Translated by Shant Norashkharian from the original Armenian which was reprinted in
Beirut, Lebanon 1981, by Sevan Publishing House .The original was written from November 1927
to January 1929, and published in the Parisian Haratch daily newspaper from May 28 to September 3, 1929.
Excerpt No.1 pages (98-106)
Time separated them from each other. In the first few months after the calamity, these
young men, still mostly children, who were thrown on the sidewalks of Paris squeezed against
each other and huddled together with great love and caring. These Armenian boys who had
been snatched from their birthplaces, families, futures, had in those days leaned against each
other having lost their way, until some time passed for them to start taking some steps, until the
moustaches grew. The rolling years, however, gradually separated them from each other. The
forming characters got farther from the blowing winds of dividing roads, and the difficulty of
earning a living, the demands of life, specially that fast-moving life blew on this weak group and
scattered them; The feathers flew around. Marianne with her irresistible charm approached
every single one of them, and by attracting them took them here and there. Here or there, the
victor was always the same; always the same Nenette, the grand daughter of the Manons,
Ninons, Nanans. Some married, many lived with girlfriends, the Armenian church became empty,
the number of letters which were sent became less, and of course, far away, mothers cried.
Now only small groups are left, composed of true, sincere friends, in whose souls’ union
glimmers the Armenianness, discolored from falling downward* on this path of becoming
diminished. It glimmers until it dies.
So it was that kind of a group that these five had formed, whose meeting today was
almost certainly the last. The last, because Misak will leave. Even by earning his daily living he
attended with great sacrifices the classes of the dental school and was finally able to receive his
diploma. And now he was leaving to Marseilles to work with his uncle who was a shoemaker
there. Also Peter was leaving. When, where, to do what? Not one explanation. Peter of course
could not lower himself by confessing, even to his friends, that he was running after Nenette. Yes,
from the day after the event Peter had been waiting, with gradually increasing impatience,
Nenette’s approaching footsteps, Nenette’s approaching fragrance. He waited, waited
throbbing, suffering, with love, but she did not come, she did not return. And gradually his missing
her, which in the absence of that blonde head was taking more form, color and fragrance,
easily scattered defenseless thoughts. Therefore, the enlarged and exaggerated
contemplations, by getting farther to serve a second purpose, left the young man alone with
himself, with his love, with his beloved Nenette. Now his energy is exhausted, his pride is
exhausted, and he would run after the other’s increasing warmth. What would they do? Hratch
knows how to cook Eastern dishes very well, with a lot of grease, a few franks, silly jokes. Really, in
this two-room apartment of his everything shouts the absence of a woman, but for being a man,
he had been unusually tidy in preparing the dinner table which now had the appearance of a
pile of ruins. Dishes, leftover foods, mixed *, half-full glasses, torn pieces of bread and on the floor,
bottles of wine rolling under the feet.
They ate, became full, drank, became drowsy*. The bodies were already stuck up
around the table, the chairs rumbled and the cigarette smoke was rising. Every time when they
gathered together like that in Hratch’s room, first they would talk about letters received from
home and about work, they would tell each other stories about girls, love affairs, and then would
argue for a long time about the latest crimes and trials which had taken place in Paris, to end
them all with songs. The song which follows the first glasses of wine would be: ‘I loved a pair of
eyes’, and that muffled chorus would end with ‘Her Yer Karanlek’. Now they are silent. It’s Souren
who would speak. His eyes which had become smaller were shining in an unusual way, and the
way he had his fingers buried in his hair betrayed his state. Among the five he was the young
man with the highest intellect. His friends had a certain awe and admiration for his large
intellectual supply, which seemed to rule over those boys’ eyes with its hidden knowledge. He
was destined to become a perfect writer but who does not write because he reads and he
smiles. He very rarely expresses himself in this company, where he comes to satisfy a neighborly
feeling different from intellectual relations. But the wine seemed to have made him weaker and
it gave a surprising sincerity to his voice. He let his thoughts out freely, unbridled, gave them
thrust, accelerated them and let them become more powerful and accented by the heat.
Souren stared at Peter in an oblique way and said:
“And you didn’t turn out to be a man, pooh...! Photographer, photographer...! Not worth
a dime. We have had photographers in every country and we have good photographers,
masters of forms, but where is the essential, the highest, the beautiful? You are the perfect
embodiment of the Armenian nation. The Armenian has good painters, but no art; good actors
but no drama; travelers who don’t know about getting tired, never a captain; The Armenian has
splendid poets, but no literature; gods, but no mythology. saintly revolutionaries, but no
revolution; the Armenian has had freedoms, but never independence.”
Then after emptying the wine glass with one gulp he continued quickly without drying his
lips:
“The Armenian is sterile, infertile, fruitless. The Armenian is hollow, rotten, empty, vain.
He has no right to live, because he was not born.
Bah! One day perhaps he will be born, and with a different color than what we had
expected; red, yellow or black. But we, this arm of the Armenian nation, are condemned to be
lost.
We are not born. Boy, a cocktail!”
They filled the glass and it got empty.
“I tell you, I am sure I will be understood, because you all have had an unfortunate love
in the past.
A lover, specially an unfortunate and sensitive lover, will unavoidably think of death at
least once. He will want to roll under the feet of his lover, to fall struck by death in her arms, to
become vitalized. He will want to see and enjoy that indifferent girl’s sorrow and grief. With what
satisfaction he will follow her crying, begging, efforts of salvation...! But useless, useless; it is late
now and the youth will die, his eyes will gradually close, he will go, will leave. And of course after
his death as well he will enjoy the lover’s pain. Of course.
And we, and I, have the same cruel delight; a limitless delight which is like rust-smelling
drunkenness concocted with poisons. To settle a revenge, a most barbarian twisted desire to
steal from another’s pain a certain pleasure. Let her now cry, gnaw her teeth, twirl her hands,
her, our nation, the Armenian! Let our leaders write, say, shout at gatherings, scream, useless,
useless. We shall assimilate, all of us, we shall be lost, all of us.
Like others we also abandoned our religion and faith during the war. The hope of an
independence melted away, became lost with the surrendered city-fortress. And now is under
attack our greatest and most fundamental pillar, the family. The Armenian girl remained far
away, remained abandoned, her who was essential to our blood, in spite of her ugliness, her dry
pride and her reluctance of immediately mothering and becoming old. These are advantages
for someone else, but a young man...
That young man saw the French girl, the German, the Italian, the Greek, the Russian, one
day he sucked the fragrance of one, another day another’s, one night he stayed at one hotel,
another morning he came down different stairs, he was loved a few times until one day he
loved as well, by closing a door behind him.
Now the Armenian girl appears in his memory only with two thick legs and a little
mustache.
What’s the use! What’s the use!
It is better to assimilate, rather than to live with the stamp of*.
They are eunuchs, all our fathers; they have been unable to carve anything on the flesh,
they have been unable to carve anything with flesh. There is a great lack among us that they
must have known how to fill. We have not lived in Armenia; its land and air is unfamiliar to us; its
traditions and customs have not molded us* and it is natural that we would love our birthplace
only, that is a foreign sky. The successive endless generations of our ancestors were not able to
give us that great love. All pontification evaporates; the true love of homeland is missing -
specially in our case - a past, a greatness, models.
I said, the idea of a homeland is most often a...*
The idea of a homeland is most often a hero.
The idea of a homeland is most often an epic.
In place of that big lie we have put hypocrisy - our whole history is evidence.
In place of the hero we have put cultivators - our empty nails are evidence.
In place of collective effort we have put * - all our monasteries are evidence.
In place of the cry of the intestines we have put tears - all our poets are evidence.
In place of divine lust we have put brides - all our - are evidence.
Instead of ideals we have put molds - all our books are evidence.
Instead of struggle we have put quarreling - all our parties are evidence.
Instead of that we have put this! Our souls are evidence.
Assimilate, assimilate, assimilate! Boy, cocktail!”
