mocking way, then sprang to another tree, and the boy followed him softly, forgetting all his fine resolutions.

Our two companions, Archag with his nose in the air, the squirrel leaping from tree to tree, strayed farther and farther away from the encampment, and when the child, weary of his pursuit, concluded to retrace his steps, he saw that he was a long distance from the place where he had left his father. He was starting to go back at once, when he heard a low growling sound from behind a big rock, and you may imagine his terror when he saw a great brown bear making its way toward him. The child thought it was all over with him, but he did not lose his head; he recalled a story he had once read, and lay down on the ground, feigning death. His heart beat fast indeed, but the bear, after turning him over with its paws, smelt him carefully, and went on its way, heedless of the wanderer, and Archag got up and took to his heels, running to throw himself into his father’s arms. Boghos Effendi turned pale on hearing of the danger into which his child had run; but he did not scold him, for he thought that he had been punished enough.

The rest of the journey was accomplished without incident. All the shepherds came out to meet the travelers, and they made a triumphal entry into the Highland Farm.

[1] Ararat, the famous mountain, where Noah’s Ark rested, is situated near the frontiers of Russia, Persia, and Turkey. It is the highest mountain of Western Asia, and its wonderful beauty and grandeur are praised by all travelers. [↑]

[2] The Catholicos, or Patriarch, of Echmiadzin, is the Primate of the Armenian Church, and the successor of St. Gregory the Illuminator. [↑]

[3] Mangal, a receptacle in which charcoal is burned; this is the only means of heating in some parts of Asia Minor. [↑]

CHAPTER III

THE HIGHLAND FARM

The next morning, Archag rose with the dawn. He went down to the courtyard, drew a bucketful of cold water from the well, and plunged his head in it, shivering. Then he went back to the kitchen, and hastily ate his joghurt (a sort of curdled milk) which he spread on bread. His breakfast was dispatched in less than five minutes, and calling “Good morning” to his father, he rushed out of doors.

The farm of Boghos Effendi was on a plateau three or four kilometers in length, resting on the lower foothills of Ararat. The house was low but spacious, and served as a dwelling for a dozen or more shepherds. Great herds of horses and flocks of sheep grazed freely in the fine pastures which extended as far as eye could see. The nights being very cold, the live-stock had to be brought in every evening to the caves and cellars which served as stables.

Archag was enchanted as he looked around. The sun had just risen, and shed a rosy light on the glaciers of mighty Ararat. The country on which it shone was wild and dreary, leading one to conjecture that at some period a terrible cataclysm must have shaken it to the very foundations. The plateau terminated at either end in a steep precipice, at the base of which rushed a noisy stream; it was sheltered on the north by a wall of impregnable rock; on the south the wooded slopes descended gently to the valley. Archag had never seen anything like it, and was greatly impressed. As he roamed about, here and there, he discovered a little lake formed in the crater of an extinct volcano. He clapped his hands as he caught sight of the emerald waves, and jumping over the border of rocks, he plunged his hand in the water. It was icy cold. He then amused himself with skipping stones, but at the end of half an hour he had become tired of this sport, and resumed his journey of exploration. The sheep had gone toward the house, for it was time for them to be milked. Appetite comes quickly on the mountains, and Archag, having a strange feeling of emptiness in his stomach, asked one of the shepherds to give him a glass of milk. He drank it with relish, and then licked off the cream which had formed a thick mustache on his lips.

Next, he ran to look at the horses, for like all Orientals, he had a passion for them. There were about two hundred here; small animals with intelligent eyes and long tails which swept the ground. One of them especially excited his admiration; it was a five-year-old stallion, entirely black except for a white star on the forehead. Archag went up to it, holding out a bit of sugar, which the animal took with a distrustful air.

“Take care, Baron Archag!” called a shepherd, “the very devil is in that beast. I mounted him this morning, and he gave me a good shaking up, I can tell you! I left the saddle on, so he might get used to it.”

But Archag, not listening, had already jumped on the horse’s back. The creature gave a start on feeling this unaccustomed burden, kicked, stood up on his hind legs, then, seeing that nothing could rid him of his rider, darted off like an arrow toward the valley. But Archag had been used to horses ever since he was a baby, and the stallion did not succeed in throwing him by any of these tricks. He sat up straight in the saddle, holding the reins lightly. This mad ride was enchanting to him, and he had no sense of danger. At length the horse’s high spirit began to flag; he stopped a moment to drink at a stream, then started up a steep slope. After running half way round the valley, he returned to the pasture of his own accord, and Archag soon caught sight of the Highland Farm. The shepherds, well frightened by these pranks, came to meet him and praise him for his courage. The little boy sprang to the ground, gently patted his steed, and wiped off with his handkerchief the sweat that covered him.

