By Gosdan Zarian (1885-1969)
Translated from Armenian by Shant Norashkharian
First published in Boston, 1943 , by Hayrenik Publishers and republished (date unknown) by Varantian Publishers
No. 1 (Pages 81-87)
As he was coming down he stopped in front of the ancient church which stood above the
monastery.
What a miracle it was, that this temple still remained standing! Built on the foundations of
a former pagan altar, from the first centuries of Christianity, it had witnessed fierce, dreadful
centuries loaded with events and eras molded with iron blood.
Dead were great nations, gone were peoples and races, yet it had remained standing.
Unmaintained, orphaned, miserable.
A twisted roof, stones emptied of their cement and eaten by seasons. The broken
windows were full of mislaid stones, the doors destroyed, the rafters fallen down.
It was a poor silhouette. A soul beggar.
Inside a few candles were shimmering. Herian, whose attention and mind were directed
downward, where Zvart was, wanted to pass by the church in a hurry, but did not, and instead
stopped in front of the door and without negotiating with himself, entered inside.
As if someone was calling him.
The church was empty. Humid, cold. There was the smell of honey-candle and putrid
vegetation. He stood in front of the altar, the only lighted area. A large Bible with yellowed pages
sat open. Small candle-holders supported dripping candles. The murky lights of the flames were
disturbing the surrounding darkness by throwing large shadows.
When his eyes started to get used to the darkness, pictures from the wall of the altar
stared at him. Slowly they awakened and grew larger. The wall flashed out long bodies, chiseled
faces, deep-fallen black eyes, untidy beards, and bony, unnatural hands, which, creeping over
the ravaged chests squeezed some worn-out books.
HerianÕs eyes met their eyes.
Fierce, huge, phosphorous eyes.
The pictures, leaving the wall, were advancing toward him inconspicuously.
Herian stepped back.
At that instant, something hanging from the roof moved. Perhaps it was a bat or... He
looked up. He saw nothing. He looked at the pictures, as their enlarged eyes dominated him. They
pushed his stare inward, they subdued it.
He could not move anymore. An uncertain battle started within him. His awareness
became veiled, it lost its clarity.
A pair of candles blinked, washed a few shadows as they shimmered, and died.
The darkness became even deeper. And, suddenly, from the depth of the church, he
heard footsteps. Herian turned around and was astonished. In front of him stood Peter Mark.
Mark, the Armenian from India, whom he had met at the restaurant.
ÒHello, Captain, hello...Ó
He stretched his tanned and hairy hand and greeted Herian warmly. The hand was cold,
and the arm -Herian later remembered- unusually long.
ÒI saw you as you came inside and waited for you to finish your prayer...Truly, these are
special places, with which to communicate, it is worthwhile to cross thousands of kilometers, as I
have done...Special, momentous places...Ó
Ò My pleasure, Mr. Mark...I was not expecting...Ó
Ò I believe, that one must always, always expect...I was expecting to see you, as these
pictures were expecting to see me and you...for centuries...the boundaries of the soul, Captain,
no matter which way you choose to reach them, constantly expand and go farther, the depth of
the soul is great and its potentialities are limitless...Ó
He smiled slowly under the nose and at that moment his face took the form of a mask
which had come out of Indian wall-sculptures.
Peter Mark was wearing a gray suit with yellow lines, sewn in English style. The pants
were unusually high, and the coat, which had narrow shoulders, stuck to his body and seemed
small. The collar around his neck was high, and his hand was holding a straw hat which had a
very wide brim.
Strangely, his abstract statements did not correspond to the way he dressed. As if those
were not his own clothes. However, his voice was convincing, sometimes sharp but other times it
became dull, deep; yet specially convincing
were his very black, very shiny eyes, which -how could one explain- were identical to the pictures
which were hanging in front of the altar.
Thirsty, grabbing, ravishing.
As he spoke his neck stretched like a duck. The few candles which were still flickering on
the altar were casting shadows around the pointed bones of his cheeks, they set holes under the
eyes, they sharpened his chin and made his bursting throat swell even more.