They filled up and he drank. Misak said:
“It’s good that you don’t say those words to others; they would immediately call you a
traitor, one who denies his nation, one badly influenced. But that’s not your fault; it is the wine’s. I
think it was a little too much...”
“Don’t worry, he is not drunk, answered Peter with his best seriousness; these are not the
words of a drunk or a traitor. On the contrary, I would have wished that our boys would
understand all that was said and instead of barking or cursing, that they would finally
comprehend the gravity of the ruling environment, would comprehend the calamity and think
about its cure, if there is a possibility...if there is a possibility...”
Hratch, who by his nature was against making matters which were a little more elevated
than usual any deeper, and was incapable to comprehend an exaggerated truth, started
becoming upset. Being an Armenian he must have been used to such highly-accented
sentences, black pessimism and the habit of judging a nation with a few sentences, but started
getting upset and wanted to change the subject, calling like a child:
“It’s the pic-ture of Ar-men-ia, give some-thing and look, it’s the pic-ture of Ar-men-ia,
give some-thing and look, give some-thing and look; it’s the pic-ture of Ar-men-ia...”
They made him shut up and Souren continued:
“It’s the picture of Armenia, oh, look, give all you have, but look because none of you
have seen it and will not see...How many, how many times have I had the temptation to form
that great picture, just as it needs to be, just as I feel the need to do...To start our history from the
edge, even just for me, even just for those like me.
As far back as I go with my thought, I see the Armenians always as they are today. Small,
midget, deformed. Each has the irresistible adoration of his own leather, his own skin!
Self-centered, selfish, ununited, shopkeeper...as far back as that day, when I don’t know at
which wedding, gold, silver, pearl poured down from the sky the whole day and the whole night;
Boy, cocktail!
Wherever there is plenty of wealth, there is extreme destitution.
In whatever country there is deep destitution, there comes freedom.
And it became free, and it became free!
That king of ours who was called Abkar, Gagig or Khosrov, collected all the people in his
country about whom it was said that they were intelligent, wise, clear-sighted and enlightened.
He collected all and massacred them. The Armenians had many wise men; that’s why he
massacred them for days and days and days! Cocktail! Then he demanded that a National
Song be composed. Everyone came and sang his song; he didn’t like any of them, because
being deaf he had the best understanding. Then he started endless wars, and he made his
nation destitute, tormenting, bleeding for long, long years, until that day when the great Song
burst out of their mouths with the same magnificent, noblest syllables. That is with one syllable -
‘WE’.
The next king who was called Abkar, Gagig or Khosrov, was blind. He used to live in our
palace which was built on a high hill, in front of which the capital sank in the valley between the
two mountain ranges. When dawn spread its apricot colors over the silhouette of the mountains,
the valley became full of fog, a white, thick, impenetrable fog as if it was a sea of cotton. After
coming down the marble stairs of the palace, the king hooked up the plow and entered the
field. He opened long, long furrows through the fog, and his forehead against the light of dawn,
he sowed handful after handful in the snow furrows, inner voices and silence... For his children still
sleeping below handfuls of inner voices and silence.
I said that he was blind; and in order to see well, during his whole reign he wore a little
bird’s two wings on his ears.
But his son who was called Abkar, Gagig or Khosrov, loved the Beautiful. He ordered his
men to enter into every house, every place with a hearth to kill that family’s most loved person,
father, mother or son. The whole country was in mourning, splendid, sublime and noble.
Cleanness, cleanness! Geniuses were born, people were born. That’s how someone forgot the
Armenian letters and that’s how someone bit the queen’s garter off with his teeth.
The king did not like his cities, their thumbs, the surrounding glances - he ordered that
they immediately start remodeling over the clouds.
He ordered that everyone shout his daily prayer into women’s socks only.
He ordered that the caravans start moving faster as they approached a stop, so that no
traveler may reach them.
He ordered that none of his subjects look at the rear end of joyfulness.
He ordered that the ships travel from here to there by opening the sail on the masts
only.
He ordered that people walk around with *pliers and to never sit on stairs.
He ordered that women give birth to children, but the children not to fall on the mothers’
knees when entering the world.
He ordered that no one start counting numbers from one hundred and one.
He ordered that no one put a cloud around the moon and no one cry or laugh.”
“But only, but only...Boy, boy...”
“You, Armenian bastard! You are the quickest to change to an animal if you were left
without sorrow even for one day!”
“...Boy, boy, cocktail! “
After a long period of contemplation, Misak said:
“Souren, you must write the things you said; you must seriously work and produce. A little
while ago you were blaming Peter, but you are also of the same blood. Don’t remain ‘infertile,
fruitless’. Why do you continue thinking like others that the effort you invest will not serve
anything, it is useless and it will only be a simple waste. Don’t be so sensitive and don’t be
drained of your energy and hopeless because of the opinion of a few fools! Don’t look for the
opinions of the Armenians, specially in the papers and think that perhaps some day...”
He fell silent, however, judging from the glance Souren was throwing at him that his
thinking was the wrong way. And Hratch, who had not understood, yelled happily:
“Eh, that will be wonderful! And we shall name it “How our nation’s crown was lost”...
“Keep quiet! When the subject is not on lovemaking, you have no opinion.”
“What did you say, my dear?”
“Of course, don’t you understand that he wants to say the opposite? That nothing will be
lost anymore, because there is woman and love, and nakedness and silence...”
Souren who had started to smile with that dark smile, to push the subject aside, said:
“The ship on which there is the adoration of the woman does not get lost even if it
sank.”
Encouraged by this statement, Hratch started his refrain again, with the same
kindergarten accent:
“It’s the pic-ture of Ar-men-ia, give some-thing and look, it’s the pic-ture of Ar-men-ia,
give some-thing and look...”
Excerpt No.2 pages (120-124)
“The Armenians have a book. It is their worst, disgusting, all-wrong, unhealthy,
and the most immoral book. The Nareg. I accuse it as the greatest enemy of Armenians, I
accuse that miserable being who spat those sentences. And to say what a glorious fate that
poisonous volume had! The Armenians accepted it, made it their own, embraced it. Not one
generation thought of eliminating it, because, being deceived from its various linguistic and
poetic qualities, they did not notice the the disguised poison within. On the contrary, they
transferred it from son to son, from blood to blood, and it came all the way to us. We were
poisoned. Nationally poisoned. This is why we are losers. We are losers because like that monk’s
crippled spirit we despised and became unaware of our selves, our power, our will, our
individuality; we did not fight, we did not bite, we did not struggle. By accepting its wrong and
imperfect interpretation by the Christian doctrine we became foolishly passive, conforming,
begging, unaware. We did not come out of our own persons, we did not have a purpose; we
did not collectively charge forward toward the possibility of the impossibility and a great ideal
did not knead us in its claws. I accuse that miserable being who...”.
When he was talking about pornography, it was this way one day that Souren expressed
to Pierre.
And after making this first pomp while he had thrown himself on the down slope of
contemplations, he continued after making the fire in his voice milder, having rediscovered the
brightness and the peace of cognition. Whether Naregatsi is considered the primary cause or
not, it is a fact that many things come forth to fully justify my bold* thinking, which in its suffering
from the love of the nation definitely wants to throw someone on the chair of the accused. Every
nation, in every century, in every era, has beside the peasant, unrefined and illiterate crowd had
‘small people’, even in the so-called ‘chosen’ class. But among Armenians their number takes
stunning, superabundant, discouraging proportions. That is why, I, Souren, want to neglect the
small number of exceptions, and consider all Armenians poisoned by Nareg, invalids. And yet,
yes, it’s enough to know how to look around, it’s enough to look at the living generation and in it
we shall meet a glance at which we could boldly shout: Unfaithful. It does not have faith; the
faith, that is written with the red vehemence of lust; the faith, that forms the great spirits, which is
born of the nations that have the yearning for the highest. This Armenian does not make
anything his ideal and does not fight for it. He does not dedicate himself, with body and mind, to
the realization of an idea, in his haste to give more he does not madly come out of himself and
his being does not subject itself to a constant ascent. The divine lust is absent from his thoughts
and feelings which slumber in an endless monotony. In spite of being the child of an intelligent,
clever and productive race, he puts those qualities only at service of the interests of his own skin.