After that, our friend took a ride on his new horse every morning, and before long claimed him as his own. A young shepherd lad, called Jakoub, was his companion on these rides. Boghos Effendi had not the time to go about with him, and he considered his son still too much of a child to ride about alone over hill and dale. The two boys would go off early in the morning, taking their dinner of hard-boiled eggs, cheese, bread and fruit with them, and would not return until evening. The country offered a great variety of excursions; in two months the boys had roamed over all the valleys, climbed all the hills in the vicinity, and explored the forests, still almost virgin. With this sort of life, Archag’s face grew brown, his chest broadened, and his muscles hardened.

“Where shall we go to-morrow?” he asked his new friend one evening.

“To the Kutshukdéré (Little Valley), and we will go in bathing in the lake.”

“Yok yok, (no, no,)” replied Archag, “we have been there four times already.”

“Well, then, let’s go to the village of Buldur.”

“No, I don’t care anything about that.”

Archag was in a naughty mood; he kicked his heels against the rock on which he was sitting.

“We might go to the cave of Karadéré (Black Valley),” said Jakoub, after a while, hesitating, “only——”

“Only what?”

“Only the neighborhood is infested by brigands, and your father would never let us go there if he knew.”

“Is it far from here?”

“Six hours on horseback; but the road is bad, and hard to find.”

“Have you been there yourself?”

“Yes, last year with my dayeh (uncle). Just imagine a hall underground, as high as a cathedral, all decorated with festoons and lace of stone! I never saw anything so beautiful in all my life, and I would just like to go there again like everything!” cried Jakoub, quite carried away by his enthusiasm.

“Didn’t the brigands do anything to you?”

“Oh, a poor shepherd boy like me? They knew well enough that I hadn’t a penny. But you, you see, you’re the son of the rich Boghos Effendi; it would be worth their while to put themselves out for such good pickings.”

“Pshaw, they wouldn’t know who I am. I’ll put on old clothes, and any one would have to be pretty sharp to recognize me. All right, then, that’s settled for to-morrow; come and wake me up to make sure. I’ll get our lunch ready.”

The thought of this adventurous ride had restored Archag’s good humor. He stood up, gave his comrade a slap on the back, and ran away from him, calling out:

“Catch me if you can!”

He was more nimble than Jakoub, and soon disappeared in the farm-yard.

At four the next morning, he awoke with a start at the sound of a servant’s rap on the door. In an instant he was on his feet, and had rolled up his mattress and coverlets, and stuffed them into a cupboard. His father was still in bed when Archag went into his room to speak to him.

“Pariluis hairick (Good morning, papa),” he said, kissing his father’s hand. “Jakoub and I are off for a ride. It’s so hot we want to start early.”

“Tschatkeretsick (Very well),” replied Boghos Effendi. “Be careful, and don’t be too late in coming home this evening.”

These last words were lost on Archag, who had already left the room. Jakoub was waiting for him in the kitchen:

“I’ve saddled the horses; everything is ready.”

“Good boy! Have you had any breakfast?”

“No, not yet.”

Archag offered his companion a bit of cheese, setting his pretty teeth in his own portion as he did so.

“These poor sheep!” said he. “They give us their milk and we eat their lambs. Men are really very unkind.”

Jakoub stared at him in astonishment.

“Bless my soul, I never thought of that, nor the sheep, either, you may be sure; they are too stupid.”

“Luckily for them; but they do suffer just the same as we do, and you mustn’t hit them any more.”

“I promise not to, if that can give you any pleasure; but we had better be off, instead of arguing about the sheep.”

“Right you are!”

A few minutes later the two boys were speeding along, rocked by the motion of the galloping horses, which made good headway, undaunted by the rough, stony road.

After riding up the Karadéré (Black Valley) for about three hours, they had to climb a slope covered with fallen rocks and débris. They followed a narrow trail which was scarcely discernible, and Jakoub lost his way twice, so that they had to retrace their steps. For several hours they did not meet a human being, although from time to time they heard the growl of a bear in the distance, or a troop of wild asses ran away from them in fright. Archag was beginning to be afraid they would never find the cave, when his companion gave a joyful shout:

“Here we are all right, this time,” and he pointed out a ravine sparsely overgrown with shrubs.