When he became sad he stammered slightly.
ÒLet me tell you, Captain, please consider this point. Everything in the world is turning,
revolving, to enable itself to return to itself...The sun, the star, the human being...A while ago, as I
was standing there, I was thinking...People pass by small phenomena without paying much
attention to them...They do not see, they do not look...However, please consider, even so-called
rational science builds the universe on molecules and the laws of gravity...As soon as the apple
breaks off the tree it is pulled by the earth, and by that same Newtonian law, the moon stays on
its orbit and so do all heavenly bodies...I am trying to say that, all existing phenomena are related
to each other, and whether small or big, they are equally important to the universe...I would say, or
would you believe, that even the first steps of a newly-born infant may influence the course of the
stars...Ó
He fell silent and searched HerianÕs eyes. He gazed and remained quiet for quite a
while. To end his silence, Herian wanted to say something. He also wanted to show him that he
understood his statements.
ÒWell...of courseÓ, he started with a very loud voice and without conviction, Òif one
thinks well...Ó
ÒLet me finish my thought, and then you may state yoursÓ, interrupted Mark and
continued. ÒFirst, I must confess to you. In our land, I often feel like a foreigner...A foreigner, to
the external, outer life...That is not what I was expecting, it was not...I think the reason is that,
when one lives far from his environment, he starts seeing everything in a different way...I would
not say always accurate, but rather large and deep...From afar he looks at his land, as if he was
standing on a mountaintop and looking at the fields below. He opens his arms wide open with the
horizon, and looks with his inner eyes...the eyes of his soul...not as a personality, but as the self.
But Captain, perhaps all this does not interest you...Ó
ÒI beg you, do not say that. it does...indeed...Ó
Ò Thank you...I say, that the self... it must be different...donÕt you agree?...It ought to
be different...the self is above understanding and time...it is a unity, wider, larger than our
everyday comprehension. The self stands among us as a non-changeable presence, whose
premises are decisive and to a certain extent eternal...am IÊmaking myself understood?Ó
ÒVery well...Ó
ÒThank you...The member of the community, the child of a nation, the social person
-and everyone of us is a social person- presents himself first and foremost with his character...
One this way, another that way...Character is formed from different elements...Who knows?
Genetic qualities, oneÕs abilities in life, his energy, his virtues or, on the other hand, his vices,
shortcomings, the influences of external factors...I am saying, that character is the personality:
suggestive, changing, defined by time...The self is different. It stands under the layers of our
experiential personality. It is not character, it is not changeable, it is not defined by time, but it is
firm, permanent, like a torch which never burns out. And there, right there lies the question: The
essential human existence must reach to that torch; it must spread the light, because that light
comes from the sun itself, it comes directly from the entire universe...I forgot your name,
Captain...Ó
ÒMy name is Ara Herian.
ÒThank you. Very nice name, indeed, very nice...Then, Ara, let us understand. That light
is the way. In the far East there are very great thinkers and among them there is one, to whose
fountain of wisdom I always approach with thirst, and his name is Lao Tse. Have you heard of
him? Well then, Lao Tse has said: ÒWhen they lose the Way, they still have the Virtue. When
they lose the Virtue, they still have the Morality. When they lose the Morality, they still have the
Law. When they lose the Law, they still have the Custom. Yet the Custom is only the external
Morality and from there starts the assimilation...Ó He said, first the Way. The Way, that is The
Self. It is very interesting, isnÕt it?Ó
ÒVery.Ó
ÒNow, let me tell you. I walked in the fields and mountains of this land, I visited cities and
villages, I listened to men and women and my heart cringed. The Armenian nation, Mr. Captain,
has lost the Way and kept the customs only...It has lost the Spirit and kept the form...We are
defeated!Ó
He folded his arms on his chest as his face turned grave.
ÒI am saying this, because I met you here, in this special place, where fate brought us
together to see each other, to talk and to think. Understand: I come from far places, with a heart
full of thirst and torment...running after myself...and behold, they have lost the traditions. They
have scattered here and there. They say nation, they say country. Before even coming here, I
recognized my true land, as it is...not merely as an area, but as a being full of light and
mystery...I do not know, have you ever thought about this? The scientists of the West consider an
area as a neutral place, which contains objects and movements. For them an area is a physical
thing, and an event is just an event. All without interaction, without unity. If we think the same way,
it shall be our end and the way will be closed.