The indifference that he maintains toward the community comes like a thick and impenetrable
fruit skin to neutralize his soul, to fester it. What intolerable rottenness, specially when he got an
education. As soon as he gets away from school, he sees the abyss separating the school life
from the street life, and his first concern becomes forgetting whatever he had learned, as
improper, useless, superfluous. If he could forget it, he does not replace it with anything; he only
tries to cover his emptiness with gold. Leave him alone, he will be a goldsmith! If he did not
forget, he will continue reading, getting interested, although without resigning from his neutral
role. Leave this one two; again a fraudulent goldsmith, this time of the word.
This despaired, weak spirit which had been an island even before the torrent*, following
the events which fundamentally shook all Armenians differs from the previous generations by
two characteristics. It believes less in independence, and hates the Turk less. It hates him less,
because he knows his progress, just like he knows all the important expressions of the human
mind, always judging them from his isolated smallness, without a cry, without embracing, without
a destined journey. He knows all the philosophers and doctrines; he has read a few. But he has
never said in front of any of them; ‘That’s me, that’s how this is!’. He knows that God and religion
are understandings, sometimes consoling forces which will die with humanity. He knows that the
homeland in the present days is a bad obstacle in the way of ideas of internationalism., but his
homeland, an inextricable Kortian Knot. He knows that good, bad, ugly, beautiful, moral,
immoral are all relative things, that art is only the privilege of the great nations, because it
requires a lofty environment and a long time. Finally he knows that love is a misfortune, the
woman is money and money is everything. He has admiration and abundant praise for all the
values of the foreigners, their virtues, their things of greatness. Many times he blindly glorifies
them; but when he makes the favor of turning his glance to his nation, he immediately becomes
transformed to a critic full of doubt and skepticism; he considers it smallness to share his thought
with another, then to unite and cooperate with him, when he is not the one in command. He is
himself and he is nothing.
But what’s the use, what’s the use of saying all this when it already has the discoloration
of having been repeated so many times. What’s the use, specially, to concern oneself with
circumstances, for which the best cure can never be formed by the power of words and
phrases. Yes! This model is not incidental, it’s not just born of a certain time; but while it was
possible to partially ignore him in the past, to neutralize his unhealthy barrenness*, to let him
perform his only role of multiplying the nation, now it becomes impossible to remain indifferent
toward it. Not because there is now war and fighting, not because now there is a battle and
struggle for life, but because there is something more crucial, more non-forgiving, there is
something terrible, irresistible which roars its name from all crossroads; that is the retreat. The
retreat, the retreat of the Armenians. The fight is a sacrosanct thing, the battle sometimes even
useful; from them a nation comes out defeated or victorious, but in both cases it comes out. But
the retreat of the spirits, on this nauseating down slope this retreat erases, assimilates, eliminates
everything. Really they are not numerous, this kind of developed indifferent types, but on that
side there are the unrefined mobs of mindless and malnourished* people who, as if instinctively,
as if by blood and marrow, are exactly like the former. Like them they are the first to cower, to
forget, to deny. And comes to being a horrible mass of those who retreat and push into that
great current others as well, the scattered exceptions as well.
Retreats the family, son, uncle, son-in-law, retreat traditions, comprehension, morals, love.
Retreats the language, retreats the language, retreats the language. And we still retreat by
word and by action, willingly and unwillingly, aware and unaware, forgive our sin, forgive our sin,
Ararat!
There have been Armenians who paid gold to save their skin; there have been others
who gave faith, virginity; there have been those who have abandoned home, place, sky; there
have been as well the bad who denied nation and language, and heroes who gave blood, life,
day and sun. Yet we pay as last price of salvation children who could have grown up, future
generations which were to come after us. Because whoever comes will be a foreigner, by word
and by action, willingly and unwillingly, aware and unaware, forgive our sin, forgive our sin,
Ararat!
Excerpt No.3 pages (124-138)
And so Pierre fell in retreating compatriots such as those. But not immediately. Years had
passed from that first havoc and now this world-factory had been emptied from its incidental
Armenian workers. After becoming familiar to the place, environment and language, most of
them had slowly been able to escape from the life-swallowing jaws of the machines and involve
themselves in more appropriate crafts, occupations. Exceptions remained. At the corner where
Pierre worked there was not one Armenian; on his left there was a small, bald man in his forties
who on summer Sundays went to the riverbank to fish, and then spent the whole winter telling his
fishing stories. The machines complemented him, he was one of their parts and as soon as he
got away from that iron monstrosity he ceased to have any value. That is why he could not
catch fish and had so many stories to tell. And the one on the right side became friends with
Pierre and with his cigarettes from the first day. That red-headed and stout young man who was
a tireless reader of sports newspapers, judging from Pierre’s looks he thought he had found
someone who thought like him, and everyday he started to bet with him about who would win,
whether it was this or that athlete. But when he saw that everyday he was the loser, he found
out that Pierre never read a sports paper and had no interest in such things. Immediately he cut
his friendship in half. Only in half, because he continued being friends with the cigarettes.
Peace! Peace of the soul! Pierre had the firm conviction that he would be able to find it
here, he would be able to possess it in this life, which, even though it was tiresome, it was
monotonous, unchanging and endless. But before reaching that desire, he passed through three
stages. First those few days slid by under a completely unaware, mute and numb impression. His
escape from Paris, falling into a dark and rotten hotel again, trying to find work and the effort to
get used to it again, killed every faculty of awareness within him. Immediately afterwards he fell
into a limitless, unrestrained rage; the days, the nights, all his moments became filled with curses,
hatred and poison. He hated, terribly hated Nenette, he endlessly whistled the curses through his
teeth, no longer restraining himself. Still he was suffering immensely, immensely. In the nights after
dinner he was unable to return to his room, and along those dark and edgeless streets he
carried with the snow his hatred*, almost loudly repeating: “May you be cursed, may you be
cursed, Nenette, may you suffer! I want you to be tormented and looking for me; how, how was I
carried away, deceived by her! What was she...? She was another ‘chick’ like the others; what
exceptional thing did she have? Nothing. First she was much older than me; in a few years she
will be old; already the blond hairs will be quickly wilting. What a boy I was! I could not see the
reality with open eyes. I was charmed by her style*, her stylishness, her beautiful clothes, delicate
underwear. The French were right when they called them, ‘The woman’s heavy artillery’. Yes,
she had flair, exterior appearance, but what is lust after all? It is tyrannizing an unbendable
pride; it is possessing and dominating a strong individuality; lust is immobilizing and tying able
and clever wrists; it is benumbing of an intelligent head, the enjoyment of the expression of the
pain and the easiness on it; Yes! Lust is tyrannizing an attitude. Poor Liz, poor Liz, how did I not
recognize you...! May you be cursed, yes, I mean you, Nenette, you...!”
And the days turned, turned. The machines endlessly repeated to him incoherent words
and incomplete sentences, for which, in his effort to find an explanation or sometimes an
answer the young man meandered, fell into the lap of contradictions, until he fell silent. A
planer* from far away hissed against his ears, “khol shvayd, khol shvayd, khol shvayd, khol
shvayd...” Or on this side, a noisy machine was ringing its* , repeating: “Why didn’t we do evil;
Why didn’t we do evil; Why didn’t we do evil; Why didn’t we do evil...”. Pierre fell silent; because
first he found hatred was useless and only served to smear his soul, and another moment he
became afraid of it , as if the effect of the curse was inescapable. He got afraid of his own curse
and getting away from it he was satisfied to recite with a mild voice, like a prayer (in French) :
Who has placed you there?
Of which vessel without masts
And when the two words immediately following Nenette’s name, “dear” and “be
cursed”, stopped from being recited, the young man essentially changed.