They sprang to the ground and tied their horses. Archag looked all around.

“You must be mistaken,” he said at last, “there isn’t a sign of any cave here.”

Then Jakoub showed him an opening half hidden by the bushes and so narrow that it seemed almost impossible that any one could squeeze through it. Jakoub, however, had already disappeared with the agility of a snake, and our friend attempted to follow him. But it was no easy matter; the rocks held him as in a vise, and he was nearly strangled. His feet dangled in space, he was in a critical situation, there was no way to climb either up or down. Then, suddenly, he felt himself being pulled from below, and the next minute he was at Jakoub’s side, very dizzy indeed. The two boys were at the top of a sunken passage, which they followed valiantly, making their way down with many a slip, until at last they came to the end. Here Jakoub lighted his lantern, and they cried out together in wonder and surprise. The chamber to which they had found their way was so high that they could scarcely make out the vaulted roof. Marvelous stalactites gave the place a magic beauty; along the walls were ranged thrones and seats wrought with artistic grace, which seemed to beckon them to rest; at their feet crept stone monsters of repulsive form. Archag wondered if he were really awake, or if he had been transported in a dream to some subterranean palace of the “Arabian Nights.” Behind a row of columns was an outlet leading to a gallery, and the boys set out to explore this also, but when they had taken perhaps a hundred steps, they were obliged to stoop down and crawl along the ground, for the passage had become no more than a narrow tunnel in the rock.

“Halt!” cried Jakoub, who had taken the lead.

“What’s the matter?” asked Archag.

“Look!”

The tunnel had come to an abrupt end, and a black chasm yawned before them. Jakoub inspected it with his lantern, and found that it was a pit full of water. For a while they amused themselves by throwing in stones to sound the depth and then retraced their steps. At length they regained the entrance to the cave.

“That was splendid!” said Archag, “but I’m glad enough to breathe fresh air again and get away from that everlasting night.”

Their escapade had made them hungry, and they ate their luncheon eagerly. Then they lay down in the shade of a rock and fell fast asleep.

Archag, who was not in the habit of taking a siesta, was the first to wake, and he rubbed his eyes in bewilderment at sight of two cross-looking men standing near him. He gave Jakoub a kick, and pointed to them in silence.

“Well, my little friends,” said one of the men, with a crafty look, “waked up at last, have you? You have had a good nap there, Machallah! Now you are going to follow us quietly without any nonsense, or vaī sizi” (the worse for you),” and the “bravo” touched the butt of his pistol.

KURDS

Both boys realized at once that they were in the power of the brigands. Never in all their life had they seen persons of such forbidding appearance: big rough fellows they were, with bristling beards, noses like eagles’ beaks, and sharp teeth all ready to bite, like the fangs of a wolf. They were clad in long cloaks, worked with silver; at the belt of each shone the butt of a pistol and the handle of a yatagan. By their speech the boys easily recognized them as Kurds, the sworn enemies of their race. God alone knew what fate was in store for them!

“Mount your horses and move on,” said the elder of the brigands.

Our two friends obeyed promptly, and each bandit led a horse by its bridle along the path, a dangerous one, which clung to the side of a sheer precipice and overhung the deep gorge below. After riding nearly an hour, they came to a valley confined between high mountains. Here the bandits blindfolded the boys, and a quarter of an hour later they bade them dismount. They were in a spacious cave, lighted up by a number of pine torches, for the daylight scarcely penetrated the place. A dozen brigands were sitting in a circle around a wood fire, eating and drinking; the walls of the cavern resounded with their loud shouts of laughter. When they saw the two boys they invited them to share their repast, and our friends obeyed with alacrity, for the ride had sharpened their appetite.