ÒFineÓ, said Herian with interest, Òand how ought we understand our land?Ó
ÒLet me tell you, Captain, let me tell you... There are lands, for instance in America,
which are not mixed, not cultivated with spirit. They are merely physical masses, ruled by the
basic laws of nature and the whims of men...On the other hand, there are lands, which belong to
Spiritual geography, where every natural phenomenon is caused by the spirit and every human
action participates in that spirit. It is a living, magnetic, psychic, supernatural area where all the
signs are marked, and where every movement, every action, every stated word, receives utmost
significance.
Behold, in our land, as the self has been transformed to personality, as it lost its human/divine
nature, as it was forced into mediocre states, as it forgot its spiritual tradition, dualism came
between the self and the land. The only phenomenon that corresponds to this geography, are
these buildings in one of which we now stand...Ó
ÒAs a religious, Christian expression?Ó
Ò No, no, more than that...they have come from farther places and they are more than
the religion to which we was imposed on us...They are built by the lights of Armenian rocks and
mountains, they integrate the self with the land and show us the way, about which we were
talking...I wandered everywhere and everywhere IÊsearched for them...In some areas they still
remain standing, like a frozen song which is expressed with stones, wounded here and there by
the centuries, winds and people, but, ruined or not, they witness an irresistible urge, an internal
and internally energized attitude, a spiritual precondition, without which there is not and cannot be
true life...There, within them, the boundaries are drawn, unity is discovered, the divine is born. The
naked brightness of those lines, which is flight and power, which is absolute form and wholeness,
has come from long and arduous wars, which the spirit of our race has fought against chaotic
forces of night and magic, as, prior to that, the shining Olympic principle had fought with
serpent-gods and god-serpents, ghosts, beings with animal heads, underground pagan fire and
against other dark, obscure phenomena. Here, Captain, the Armenian, for the second time, and in
a different way,
has lit that torch, which in ancient times the Corians had lit as a sign of victory against the
Creto-Minoan world. The Armenian had found his spiritual unity, his light, which he had spread
over the four corners of the world...Ó
He stopped, and thought for a minute.
ÒThe supreme goal of every raceÓ, he continued, Òis to spread the human and the
visible, in the universe and in the invisible. The Armenian Temple was the first and the most
important step to reach that goal. The spirit was integrated, the style discovered, the ladder stood
upright, but no one would rise...The night and chaos came back, the Armenian race lost the
torch that it had found and entered into an earth-shaking era.
ÒThe blame is not on us...history...external circumstancesÓ! complained Herian.
ÒI know, it is customary to say so. It is wrong. Spiritual strength and unity are invincible.
External events visit us only when we are internally ready to receive them. It is the Spirit Itself
which creates external circumstances, and It alone invites them over...No, no, I do not agree with
you...Let me say simply, that again the race is faced with decisive days, terrible, horrible
days...Events invade us in unexpected ways, one after the other...they come armed with the steel
of days, they strike us and we, surprised and saddened, ask why? Why? Therein is the
problem...
ÒWhy?ÓÊWhispered Herian.
ÒWhy?...A while ago you were looking at the stares shining from these walls...I was
following your every movement and when I approached you, it was because at the same time, I
was experiencing like you a chaotic moment...Why, you say, why?...Look at them, and they will tell
you...! My respects, Captain, my respects...
And Peter Mark disappeared. He was lost in the dark.
Herian wiped the cold drops of sweat from his forehead and left.
Excerpt No. 2 (Pages 147-154)
The hall was becoming full with the newly arriving crowd. The newcomers were squeezing
around the already-occupied tables, forming large groups, and blocking the walkways.
Smoke. Noise.
Herian was watching carefully.