He was reaching a new stage. As if he was collecting on himself, crouching, getting
denser.. His chin became a fist and his glance lunged forward into the distance, spread out like
a call to arms. In the young man the adult man was being formed, molded, away from people
and societies. The little songs which excited a young man, the lovely and cute trivia no longer
interested him and he felt that he looked at life and objects with disdain, but from a height, with
a completely new glance. He felt that now he walked without dragging, he lived without
leaning.
It was in this period that he got mixed with the Armenians. They would gather at noon in
a nearby restaurant, to later go and occupy the same corner of a coffee shop. Among them
were first the eternal children, the silly and the addicts of women, who after work changed
pants and threw themselves on the dance floor. They were those intolerable ones who
*crouched inside their shells and a few elderly ones from the provinces. One of them, in spite of
having formed a “threesome” family with a Frenchman and his wife, contemplated hanging his
head down, contemplated, with impenetrable wrinkles on his forehead. Around another
elderly person the boys had drawn a yellow line. They approached him with great precaution;
that is, they never approached him. Every once in a while he would say: “A letter came from my
wife again, she wants to come here. How shall I bring her...!” They never asked the reason;
everyone knew that the poor man was suffering from a terrible disease. There were yet two
former schoolteachers, barely thirty, one of whom insisted to find * for his village’s brides, and
feet for its oxen. And the second constantly poured letters and requests everywhere, begging
that they would quickly save him from that morgue, or else he would commit suicide. Yes, he
would commit suicide!
Bedros was able to become friends with - of course for having belonged to the same
class of Istanbulian-Armenians - a delicate, frail, and a little meticulous Skudarian named
Khndamian. This last one suffered greatly, tormented himself, crucified himself for having fallen in
the filth of a factory after losing his social position. He said, “I came to Paris with a little money;
I started a basturma business with a friend. My situation was fine at that time. We went under;
not a dime was left; and now... but I have the right to be unsatisfied, I have the right to hate this
life! It is in every way exactly contrary to my nature. I like the silence and the deep sounds in that
silence, the bell, the ox, the frogs, the donkey...And I like nature, the splendid dawns, among
which a circumcised lad cries his “yarey ”. I love the rosy pieces of the woman’s flesh, clean,
gorgeous breasts, the fragrances, the beautiful underwear...How good was that basturma
business, what a pity, what a pity...!”
But there was another that Bedros loved immediately. He loved him but without getting
too close to him, without giving the signal of friendship, not because there was no need and * in
that feeling, but because the boy’s fierce and extraordinary character was very far from being
easily communicable. He was a former centralist, the son of a pastor, and they called him
Lokhum . His classmate Khndamian said that since as a child he had snow-white skin, soft
character and sweet nature they called him that name. Extremely untidy exterior, always
smoking thin lips, little dirty teeth, and the line around his blonde and curly hair looked like
question marks, parenthesis, semicolons. But what a contradiction to the nickname he carried! A
certain nervousness to the point of being diseased was shaking him. He did not talk, but
became irate, roared, argued. He already concerned himself only with subjects which were
worthy of arguments, underlying his sentences with curses. Bedros once was present at one of his
outpourings:
“What, what ?” he rumbled, “again French paper! Again French theater! There are no
Armenian ones? Will you ever be shocked, will you ever become aware of our situation? Will you
ever fight, struggle against disintegration and assimilation? Extinguished ashes, all of you! Leather
merchants, all of you! You only look at your little profits, you only tremble over your little fingers.
We also have a homeland! We must stand ready to go there. Occupy yourselves with that! We
must dry the swamps, we must open the waterways so that...Bastards! Weaklings...You were like
that in Istanbul also, and your fathers were like that also. When there someone ran down the
street with the expression of terror and pain on his face, I knew that someone was not killed, a
deceived husband had not torn his opponent apart, a woman had not strangled her children;
lovers had not committed suicide as they do here, but simply an Easterner had fallen on the
ground hit by a heart attack. Ninety percent died that way; by rottenness, by immobility. Yet
you, here...how shall we generate a spark from you when the hour rings, you who are
extinguished flames now? Where shall we find fire to go to war; because yes, we will have a fight
as long as there is a Catholic still standing up and a mountain peak adorned with snow, as long
as there is boiling in our veins with blood “our homeland”, as long as our homeland did not
exist.”
Bedros kept quiet. Those who got upset and angry, considered it best to leave, not to
cause once again the arguments, fights which had happened before and were so painful.
Besides the unexplainable disturbance that was caused by these words, Bedros felt a deep pain
seeing the suffering which was shaking inside the blonde boy’s whole being, inside his whole
childish simplicity and gullibility. When he shouted his hands trembled and his glance seemed to
come from behind two magnifying glasses. This was a second Souren, but less knowing, less
actor, less artist.
Weeks after this day, Bedros thought he had recognized a cough in the darkness of the
night. The two red beaks of the cigarettes approached each other. It was Lokhum . As soon as
they advanced a few steps, tired and quiet, Lokhum became irate and started shouting:
“What kind of ungodly, inhumane, monstrous, barbarian law is this? Which cursed hand
has recorded it, which damnable brain has imposed it on our heads? I have a mother, I have a
father; why should I remain far from them, why should they be wasted from missing me and why
should I be unable to enjoy their closeness? We are not like them; For us, what is there greater
and dearer than our parents? Which love is it that can replace motherly love? Mother, mother...
she is everything for me! Why should I be unable to go to Istanbul? Who am I? What am I? Which
state will occupy itself with me, with us? All the philosophers, all the moralists and even the
animal worshipers should leave everything and occupy themselves with this, only with this
injustice...”.
Even that same night Bedros decided from now on never to approach this boy again.
There are words which we do not want to hear. There are pains which we do not want to
acknowledge; we run away from them, because they are truly great. With the limitless sorrow of
missing, Bedros fell into his room and cursed that same boy, who being so childlike had torn his
heart, had torn two hearts. The former photographer, however, did not need to avoid being
close to him, because Lokhum
disappeared suddenly, after leaving his job at Renault. Since he lived at the same hotel as
Khndamian, it was possible to hear what had happened days later. Lokhum had gone to the
Russian embassy, demanding a visa to go to Armenia. They had refused. He had told them that
he wanted to live in his homeland; they had refused. He had even told them that he wanted to
see Ararat and breathe it; they had refused again. This time he had run to the Turkish embassy.
After seeing the flag with the crescent, their letters and and the Turkish heads, he had become
completely infuriated. He had demanded that they immediately, immediately give him a
visa...that his mother was close to dying, she would die, that he was sick as well, that he had
nervous breakdowns, that they should not ruin his future; his place is not here in the “factories”,
that they must not...He had begun to swear, to roar, to curse. A few of them had to fall over him
to throw him out.
Peace! Peace for the soul! As much as the row of days got longer, Pierre ran that much
more after peace. He never reached. He felt and comprehended that he was mistaken once
again. The factory had given him pride, cleanliness, and partly what seemed to be freedom, but
not which he longed for. Because in spite of being well-formed and strong, even this life’s
monotony would cause him to be completely alone with himself, and for the inner dialogue to
start again. They say that as frequently as memories are recalled, that much faster the past
changes its form, because every time we add to the memories an untrue and fake element
which stays. Similarly, for Pierre it was now a true suffering reliving the last days of his love. It
seemed to him that for a long time he had been breathing a suffocating, almost criminal
environment with Nenette. It is true that he succeeded getting away from those dark thoughts,
but he comprehended that his soul will find peace only when this monotony ends, life starts
again and new emotions come to veil the past. Pierre wanted to escape one more time. But this
was not going to be a simple escape like the former one, but advancing, charging forward on a
road which was already drawn. He would lunge forward to a goal, an ideal, a reason. But its
name?