Archag looked all around with curiosity; he was no longer afraid, and since he had had something to eat, he found some amusement in the adventure. He had concluded, reasonably enough, that since the men had offered them food, they were not going to kill them. The brigands plied him with questions, to which he replied quite simply, and his remarks often provoked a smile from the company. Jakoub, on the other hand did not open his mouth except to eat, and his eyes were big with fear. He did not listen to what was said, while Archag followed the bandits’ conversation with great interest. One of them, a young fellow with a scarcely perceptible mustache, was telling his latest exploit:

“I had been at Bayazid two weeks, looking out in vain for some stroke of luck; but one would have said that Mohammed had forgotten his faithful ones; I hadn’t been able to take a single purse; I was suffering from hunger and had to pull my belt tighter every day. At last, one evening, I saw a richly dressed man pass on his way to the hamam (bath). I followed him, and it went to my heart to have to give up my last piastre for an entrance fee. But once in, I went, as if by chance, and sat down beside him, and I praised the beauty of his beard. ‘Seven times happy,’ said I to him, ‘he upon whom Allah has bestowed a beard like thine, a plain mark of wisdom.’

“The stout fellow bridled and thanked me with a smile.

“‘Thy servant,’ I continued, ‘is still very young; a scant half-dozen hairs chase each other over my chin; but being as yet unable to pretend to wisdom, I always seek the society of learned and erudite men, for their words are as sweet as honey and as intoxicating as cerevisia.’

“By talk like this I won the confidence of the fool; and before long, by worming it out of him I had learned his story. He was a rich merchant from Bagdad, who had been up the Tigris to sell a consignment of coffee and to buy Kurdistan rugs. He had been successful in his business, and was planning to set out for his native town the next morning. I passed myself off for the son of a caravan master of Aleppo, reading law at Ispahan, and now returning home for my vacation. In a short time we were the best friends in the world. I ordered innumerable cups of coffee and portions of hasheesh, for which I allowed him to pay. When we left the bath, my companion was completely under the influence of the intoxicating drug; he couldn’t take a step without leaning heavily on my arm. I had arranged my game in advance, and when we were in the lonely part of the town behind the citadel, I attacked him and relieved him of his belt, all lined with gold pieces. He was so stupefied by my behavior that he couldn’t say a word. Then, before leaving him, I cut his beard, ‘for,’ said I, ‘noble descendant of the prophet, your hair will make me a magnificent false beard, and thanks to your profound wisdom, your own will make speed to grow again.’ A smart kick sent him rolling into a ditch, where I left him to work off his hasheesh. I hadn’t time to bother with him any more; I hurried back to my inn, jumped astride my horse, and came straight back here to you.”

During the narration of this tale, the boys, overcome with drowsiness, had dropped off to sleep, and the brigands had laid them on a bed of leaves, where they slept the whole night through without waking.

Meanwhile, Boghos Effendi had been tormented by the most painful anxiety. At six o’clock, finding that the boys had not yet returned, he supposed that they had been delayed. But when at eight they had not come, he began to be seriously alarmed. He sent the shepherds out in bands to scour the neighborhood; but they were unable to bring him any tidings, and the poor father passed the night in mortal fear. At four in the morning, he was about to institute a new search, when he was told that a boy was waiting to speak to him. He went out immediately, and found a Kurd shepherd lad in the courtyard, who handed him a letter. He broke the seal with a trembling hand. There were but a few words to read:

“Your son and his companion have been taken prisoners by the brigands. Send one of your servants without escort to the cave of Kara Dagh, bringing the sum of one hundred pounds and the children will be set at liberty.

“Essad Chan.

“P. S.—If the money is not there by five o’clock this evening, you will never see your son alive again.”

Boghos Effendi put the letter in his pocket and looked up to ask the messenger some questions, but the lad had already disappeared. It was useless to go after him, and so the unhappy father called his steward and two old shepherds to come and give him their advice. They all, without hesitation, counseled him to send the money as quickly as possible, for Essad Chan was the most dangerous brigand in the country, and had both force and cunning at his command. Boghos Effendi then gave his steward the hundred pounds, and charged him to make haste so that he might reach the cavern before noon.

When the boys awoke, they were very much surprised to find themselves in a cave. Little by little, they recalled the events of the previous day, and began to wonder anxiously what the future had in store for them. The brigands, however, gave them no cause for complaint. A bountiful breakfast was offered them, and then one of the bandits invited Archag to play chess with him. The boy accepted with pleasure; he was a good player, but shrewd enough to let his opponent win. Another brigand took up his tamboura (a sort of mandolin) and fell to singing. In this way the morning passed pleasantly enough for the two captives; they were very happy, however, when some one came to tell them that they were free. They were blindfolded once more, so that they might not be able to describe the exact situation of the cave, and the brigands, on removing their bandages, made the boys swear on the crucifix not to follow them, nor try to find their hiding-place. The two lads took the oath, only too happy to get off so easily.