ÒThis is a strange sceneÓ, he said, Òit seems, that these people have been in some
danger. Confused looks, cringed mouths...Ó
ÒRussia is passing through an enormous screen. The heavy particles remain, but the
rest surrenders to the winds...Ó
ÒFugitives...Ó
ÒIf one thinks wellÓ, exclaimed Sultanian, Òhe will see that escaping is a dishonorable
thing. One should never leave his homeland, even if oneÕs life is threatened. The refugee, after
all, is a half-person...Ó
ÒThey have escaped from famine, persecutions, deprivations.Ó
ÒPrecisely. They are afraid of deprivation. Although, watch, they already look like dead
leaves blown away by the winds. And I do not understand one thing. If millions of people are
suffering, why should artists escape these sufferings?Ó
ÒI am in total agreementÓ, said Gara, ÒI am in total agreement. One must have the
courage to face reality as it comes and to transform that reality, as cruel as it may be, to art. The
song can be the basis for everything.Ó
ÒThat is undeniableÓ, agreed Herian, ÒOne must stay, insist, and persevere. We are all
responsible for these events and we must have the courage to face their consequencesÓ.
ÒThe spirit is the essential thing. Every individual must remain connected with the center
of his spirit. Events are around us, not within us. They come, roar, leave and, finally are subdued
by that same spirit, if it is great and radiant. We, Armenians, have known this for centuries...Ó
ÒThese fugitives make a very interesting sceneÓ, Haig Shoushan started again, after a
brief pause. Ò I have been watching them since they arrived here. This mob is not merely
composed of artists and poets. There are all kinds of elements among them...When they arrived,
they looked pitiful. Pathetic, thin, malnourished...But they did not waste any time. Many of them,
personalities with examining eyes and stubborn foreheads, immediately analyzed the situation,
they smelled the environment and put themselves to work. Numerous shops were opened. They
were selling and buying everything. They were exchanging money and collecting gold, silver and
precious gems. Before long, many ladies came forward. Baronesses, duchesses, princesses with
resonant, noble names. With vain looks and lovely smiles. They then started sponsoring artists
and writers...Ó
ÒAccording to the tradition...Ó
ÒYes! Under that pretense they opened nightclubs, where they received you with the
noblest ways, formal greetings, compromising smiles, and where, you met famous names, about
whom you had once read in the papers of Petersburg or Moscow.Ó They were offering you the
unavoidable cup of tea. One of the ladies sang with half a voice. Pastries and cakes were served.
They discussed and argued about art.Ó
ÒWhy not?...That was not such a bad thing...Ó
ÒNo. It was very good. What was bad, came later when they invited you to the roulette
room, for charity. Then, naturally, you were intimidated and accepted their offer, you lost your last
pennies, and with a cold face, feeling guilty for not having any more to spend, somehow you
came out and fled.Ó
ÒThat is what it was all about...Ó
ÒTbilisi now has this kind of lifestyle. Nightclubs, beautiful Russian princesses, famous
artists. It is surprising how profiteering the high nobility has become with respect to art...They
invite you one evening, to a place where one of the renowned poets will read his latest writings.
Full crowd. In the center of the hall there is a small stage. Roaring applause. The poet comes on
stage. Dressed in a long and strange shirt sewn from the silk of Bukhara, the edge of his nose
painted, his face tattooed like a gypsy, he starts to recite like a third-rate actor, with a distant and
vague voice, singular and unintelligible words. The ladies sigh and start applauding. They
surround the poet, shake his hands and kiss them. Then, unavoidably, they invite you over to the
other room, where, by chance, you rediscover the familiar roulette, and the delicate ladies who
eat you with their eyes...Ó
ÒDirt...!Ó
ÒFortunately, said Beronian, from that point of view our nation is unlike any other. We are
poor but at least we have the honor to stay alone with our cursed problems and tragedies. We
live a dangerous life:Êexternal enemies, malaria, typhoid, famine, and our refugees are no
princesses...I prefer that. One day, from those same tragedies we will mold new beauties. Our
beauties, deep and noble, are like all other things which are born of suffering...Ó
They fell silent.
Everyone was burdened with a large load. They mentally returned to Armenia. They fell
silent.