The Armenian workers he knew, all of them, except for Lokhum, were retreaters. But if
there is an element that is least worthy of blame for cowering in regards to their nation, it is this
working class. Whoever recognizes their toil will never dare to blame them. And it was in that
silent and forgiving way that Pierre looked at the boys and himself, because he was also a
retreater. But he differed from them in one fundamental way. He differed, because not only he
was not money-minded and having the awareness of a highest existence was able to have
disdain for the easy life, but because there was a power in him. A power which was getting
denser, bigger, which wanted to become aware of itself, and which was ready for dedication,
for sacrifice. He searched for a ground, a field of action; a road which was higher than the daily
smallnesses, on which every leg is not strong enough to run, and where he could tell himself: “I,
higher than my past”.
Naturally, Bedros’s went to his nation. Would he dedicate himself to national work? He
thought, he thought. The answer was negative. Bedros said, recalling a distant phrase:
“Humanity is made of the living and the dead. The dead are incomparably more numerous than
us. And they are more powerful by the summation of their activities. They are our masters and
they govern us. We live in that building which was built by a late architect, we feel sad like the
way the other writer did, we live according to those sentences now turned to proverbs which
one day a foreign patriot
preached and we become that which they make us.
Well then how shall we remain Armenian, when we don’t have our dead, when we did
not bring our dead with us. How shall we not become foreigners, when this dead man preached
so well...”. Yes! I know that it is possible to change a generation, even to pour a whole nation in
a desired mold. But for that it is necessary to have the whole mob in our paws and that it be
obligated to submit to us. In Istanbul it was possible, but here, at least for the likes of me there is
no possibility for national work, because I am neither a writer, nor a *. I must at least be a
partisan, for which I have no desire. Oh, something else, else, but not this!”
This style of reasoning must not be considered a contradiction to his spiritual state. A
young man in his situation throws himself into the unfamiliar way with much more love and
willingness than into the familiar. He will get involved with much more pleasure, even in an
activity which is new, but sometimes contrary to his nature, his blood, rather than a road with
which he has become familiar since becoming aware, on which many times he followed step
by step the advance of others, and where he thinks there is more * than something else.
Immediately afterwards Bedros thought about his parents, his mother: “You need your
mother in order to live? You’re still a boy...!” And he went away. He leaped over religion and
looked at the books. Once he had loved the literary and purely imaginary works, but now he
could not tolerate them. And because likewise it was impossible to be occupied with love
stories, only the philosophical works were left. Bedros had neither the preparation nor the love to
bear those. He belonged to that class of many people who thought: “Of all the ideas expressed
about life, I prefer life.”
These mental wanderings and the inadequate rationalizations which he used to escape
from an undesirable goal disturbed the Armenian young man’s soul and thinking, which had to
happen. Again he fell in a crisis and his unnamed yearnings impelled him into impossible
horizons. He thought of taking any job on a ship and going beyond countries, seas and docks; to
go to the icebergs in the north, or to the south, to the full tits of the black-eyed; to go to the
equator, into the middle of the savages, where of course he would be desire the women. He
brought into his imagination a wild beauty with thick lips, firm tits and countless bracelets. “Yes!”
he said, “one must either enjoy a primitive woman like that, or never enjoy any woman. Because
the animalistic simplicity of that savage is more precious than our women’s
two-faced, mindless and empty behavior. Besides, perhaps I shall possess that woman with the
big earrings by force. There, that’s what’s precious and not the love that is gained by mutual
agreement! One must possess the desired creature by force, against her will. And those who
pursue the kisses forbidden by society, aren’t they in search of that forceful resistance?”
And the Armenian’s thinking was hitting one wall after another, turned like a tied horse,
wandered, rolled, became consuming, could not be bridled. This time Bedros fell on a whole
different ground; he wanted to become dedicated to spirit communication, sorcery, and other
dark room explorations. A day later he wanted to follow the example of the blonde Frenchman
next to him and become an athlete. As soon as he had glanced at a sports paper, he changed
his plan, wanted to go to horse races, to play with luck, and to win a lot of money. He even had
the idea of collecting stamps, forming an album, and...shouted, shouted...
He finally came to a decision. He realized that the reason of his crisis was his loneliness,
that he had to return to Paris and get mixed with his close friends. Why was he escaping them
all? Why had he abandoned even Souren and Hratch? However, his visit to Paris occurred under
completely different circumstances. One of the worker-schoolteachers at Renault, the one who
poured letters everywhere saying that they should save him, or else he would commit suicide,
that same schoolteacher was to be ordained pastor on Sunday. That poor soul was unable to
imagine any other way of committing suicide. All of Renault’s Armenians decided to be present
as a group to the ceremony. Bedros started the trip from Biencourt Sunday morning with a group
of eight, of which he immediately became the one in charge, and transferred his exaggerated,
forced but very delightful way of having fun immediately to others. Singing, joking, yelling they
finally arrived at the church, where Bedros had not set foot for over a year. At Jean Goujon
street, before getting mixed in the crowd in front of the door, he had his friends stand with a
military immobility, and going farther a few steps he ordered:
“Breathe...in!”
All eight of them suddenly and noisily raised their noses up.
“Did you smell the incense?” Asked Bedros.
“What smell of incense? I smell basturma, old brigadier, basturma...”
The speaker, needless to say, was Khndamian, the former basturma merchant who
immediately disappeared in the crowd. They were indeed selling *, baklava , basturma ,
pumpkin seeds and other useful and nice things in front of the church. Khndamian quickly came
out of the crowd, with a dried piece of meat and the boys regrouped to go to the small
coffeehouse across the street, the one familiar to you all. With the basturma of course they had
to drink oghi which they drank. They even thought for a moment to call the pastor-to-be from
across the street but then they realized it would be inappropriate. So in his absence, they
“ordained him, watered him, baptized him, blessed him, buried him”, and drank. When they left
to attend the ceremony, it had been over long ago. Not even one pumpkin seed was left. But
who cared? Our boys returned to Biencourt and drank, sang, yelled.
That day was decisive for Bedros. When he returned to his room after midnight, he was
totally drunk. He started talking with Nenette. He put her picture in front of him, and talked,
joked, laughed, and...and suddenly started crying like a boy.
Yes, something like that never happened again, but Bedros continued drinking. Not one
week had passed from that Sunday and already he came home every night really drunk. He
quickly became friends with drinking Frenchmen, quickly learned the names of drinks, and drank
willingly. Many times in the mornings he would not catch up with seven thirty, and already his
earning was not adequate for his expenses. But who cared? It was enough that every night he
rocked on the waves. “Oh, well”, he would tell himself, “ I am sure that someone watching me
from far will think that I slipped, lost my helm, surrendered Gars; they don’t know that I drink
simply to see, to watch, to get to know life. I can go back to my former state any time I want,
but I repeat, it is not enough...” .
Yes, it was no more enough, neither the wine, nor the oghi , so he searched for stronger
things.
Rain, mud, dark streets. They walked quite a long time, both speechless, until they
reached this purely industrial section’s Chinese quarter. The dirtiest of all quarters, the most
miserable, the most disgusting. Finally their steps slowed down and stopped in front of a small
hut, from which a weak light rained through one of the cracks of the shutters. The Frenchman
knocked on the shutter twice and continuing on he entered in into the nearby alley, where a
mall door was opened in front of him. They sat in front of two red glasses and waited for quite a
while. The Frenchman said a few things to the owner, and when some others left, by pulling the
curtain at the end of the room aside they both came down the steps and entered into an
underground cavity. Oh! the stench...!
Initially Bedros could not see anything. Then he noticed a red light placed on the floor, a
flame, in front of which sat a cross-legged Chinese, similarly with a very red face, filling up pipes.
When Bedros fell on a pillow, the French requested that they serve the newcomer well and left.
There were no women; they were men sleeping, lying down or sitting. They were smoking. As
soon as Bedros had inhaled a puff from his pipe, when the one next to him sat up and with a
tongue which moved with difficulty requested a second smoke. Bedros was terribly shaken up by
that voice, immediately held his arm with all the strength of his fingers, and to subdue the
disabled voice , almost shouted:
“You, you Lokhum...! What are you doing here...?”
He turned his head, looked indifferently, and exhaling the smoke answered slowly:
“What are you doing here?”