“Only,” said Archag, “I am very thirsty, and I should very much like to have something to drink.”

The brigands burst out laughing, and one of them offered Archag his gourd, with a friendly slap on the shoulder. Archag thanked him, and then the two boys put spurs to their horses and went off at full gallop. When, after a time, they slackened their pace, Kara Dagh was far behind them.

“If that wasn’t a scrape!” cried Archag. “Whatever will my father say?”

Jakoub shrugged his shoulders in reply, and they rode on in silence.

When our friend caught sight of his father, who was anxiously watching for them at the entrance to the farm, he jumped down from his horse, gave the reins to Jakoub, and ran to meet him and to ask forgiveness.

“My son,” replied Boghos Effendi, “your imprudence might have cost you your life. You know that when I go on a journey I never take more money with me than is absolutely necessary. If I had not sold three horses the other day to that Persian from Tabriz, I should not have been able to pay for your ransom, and then you may be sure the robbers would have listened to none of your cries or tears; they would have kept their word and killed you. God has had compassion on us, and He has given you a salutary lesson. Never forget what anxiety you have caused your father to suffer, nor the money your folly has cost me, hard-earned money on which I was depending for this winter’s expenses; and try to be more discreet in the future.”

Archag promised, and was in tears as he kissed his father’s hand. He no longer felt himself a hero, but realized that he was only a little boy come home from a mad escapade. He never thought of this adventure afterward without a blush of shame.

CHAPTER IV

NIZAM’S WEDDING

Boghos Effendi forbade his son to go away from the farm again, and the days that followed were very long for our little friend, so he was glad when his father told him that they would soon be going back to Van. Winter sets in early on these high table-lands, and Boghos Effendi wanted to get home before cold weather. The shepherds were very sorry to see Archag go; his high spirits had brightened their monotonous days, and they made him promise to come back another summer.

The journey home was accomplished without any remarkable adventures, and at the end of three weeks Archag was once more in his mother’s arms. “How nice it is to be at home!” he kept saying, over and over again.

A week after his arrival he resumed his lessons. He had well-nigh forgotten them during his holidays, and had to work hard and steadily to catch up with his schoolmates. During the long winter evenings he never tired of talking about his journey, and of the Highland Farm, and everything he had seen. Levon listened with mouth wide open, in rapt admiration of his older brother.

An important event now turned the current of the boys’ thoughts into a new channel, and occupied all their spare hours. Jousif hodja had asked Boghos Effendi for the hand of Nizam, and the Feast of Saint Sylvester was set for the wedding-day. So from November on, the house was like a bee-hive, for there was the trousseau to be finished, and purchases had to be made, to say nothing of the preparations for the wedding feast. As the days passed, the excitement increased. Every afternoon the neighbors came to offer their help and gratify their curiosity. They examined the presents, criticised them, and expressed their opinions, to the great exasperation of old Gulenia, who scolded them roundly.

Archag and Levon wrote the invitations, and helped in the kitchen whenever there were eggs to be beaten and dough to be stirred.

The morning of the wedding-day came at last. Nizam, arrayed in rose-colored silk, sat in the middle of the reception room; her head was covered with a veil held at the temples by large gold sequins. She sat stiff and silent, for propriety forbade her to open her mouth on this day even to reply to the congratulations of her relatives and friends. Archag, always a tease, declared that she would make up for it later. Her face was pale, and there were dark rings around her eyes; she had been up since dawn and was still fasting, for she was to make her Communion in church after hearing the nuptial Mass. She cast envious glances at her guests, who were eating and drinking, and apparently enjoying themselves very much.

About eleven o’clock, the firing of cannon announced that it was time to start for church. Nizam rose, and her mother drew the veil over her face; then two youths set her on a white horse which was waiting for her in the courtyard. The young bride of the Orient has to make a show of resistance as an expression of sorrow at leaving her father and mother, and the friends of the bridegroom must drag her out of the house by force. The parents, for their part, bewail the departure of their daughter.

Nizam was fairly successful in feigning a sorrow which she really did not feel at all, for she loved Jousif hodja. With one hand she held the bridle of her horse, and with the other she pressed to her bosom a mirror, a symbol of the purity which she was to bring to her husband. All her friends followed, uttering cries of grief. The bridegroom and his friends were awaiting Nizam’s retinue in front of the Cathedral. When they saw the company enter the square, they gave shouts of welcome and fired pistols in token of their joy.