ÒDo you see how beautiful this tall lady is, the one who served us our tea?Ó asked
Shoushan, as if awakened from a dream.
ÒIndeed...Ó
ÒShe is from a very good family. Cultured, educated, with delicate taste.Ó
ÒShe caught my eyes from the first momentÓ, said Herian enthusiastically. ÒShe has
perfect, classic lines, as if she were a Greek statue...Ó
ÒBut...no, I might as well not ruin your illusion...Ó
ÒOur illusion...what do you mean by that...? Our morality...?Ó
ÒNo, no, IÊdonÕt mean that. Avoid looking at her, as she may realize that we are talking
about her.Ó
ÒOK, fine, tell us then what you mean.Ó
ÒLook, there is always something thrown on her left shoulder, to cover her arm.Ó
ÒYes, really...Ó
ÒIt is because that arm is much shorter than the other...Ó
ÒYes...what a pity...Ó
ÒBrother, why did you have to tell us that...?Ó
ÒYou were the ones insisting...Besides, I wanted to say, that every happiness disguises
a wound, which we do not notice. We were talking about our nation and our misery...I thought; it
is not possible to create anything from deformed beauties, however, the life that is deformed,
crushed, and full of suffering can be transformed to the highest values...Ó
ÒIt depends...Ó interrupted Sultanian, ÒIt depends...Permanent physical suffering could
lead to decay and numbness. Suffering is beautiful, when it nourishes creative energies, spiritual
flights, fullness of life, which seek their own ways of expression. Dante stood on top of the
darkness of his times. He was the echo of one of ItalyÕs most vicious periods. Echo and judge.
ÒYes, because his personal, powerful spiritual unity was inseparably tied to the unity of
his race. He was a furious judge in the name of that raceÕs most supreme traditions,Ó added
Shoushan.
Gara flew out of his seat. He protested.
ÒTradition, tradition!...By the love of gods, let us abandon these ancient, worn-out ideas,
and put an end to these old, hallucinated words! Look around you! Life has leaped forward, head
first, moving like a bullet bursting out of a gun, and you are lecturing about tradition...Brother, it is
time to understand, that if we have fallen in this situation today, it is because we have been
educated by the stupid priests and not less stupid schoolteachers. Always the same words! Our
glorious past, our virtues, our Christianity, our Sahag-Mesrob, the invention of our letters, the
torch of the Illuminator, the wisdom of our fathers, the hometownÕs fig tree, and momÕs
homemade yogurt...The result...? The result is in front of us...our inability to grasp the horrible
events that are crushing us, the century which has invaded us, the history which is molding new
forms that we do not understand. Why not say it?ÊOur writers are more responsible for this
incomprehension than any others...Ó
Sultanian replied:
ÒThere it is, you got worked-up again, Gara. Of course, you are somewhat right in
criticizing our educators. I think we are all in agreement on that... Speaking about traditions, as
those gentlemen have spoken, is a sign of mental slumber, dullness, mediocrity,
oversimplification, etc...
ÒPrecisely...Ó
ÒThey were small men, not always sincere, who tried to disguise their mediocrity
behind empty formulas which were repeated again and again, from one century to another. No
doubt, those ideas had once played an important role, in building things which are now
forgotten; however, they no longer meant anything and found no echo in the minds...That is
obvious like the light of day...Ó
ÒBravo...Ó
ÒThat is so. But let us not forget another aspect. Progress of history and mind in the lives
of nations is none other than a return toward the true nature of the race; Toward that tiny and
simple spiritual fountain-source, from which its main virtues are derived and on which is based
its will to be. Those purest primitive energies, which have nourished and justified its existence.
From that point of view, every real revolution is going back; not toward that which they have
imperfectly named tradition, but toward that, which constituted the spiritual nature of the race, the
impetus of its origination.Ó
ÒThe primeval nakedness...Ó
ÒI donÕt know, am IÊable to explain myself?...The fundamental change will occur only
when the race rediscovers its bright innocence-lighted eyes; those eyes, which can see the
essence in the light of eternity, and hold that essence higher than human, pure human values.