Yes, what was he doing here? The answer died in a delay, while the red Chinese took in
the breath of a hellish deity. Bedros found his friend very changed; his nostrils had become
larger, his lips sucked in the poison with great force and his glance did not remind him of any
Lokhum. Why was he so filthy, shabby, and ruined? Why was he unemployed?
“ You were a good adjuster, why did you leave your job? You’re not looking for one; why,
why did you let yourself go? Come, let’s go out, Lokhum, for the love of God
let’s go out. You are killing yourself; at least feel sorry for your mother; at least for your mother...I
know what sufferings you have, , I understand you very well, but this is not the way of salvation;
we don’t need to give you any advice, you know...Feel sorry for your mother... These days will
pass, we must not lose our hopes...”
“No! Said Lokhum, no! I don’t want to live with hope any longer.”
“Then with what...?”
“I want to live.”
Bedros was searching for words to convince his friend, but at the same time he was
afraid that perhaps he would become irate, enraged again. But it was impossible to continue
the conversation, because those present started making remarks about the noise. Bedros paid
and almost by force took Lokhum out. The rain had restarted. The two shadows went side by side
sticking up their shoulders, putting their collars up. Bedros talked for a long, long time. “What?”
He would say, you think it is possible to return to the former state easily when one has become
the slave of these poisons? Is it possible to easily become free from the claws of these
addictions? What are we worth, if we have to appeal to such means to soften our pain? What
does our courage mean, our will, our education and our upbringing, if we are unable to use
them against our days of suffering? We must struggle and never have disdain for pain, because
it alone can bear us*, can bend and form us.
Don’t look at me! I simply came for curiosity, simply to look at this life closer and to study
it. It is not possible that I leave myself in this swamp*. Never, never...!”
Unbelievable situation; Lokhum does not reply even with one word. Bedros realized that
more than talking to him he was directing those sentences at himself. He was never sure of the
effect they would have on his friend, but he comprehended that at that moment it was himself
that he was pulling out of the mud*, with all the fierceness of his arms. The one next to him had
turned to a mirror, and Bedros saw in him clearly the state in which he could fall unmistakably, if
he did not have the strength to escape, to become bridled, gathered. Lokhum suddenly
stopped and said:
“I have no work; I have no money; give me ten francs.”
Bedros gave him double. Squeezing the bills in his palm, Lokhum went away immediately,
without saying a word. But he suddenly stopped under a lamp, turned back, laughed loudly in a
terribly frenzied way like a devil, and opening his arms jumped up shouting:
“I conned, I conned Bedros, I took the ten francs...!”
And running away he got mixed with the dark. Of course, he went to smoke again.
They ran the machines one more week.
When one day at noon Bedros entered the coffee shop, he stopped at the door
motionless with surprise. It had never happened that all Armenians, all with no exception had
gathered like that around the same table, all silent, speechless, heads down. In the middle sat
the poet-schoolteacher in front of letter paper, with the pen in the air. “I can’t, brother, I can’t
write such a thing”, and then read what he had been able to write: “Dear madam: We are the
dear friends of your son...What was his name? I’m not writing Lokhum of course!”
“Zareh” answered one voice and the poet repeated: “Dear madam: We are the dear friends of
your son Zareh, who...”. “I can’t, brother, I can’t write such a thing...”.
“Please, what happened, tell me also?” Begged Bedros.
Khndamian took Bedros to the other corner of the coffee shop and said:
“Lokhum lost his mind; yes, lost his mind...! When yesterday evening I entered the hotel,
they immediately took me to his room; already a policeman had come and they had tied the
poor thing to the bed, waiting for the officers...If he would only say something to someone...! He
only talked; he constantly talked...they called me because of that, since he only wanted to
speak in Armenian...they wanted me to translate him...my tongue was tied, I could not
translate...I should not have translated...but when I translated, all of them started laughing...Is
that a laughing matter...? A laughing matter...?”
He wouldn’t dare, he wouldn’t dare, but being unable to resist his curiosity, Bedros,
asked:
“What was he saying...?”
“What would he say? ‘Let’s dry the swamps, let’s open waterways; let’s dry the swamps,
let’s open waterways; let’s dry the swamps...’ ”.
Excerpt No.4 pages (161-167)
In the noontime chaos, two young men forcefully embraced each other and threw
themselves into a taxi. Hratch, being unable to express his surprise and happiness, was constantly
repeating:
“May God’s will be done, what a pleasure to see you...What a surprise. To tell you the
truth, Bedros, I wrote to you but did not hope that you would accept my invitation and come.
Now our feast will be perfect...!”
Bedros immediately quieted him down, and with joking strictness said:
“Hratch, tell me, is it proper that you do this? You had a child again? For sure she is a
maidservant again...what kind of way have you chosen? Aren’t you ashamed...?”
“Don’t say it, Bedros, you make me feel bad. Believe me, this time it’s not a maidservant;
on the contrary, it’s a pretty, adorable, honorable doll and the daughter of a very gracious
family. And it was me who wanted the child, so that her parents would consent to our marriage.
Believe me, Bedros, she is not one of the silly ones you’re thinking of at all; *very hard to please! I
have ran after her for months to convince her. But now, I am happy, happy! A little later you will
also see what kind of girl she is...!”
“Fine, fine, I understand! You have been hooked real bad. Now tell me this, when did you
baptize your child?”
“Baptism? Eh, as if that’s the only thing we need. We shall get married Saturday
afternoon, so that my son’s birth becomes legitimate, that’s all.”
“Are we going to church after the civil ceremony for the nuptial mass?”
“Nuptial mass? Church...? Eh bien, mon vieux Pierre ! (Eh well, my old Peter)!
You’ve not forgotten Istanbul yet. Forget it, my dear, forget the pastor, the hymn, the priest...!”
“Well then, without baptism and wedding, what would you like our pastors to do?”
“Pooh! Is it for me to think of those lazy bums? If they want to do something, let them
prepare pate dentifrice (toothpaste) or Benedictine like the French clergy.” Or let them...or let
them translate the Bible back to old Armenian...”
As soon as the Frenchwoman had opened the door and Hratch was getting ready to
introduce them, the blood in Bedros’s veins instantly froze. As if he had received a terrible blow
of* on his head. He did not want, he could not believe his eyes, but he was absolutely unable to
make any movement, to draw the silhouette of any smile on his face. He would have betrayed
himself. The young woman though, not having lost her coldbloodedness even for a
microsecond, said laughing:
“I was sure your friend would recognize me; we have met each other a few times on the
stairs of his hotel...”
“Do you understand now, old man? I wanted to make it a surprise for you and didn’t tell
you anything in the taxi. I knew that you would recognize my Susanne who used to take English
lessons from the Canadian poet who was in the room across from you, two or three times a
week. Do you recognize her now...?”
Yes, Bedros recognized her, he recognized her very well, the former lover of the
Canadian’s sterlings, who even once had not turned down his invitation and had come into his
room, letting Bedros, as much as he wanted...
Only once did Susanne nail her glance on the photographer’s eyes. As if she wanted to
say: “I am the victor! Never, never will you dare even to say a word!”. In spite of the fact that the
woman’s * self-confidence and fearlessness was a perfect insult, Bedros pretended to be very
content and cheerful. With Hratch he passed into the nearby room, to see the child. He was a
very beautiful boy who was called Rene.
“Couldn’t you pick an Armenian name?” Said Bedros, being no longer able to disguise
his discontent.
“It’ not possible, my dear”, answered the other; Rene is my Susanne’s father’s name.
Look, these curtains and the lamp in the middle were all gifts from him! If we change his name
now, it will be very unpleasant...!”
It is necessary to confess however that Susanne had been a very good housewife. They
had furnished a clean, tasteful, immaculate apartment. In spite of his wish, Bedros could not get
away. They set up a special bed, insisting that he stay with them until his return to Tonnerre. And
Hratch was so happy, and so content and cheerful was Susanne, that Bedros * forgot himself in
the smile of the sliding days. He even forgot to feel jealous.