Nizam knelt down beside Jousif while the choir boys sang a charagan (hymn). The Bishop, vested in his chimere had ascended the steps of the altar: he intoned the Mass, and asked the betrothed if they desired to become husband and wife, and upon their assent, he gave them the Host, and held the chalice for them to drink of the red wine, the blood of Jesus Christ. Then, as they knelt together, he blessed them with an ivory crucifix, slipped the wedding-ring over their fingers, and thus united them for the sharing of the joys and sorrows of life. Then Nizam and Jousif stood up, and more charagans were sung, interspersed with the firing of guns and cannon.

The religious ceremony over, the bridal pair and their guests went to the house of Jousif hodja, where a great collation awaited them. The plates were heaped with portions of turkey, goose, woodcock and grouse; then came a course of pastry and Turkish sweets: baklava[1] with pistachio and hazel nuts, walnut cakes, lokums[2] melting in the mouth, preserved peaches and plums, orangeade, cedrats, colored sugar-plums, and brown and white nougat. Coffee was served in tiny silver cups, passed around by the servants; some of the guests preferred sherbets (iced drinks) flavored with rose, violet or vanilla.

All were happy and gay: the bridal pair alone were not expected to take part in the general merriment, but sat in formal silence, enthroned at the head of the table.

A white-haired bard sang this ancient ballad, accompanying himself on the tamboura:

“Dark night shrouds the plain of Avaraīr,

The silver moon has hidden herself to weep in silence:

For Vartan and his braves are lying

Dead on the cruel earth.

Suddenly a piercing cry rends the darkness:

‘Vartan, Vartan where art thou?’

But nought except the screech-owl

Responds to the maiden’s despairing cry.

The fair Shnorig advances, groping her way;

Tearless, her eyes burning with fever,

She hastens over the battle-field

Searching for the body of her betrothed lover,

‘Saint Ripsimé,[3] protectress of lovers in distress,

Guide her in her search!’

Courage well-nigh fails the unhappy maid.

By the light of her lantern she questions the faces of the dead;

At length a sob escapes her;

There at her feet lies her lover, dead.

Never has he seemed to her more beautiful.

His face is marble white; his hair ebony black.

She throws herself upon his neck,

Trying in vain to restore warmth by her kisses.

Slowly resuscitated by love,

The Mamigonian rises.

His eyes are filled with the terror of the Beyond;

But his lips murmur:

‘Shnorig, my well-beloved,

Shnorig, my sweet bride,

I am going to leave thee;

The dark visitant calls me and will not wait.

Death comes to clasp me in his skeleton arms;

Our love is cut down like the flowers of the field.

‘Vartan, Vartan, leave me not!

I will claim thee from my rival

Or die with thee!’

She clasps him with rapture;

She covers his face with kisses;

She wails out her love like a hyena.

But her lover can no longer reply;

The white daisies are dyed crimson with his blood.

His lips breathe one last sigh,

And his soul is borne away on the wings of the wind.

Jealous Death is lying in wait for a second victim:

He it is who inspires the wretched Shnorig with fatal thoughts.

Sadly the maiden looks upon the battle-field,

The plain of Avaraīr.

She murmurs a farewell to life,

And draws the bloody sword from Vartan’s body.

She kisses it with fervor,

Then plunges it in her own bosom.

She falls, like a lily cut down in all its beauty.

Her alabaster arm is thrown around her lover’s neck;

A smile flits across her lips;

Her soul, in its turn, takes flight.

And the silent moon hides herself to weep in silence.”

The old musician played sad and mournful harmonies on his tamboura. The guests listened, gazing into the infinite, and dreaming of their unhappy country.

Gradually they all withdrew; the parents took leave of their cherished daughter, weeping, for they were not to see her again for nine months.[4] Archag walked in front, carrying the lantern.