Reality is recurring. It is the integration of the past with the present. It is that supreme union of life
which we recultivate, as the land is recultivated by the sowerÕs great and fundamental urge.Ó
Those words reminded Herian of Mark whom he had met in Armenia.
ÒYou know, in Armenia...Ó
He could not continue.
Everyone had turned their head to the nearby table.
A short young man, with eyes swollen and bursting out like a frog, and turning his short
arms round like a mill, was loudly reciting something in an unintelligible language.
His mouth twisted strangely, and he was meowing like a cat. He was howling like the
wind, roaring, or making the sounds of birds which sang in an otherworldly, mysterious forest;
then he cracked like a chicken, rumbled, growled and roared.
He was extremely excited.
He would brought his hands to his chest, rolled his eyes, twirled his body, stretched his
lips like rubber and whistled, hissed, as if describing an inner sadness, a certain sorrow.
ÒWell, whatÕs going on?Ó wondered Herian, ÒIs he sick or what?...Ó
ÒNoÓ, answered Gara seriously, Òhe simply is a poet who belongs to a group called Ô40
degreesÕ...That fellow, my friend, is the inventor of the international sound language. He is
reciting a poem, which is called ÔMotherÕs mourning at her sonÕs tombÕ. It is a beautiful and
impressive poem. One must say, that is a true revolution in style and expression.Ó
ÒThere you go!Ó...exclaimed Shoushan turning to Sultanian. ÒMost precisely the return
that you were preaching about...Ó
ÒTo the era of the beasts...Ó
They all laughed.
ÒThis only indicatesÓ, responded Sultanian with a comfortable voice, Òthat every truth
can be stretched to nonsense...I was talking about the primal spirit of the race, about the spiritual
flight at the time of origination, not about walking on four feet...!Ó
ÒLet us not start this argument againÓ, interrupted Beronian. Time is flying, we have a
thousand things to do, and besides, we are eating something arenÕt we?...LetÕs goÓ...
In the street, Herian held BeronianÕs arm, waited for the others to go ahead and started
questioning him.
ÒFirst tell me, why have you come back to Tbilisi?Ó
ÒIs that a question? You know, donÕt you, that this time not only we are out of paper,
but ink and printing supplies as well?Ó
ÒI understand. One thing. How is the situation at home?
ÒBad. After you left it became more complicated. As soon as the incident with the
Georgians was over, the problems of Karabagh started...They truly do not want to leave us alone.
It was heard, that the Turks had a previously-made decision to use every way to weaken and
paralyze us, to make it impossible for us to fight and defend ourselves. Because of that , we
have no rest. They are creating and inciting constant incidents on the borders. Add the horrible
cold, and that our soldiers have neither clothes nor shoes...I am not even mentioning the lack of
arms...Ó
ÒFine, but the great Allied States?Ó
ÒImagine, not only they are not helping us, but on the contrary, they are supplying our
enemies with provisions, arms and bullets...Of course, history will one day record their despicable
behavior...The problem is that, the popular opinion both in Europe and the United States is
asleep, being tired of war, and those in action are old political wolves, without conscience,
without honor, materialistic and greedy...
The Allies, forgetting those ideals, for which they were supposedly fighting, today, after victory,
have started competing with each other, conspiring and betraying, trying to win over yesterdayÕs
enemies, and arming them to defeat yesterdayÕs friends. We are a small, blood-soaked nation,
and our land has no oil or gold, so after deceiving us, now they are sacrificing us...All we are left
with is to fight and endure. There is no other way out.Ó
They walked silently.
Excerpt No. 3 (Pages 158-172)
Dinner was over, most customers had left, but Herian and his friends still remained
seated.
Thoughtful and silent.
ÒEven Tbilisi, which is so close to home, has colonial mentality. I have observed during
my travels; when the Armenian leaves the mountains, he becomes diminished, smaller,
demoralized...he changes...loses a certain secret, a certain mystery. One day we must draw
definite borders, and differentiate. Let us be few in numbers, that has no importance, but let us
totally be what we really are...Let them leave, assimilate, and not say that they are Armenian...Ó
Herian said that with eyes full of anger.