The wedding ceremony took place Saturday. One of the events of that day, at least, is
worthy of remembering. After leaving the city hall, they went to the famous restaurant across
from the garden of Bute-Chomone. During the merrymaking of the feast, when the heads had
warmed as much as it was necessary, Hratch stood up at the head of the table, with the glass in
his hand full, and said:
“Now let me narrate to you how I became acquainted to Suzanne. One spring Sunday I
went with Souren to Pierre’s, to take him with us for a promenade in Saint-Cloux. We had brought
with us some foods, but it was all for nothing. In spite of the fact that the key was not downstairs,
there was no one in the room. We didn’t want to come down the five floors, so we sat down in
front of the door and ate. We ate, sang, joked, until the door across from us was opened and
there was...Susanne...”
A bald, very fat man with drooping mustaches, who was the curtain-present-giving
father of Susanne, suddenly bent over the table and shouted at the daughter who sat exactly
across from him, with eleventh-hour severity:
“What was your business in that hotel?”
“But, papa, you know so well that I was taking English lessons...”
“Oh! Lesson, that’s a very essential thing.”
At that moment, it was Bedros who sounded his beautiful voice:
“And now, allow me my turn to tell you a short story. On a spring Sunday at noon I was
inside my room with my girlfriend, when Hratch and Souren came to see me. Naturally, we did
not open the door and they had to...”
Cries, exclamations, an aleluyah of applauses. When peace was reestablished, Bedros
added:
“Therefore, I propose that we empty our glasses...”
They started shouting from everywhere; Cheers to the bride; cheers to the two nations;
cheers to happiness...” . Bedros was silent. As if he was suddenly wounded by this exaggerated
cheerfulness, he made an opposite leap in himself, the lost smile made him more beautiful and
the young man recited, with his glance directed at a distant vision:
“I drink this glass to say cheers to unfortunate people. I drink this glass for those whom you
have forgotten at this moment; for those for whom this day would have been the greatest day. I
drink to the cheers of shoemaker Chris and lady Aghavni...”
Many asked each other in a low voice: “Who are they, who are they?”
“My dad...my mom...!” Stammered Hratch suddenly sobbing, while Susanne offered a
handkerchief to take even his tears.”
He went everywhere, visited every acquaintance, he satisfied his longing for the big
capital. But every time his steps came close to Biencourt, a tragic end pushed him away. What
had Lokhum become? What had his mother become? Bedros told himself:
“There are monotonous and endless pains. They are weak and last through our whole life.
One ought to make them stronger. Because when they become stronger, we become unable
to bear them, because we are bad, and we forget them.”
Khndamian narrated:
“No, there is never any hope from Lokhum; already he becomes more emaciated* every
day. And his mother! Never ask about her. First she used to wash our underwear, sewed up some
things, now she is unable to do that as well; her eyes started getting weaker. Yes, we didn’t
leave her hungry, we did what we could, but we must make a last effort. I have organized a
fund raising, to send her back to Istanbul by collecting a little money.”
“But my God”, said Bedros, this pastor has no ability to send any money? If his finances
were so poor, what did he rely on to send this woman to Paris?”
“What? Pastor? Don’t you know that they deprived him of his title...?Yes, they took away
his cloth; don’t you read any papers? There was a lot of noise in Istanbul’s papers. Supposedly he
has entered a morgue and has stolen gold from the mouth of an unclaimed corpse...Yes, of
course, they should have taken his situation into consideration; his son in mental asylums, his wife
hungry, without a dime...yes, but they took away his cloth...Sad, sad story.
In a few days Souren’s first book was being published. This was a great, great joy for
Bedros. They were the sons of the same race, the same generation. They had almost lived the
same lives; the same hopes, disillusionments and pains had formed them. It seemed to Bedros
that he was the one who would be speaking through Souren’s mouth. How many things, how
many things were there to say! How well would Souren portray the lives of the Armenian boys
who were thrown into Paris? It was with this great delight that he went to see his friend. He
specially wanted to talk with him, talk to him, with an open heart! Souren welcomed him with an
open heart as well. But when he took out of his drawer his last revisions and put them in front of
him...
The book was being published in French.
They were not even mentioned.
Bedros easily comprehended Bedros’ silence and said:
“Every writer is vain and arrogant. The only thing is that every writer does not confess it.
But I say loudly, because my thinking does not have a * . I am a force - at least I have the faith
that I am - a force which wants to act. Among us there is no ground; there is no movement;
there is no field of action. The reasons don’t interest me. I am, and only I am! I must live and
make my youth’s sap worthwhile. It is not possible to rock me with hopes; I saw the Armenians
who came before me, who always waited for the best days and with that hope became old.
My art does not want to wait for any tomorrows. I do not want to accuse the Armenian, but he
has no right to accuse me either. I want to speak, and it is natural that I direct my speech
towards those who have the time and the desire to hear me. The Armenian has neither the one
nor the other. And you, dear Bedros-Pierre, you and those like you will understand me. That is
enough for me.
“Yes”, said Bedros, you are right; but you forget that there is no French for the word
“garod”... there is no “garod”...!
“It’s true, I know, the synonym for that word in French does not exist. But if a word is
missing, so what...!”
Bedros started descending the stairs with heavy steps, swinging the hat in his hand, and
he said until he got lost:
“What you wrote cannot speak to any Armenian, as long as the word “garod” does not
exist in them. Yes, don’t laugh! Because that is not the only thing missing; you already know, but
let me remind you that there is no French for the word “mayr”, the word “hay”, the word
“aksor”...there is no French for our “kaghtagan”, our “vorp”...!”
Excerpt No.5 pages (172-178)
A great journey was beginning.
The only journey that was worthy of the title “great” was beginning, because the goal of
that advance is infinitely far from men, infinitely, because that target is close to men, like no
other thing in life.
The string broke. The young man’s row of contemplations stopped abruptly. The ordinary
noise of sadness was absent, obscured by a greater rising sound. The boy found himself alone,
very lonely, in the air, in the void, in the edgelessness.
Every woman, when she becomes a mother, rises above the land, rises high, very high,
and the infant is born far from anything visible. That is why they say: “He came to the world.”
Because people come from above to below, people fall from a height to the ground, obeying
an irrevocable law.
In that speedy advance many are left speechless*(stupefied?), unaware, unable to see,
to observe, to realize. Pulled by the gravity of the earth and deprived of the strength to resist,
they fall rolling, incompetent to bridle their members and senses, and the illusory pictures which
were noticed remain imprecise, superficial, objective. When these people reach the earth, they
can only form a pile of soil.
There are however others, who resemble pilots. They also have a mandatory period of
falling. They must roll down for quite a while, withdrawn from their instinct, their lusts, their senses.
It is fair that at least for a while nature guides them. But then within the rolling days an event,
sometimes as small as to be unnoticeable, and sometimes awesome, but always a fatal event
brings the redeeming suffering.The generated pain becomes a point of departure, the clutch is
formed, and from this passenger, as from a pilot, the braking wings* are released. The braking
wings* go up, rise, spread and become swollen. The being hanging from them shakes within his
physical body’s farthest cells, but the second body will be formed. The passenger will find himself
at a totally unfamiliar height, he will find his equilibrium and this time his glance will spread firmly,
peacefully, penetratingly.
Of course this one also will end up on the soil, just like everything goes to meet its fate;
but this time he will go with ease, sweetness, delight, aware of his way, aware of his goal.
Within us the conscious individual and the physical body are facing each other and
fighting. They both have their commanding powers and irrevocable laws. It is that fight that will
record the fate of people, and it is the outcome of that fight which will either leave the
individuals or lift them. We may connect to others with ties of friendship or love, but we are one
with ourselves. If we carry that connection without awareness, our thoughts come from nature
through the flesh, the senses. In this case we can never be considered the masters of life,
because we operate with instinct, we are content with the pleasure given by the present hour,
we long for the day’s longing*, we work towards the noticeable goal. Nature’s forces, the result
of whose dominance is self-alienation, *, animalization, ought to be counteracted by the
conscious individual. The fight between these two forces must start, because it is destined to
bring out our true being, to introduce us the true self which is asleep within us. We must be what
we are.