[1] Baklava: a sweet and very light paste made with honey. [↑]

[2] Lokum: Turkish paste. [↑]

[3] Ripsimeh: a noble and beautiful woman who lived at Rome, in the time of Diocletian. Having taken a religious vow, she refused to become the wife of the Emperor, and fled to Armenia. Here the king, Tiridates, wished to marry her, and furious at her refusal, had her put to death. The king was subsequently baptized and became a champion of Christianity in Armenia. [↑]

[4] The young bride is confined to her home for nine months, during which time she may not see her parents or friends. [↑]

CHAPTER V

CENTRAL TURKEY COLLEGE

Three years and a half have elapsed since Nizam’s marriage. These years were marked by only one important event in the family of Boghos Effendi: the birth of little Jersebeth, the daughter of Nizam and Jousif hodja. Hanna badgi is still living, but her delicate health causes great anxiety to the other members of the family, who are in constant fear of losing her. Archag is now a lad of sixteen, slight and strong, looking quite eighteen. Last year he spent his holidays at the Highland Farm; this time his visit was not spoiled by adventures such as we have related; he was a great help to his father, and even took his place at the horse sales.

He has completed the course in the school at Van, and his father has decided to send him to the American College at Aintab. Our friend has heard a great deal about it from his older companions; he is fond of his studies, and delighted to be able to go on with them, for he has little inclination for mercantile life, although he has not yet chosen his vocation.

Boghos Effendi had written to the president of the college, and at last, after two long months of waiting and suspense, the post-master one day gave Archag a letter bearing the Aintab postmark.[1] Our friend made haste to carry it to his father. The president, Dr. Mills, wrote that he would admit Archag to the Sophomore class on payment of twelve Turkish pounds (fifty-five dollars) for the year. The term was to begin on the twentieth of September, and as it was already the twenty-fifth of August, there was no time to be lost, for it was necessary to allow three or four weeks for the journey. A caravan was leaving Van for Aleppo on the first of September, passing through Marash and Aintab, and it was decided that Archag should travel in the company of these merchants. It would have been quite impossible for a boy of his age to take such a journey entirely alone. These last days, filled with a host of preparations, passed all too quickly for our friend, who was feeling sad at the thought of leaving home and family.

The day before his departure he went with his father to the serail to ask for a teskereh (passport). The kaimakan, engrossed in reading his Stamboul newspaper, received them sullenly; but as Boghos Effendi was one of the most influential members of the Armenian community, he did not dare refuse the desired passport. He wrote down Archag’s name and age, his weight and height, the color of his hair and eyes and even of the clothes he was to wear on the journey; then he made a note of all the places through which the lad would have to pass. Boghos Effendi willingly paid the two mejidiehs (about two dollars) for the precious paper, for at this period the Armenians were often refused passports and so were unable to travel at all; father and son kissed the pasha’s hand, as a sign of submission, and made low bows as they withdrew.

Archag spent the rest of the day with his sister and brother-in-law. Jousif hodja had studied at Aintab, and so was able to give the boy some good advice:

“Think yourself fortunate, my lad,” said he, “to have the privilege of working with such men as Professor Pagratian and Professor Hagopian. Go to see Mrs. Spencer, the doctor’s wife, now and then; she loves our people, and her example will stimulate you. And whatever any one may say to you, always remember with joy and pride that you are an Armenian.”

“And our president!” asked Archag.

“Dr. Mills is a man of high attainments, and the college has made remarkable progress under his direction.”

Nizam begged her brother to write often, to be a good boy and go to church regularly. Archag embraced his sister and brother-in-law with much feeling, and promised to do everything they wished.

His last meal at home was a sad one, for every one was silent and pre-occupied. Archag went to bed early but he did not sleep well; he kept waking up with a start, dreaming that he was late. At daybreak old Gulenia came to call him and he dressed quickly. He had hardly finished his breakfast when the tinkling of camels’ bells was heard.

“Archag Effendi, are you ready?” called an old Arab.

The lad’s horse was waiting in the courtyard. Krikor had fastened our friend’s boxes to the saddle, one on each side, and spread a mattress and blankets over the horse’s back. Archag flung himself into the arms of his father and mother, then knelt to receive their blessing. He gave his brother a hug, called out a last good-by to the servants gathered in the courtyard, mounted his horse and settled himself very comfortably on the seat that Krikor had arranged. Again and again he looked back to wave his handkerchief, tears streaming down his cheeks.

His journey was long and difficult; the camels walked at a pace so exasperatingly slow, that Archag, worn out with fatigue, would fall asleep with his arms around his horse’s neck. To avoid the heat, the caravan would start at daybreak and travel till noon, rest till three or four o’clock and then go on several miles farther. Each night was spent at an inn, where Archag could scarcely sleep at all for the vermin. When he was just falling into a doze, one of his companions would wake him up, saying that it was time to be off.