Numerous demands * us, immobilize us, enslave us. But none of those demands, not even
all of them together, be they moral, rational or physical demands, will not have the strength to
finally dominate us, if we did not surrender to them with our selfishness. It is our selfishness which
takes advantage of them and surrenders to their dominance with easy acquiescence, because
it is easy to remain enclosed within oneself and to abandon oneself to the flow of whims. And
the whims throw us into the events * and we suffer.
It is in this situation that the truth of this saying becomes really evident:“People do not
suffer but make themselves suffer.” They make themselves suffer because they don’t know that
in order to counteract one must see, to enjoy one must know, and to own one must give.
To counteract an individual event we must have our sight raised, we must examine it not
alone, but with all the causes that have given birth to it, that is first with our own self. Because the
majority of the events that affect us are prepared by us, our obvious or unnamed wishes call for
them and the events become that which we are. They take our nature, the scope of our
thoughts and the color of our souls.
To enjoy one must know, not the things of enjoyment, but again one’s own self. The
human being can differentiate from each other not only a beautiful body from an ugly one, a
good deed from an evil one, but also he has the nature of imagining the good, the beautiful,
the noble. And naturally, when he wasn't to satisfy his wishes*, he yearns for the best, without
knowing that in order to enjoy a beautiful soul one must be beautiful, to appreciate a noble life
one must have reached the same height, and to reach the same height one must know
oneself.
To own one must give. We want to be loved by the highest love, we want to have
self-denying and ungreedy friends, we want that the days bring us goodness and when faced
with failure we only curse our fate. In reality it is us who do not know to love with the highest love,
to be a self-denying and ungreedy friend and to smile at the goodness of days. The greatest
truth, the highest reality is our self; everything starts from it.. We must first come forward for
everything, we must first give, but to give we must be the owners of our souls.
To be the owner of the soul, to tear the flesh, to crack the narrow shell, to cross over the
field of action of the physical, to rise high, high, to make our sight broad, expansive, clear, and
for it to be blissful, vivacious, full of delight.
Full of true delight, because at this height only conscious delight can be formed, can be
permanent, durable* and plenteous*. It flows like a life-giving fluid, , it pours from its height
abundantly over our bodies, it surrounds us, it* us, it sinks us in itself and with it our days, our
deeds, our thoughts are filled. Thought! We never need its faultlessness to reach to this height.
We never need clear and definite thoughts, burden of sciences. It is enough that we feel, live
the salvation, throw ourselves out of our shelves, dedicate ourselves to the rise, and to give ears
to the music which begins.
Because this is where we hear our voices! This is were the inner tune, the rhythm, the
vibration begins. It is ours, only ours and the only one in the world. It is enough that our steps
obey that meter, it is enough that we adapt our emotions to that scale, it is enough that our
consciousness advances according to the measured and unending melody, and that we reach
within our own intimacy a blissful peace, where we shall win before fighting, we shall be heard
before speaking, and we shall become beautiful before falling in love.
A vein will cut through and pass the subsequent stages of our lives and all of our
emotions will form a chain of rings following the same direction. While we were living a
disconnected life, our happiness had turned to shreds in the multitude of our days and our daily
goals resembled the morsels of an ideal, now with the union of existence having been formed,
not only our emotions, our happiness and our ideal will become incomparably greater, not only
we shall advance on an enlightened road with firm steps, but also by living we shall make others
live, by rising we shall pull others with us.
At that height, not even one lover will be able to tell her lover: ‘I have no right to
demand more from you.’ Yes, we don’t demand, when we know that there is no possibility of
receiving, just like many times we ask a question when we know the answer, or we give hear
when the sound is heard. But whoever is within the perfect beauty of the soul, he will use his love
but not take advantage of it; for him the beloved being will be a mirror and not an ornament
which encompasses his senses, pride, selfishness. The beloved being will always remain the same
Nenette, above everything, like she was before, and like she was to be tomorrow. Yes, Nenette,
you will see how your Pierrot will with all his soul, with his whole wholeness...”
Pierre once again cut his train of thought. After every contemplation the young man
rolled over the same down slope, became enslaved by his mind’s oppression*, found himself in
front of Nenette. And when he saw that as he directed his words to her he was lost in sorrow and
time became infinitely longer, he returned to the abstract, repeating a sentence like this:
“Society is built by us, and that building starts within us! In order for us to have an influence on
the world and for the result of that injection to be positive...”
Pierre was very far from embracing a familiar doctrine. He did not contemplate on a
doctrine; his thoughts naturally did not have continuity, mostly they were the result of the mood
of the moment, and almost always a sentence that was begun remained unfinished, because of
a contradiction or the absence of a word. But why would that matter? It was enough that he
lived an awakening, a resurrection, and from his soul’s deepest place he proclaimed that the
moment is not transient, but it is the front door of tomorrow’s life. Thoughts which were obscure,
vague, complex*, thoughts which had been mixed together, accumulated within him for a long
time, to most of which he had never given form, because they had tormented him, now they all
came to raise him to a new plateau.
Bedros became confused many times, did not want to go deeper into most of them, and
leaned against a few sentences. “To love and know to suffer - not to be carried away by trivial
daily events - to self-realize and remain above heads.” These words which were so simple
seemed to him to be limitless and he was greatly surprised that until today he had not lived
them, even though he thought had understood them.
Outside the windows of the coach noon was spreading over the fields, meadows,
streams. A group of reeds, straw piles, a few bell houses. A gardener leaning over a plow stood
up, then changed his hat and put on a woman’s dress. His cow, which was white earlier
became black a farm later and immediately gave birth to a calf. “Society is built by us, and that
building starts within us!” Look, today the poplars have parades, the red tiles have roofs, France’s
clouds have a sky, look!
“Society is built” had lost its strength, and Pierre, giving way to that great wave which
was swelling within him, recited: (Old Armenian)
“ May you receive with sweetness, our God Almighty...”
He stopped, revised and started praying: (Old Armenian)
“May you receive with sweetness, my mighty Nenette, the supplications of this sufferer*;
may you have mercy upon this *; may you lighten my shameful sorrow; may you write with your
name *; may you enclose with your hands my temple’s ceiling; may
you draw with your blood the entry into the threshold of my room. Give rest *”.
He immediately remembered Souren’s words:
“Nareg is the worst, the most erroneous, the most unhealthy and immoral book of the
Armenians.”
Pierre answered loudly swaying his head: (French)
“It depends, old man, it depends...!”
Souren’s picture however did not get away from his sight. That deeply-penetrating and
shrewd* boy’s solemn profile and sharp glance gazed at him with gravity.
Pierre remembered old phrases. He closed his eyes, and his face raised high, his face
flooded with light, waited for a long moment.
As if he was enjoying the approach of a great bliss. Then he started reciting slowly, word
by word:
He ordered that people run after only those Truths, the exact opposite of which is also
true.
He ordered that the caravans start moving faster as they approached a stop, so that no
traveler may reach them.
He ordered that none of his subjects look at the rear end of joyfulness.
He ordered that the ships travel from here to there by opening the sail on the masts
only.
He ordered that no one put a cloud around the moon and no one cry or laugh.
He ordered that no one start counting numbers from one hundred and one.”
“You, Armenian bastard! You are the quickest to change to an animal if you were left
without sorrow even for one day!”
After a silence Souren made him speak again:
“The flesh is always the same, a pound more or a pound less;
The soul is always the same, a century more or a century less;
There is flesh which lacks only a kiss,
There are souls for which even one day is not redundant...”
“Yes, yes, shouted Pierre standing up, we are Easterners and we believe in something
called fate. But only the headlines of that fate are written with Chinese ink. The rest is pencil, the
rest is stone, the rest is dust. It is up to us to change the rest!”
And the train’s monotonous noise replied: “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell
you? Didn’t I tell you?...”