ÒThese are difficult problemsÓ, thought Beronian loudly. ÒOne day, life itself will solve
these problems...Of course, at least we, for our true edification, must realize that, and as you say,
draw definite borders. Let us differentiate the true Armenian from the Levantine types, from those
distorted elements with whom we are only related by our language...However, let us not forget,
that if tomorrow the creation of a stable state becomes possible, they will come in droves and will
be the loudest and the most demanding for privileges...Ó
ÒThatÕs alright, let them come, the air of the homeland will wash and clean themÓ, said
Shoushan.
ÒAre you sure...?Ó
ÒComplicated matters!Ó Exclaimed Sultanian, Òcomplicated matters...! Our race, like all
the races in the world is mixed. Over the centuries, a thousand and one events have taken place;
a thousand and one peoples have come and passed through; naturally, they have left their traces
in our blood. A kind of chaos has been created. Blood, heredities, the darkness of the distant
past, the peoples, the races...over all that a great mystery prevails...Ó
ÒThat is correctÓ, agreed Beronian, Òeven physically we are different; take for instance
our different provinces, I do not even speak of Istanbul, Smyrna, and other distant places...Ó
ÒThat does not matterÓ, continued Sultanian, ÒAfter all, what distinguishes a race,
particularly a nation, is not the physical, but the mental. There are no pure races, but there are
purified, dominant mentalities. The wholeness which dominates the psychology. There have been
fortunate times, when the Armenian spiritual potential reached its wholeness, discovered its
golden harmony, its light; and that, to the extent that it could, it spread that light - through
religion, architecture, culture - over the four corners of the world.Ó
Ò It is enough to look around right here in Georgia, to be convinced of that.Ó
Ò It was, and is no moreÓ.
ÒYesÓ.
Sultanian put his hands on the table, leaned his head sideways, and fell silent.
It seemed, that an interior struggle was taking place within him. The issues that he touched on
had tormented him for a long time, as they had tormented many conscious and mentally proud
Armenians, who could not adapt to the existing situation.
They wanted to look within with plain and kind eyes. To put reality under the lights of
consciousness. To not be passively subjected to events and to subject everything to ruthless
analysis.
To refuse, to deny the nationÕs collective faults, and by the way of denial, to rediscover
that never-dying flame which burned at the spiritual center of the race, which was veiled
throughout history with a thick night.
To rediscover those positive energies, which could provide impetus and flight to the new
life which was being reborn.
ÒComplicated matters!Ó said Sultanian, Òso complicated, they boggle oneÕs
mind...Often, after a lot of searching, it seems that you have finally found the fundamental, that
omnipotent key, which would open all doors, enlighten you, escort you through tiny hidden
passages to the center....A little later, after examining well - after measuring the idea against the
scale of life - you suddenly see, that it was not so,
that other unaccounted forces are now facing you, other influences, other underground
currents...you become subdued, disappointed. The problem is that we consider the individual as a
unit and we subject him to our expectations. We forget that the daily man - the one who is
number, quantity, majority - is nothing but a fragment...The daily man is a fraction, a part, a being
without center. He is not a whole individual; a self-sufficient, autonomous individual, who is able
to create and establish his own mutual relations with death, love, and the universe. And the
fraction, whether it wants or not, will become institutionalized by the ecclesia, nation, state,
party...Ó
ÒAlso there is the language...Ó
ÒYes, also the language. But when there is no center of gravity, when that force is not
powerful, always-renewing, always-creating gravity, the fragments that are pushed out of the land
will constantly become less, lessened, and finally, pulverized...The elements which have escaped
from the center distort everything: The language, the religion, the understanding of nation and
homeland. Reality becomes disguised with empty words. Circumstantial scenes are created, void
of growing potential and flowering sap...and even more happens; the centrifugal force no longer
governs the parts, and the parts themselves adapt that forceÕs fundamental ideals to their
immediate, local conditions, they degenerate it, they derail it from its ordinary flow, they obscure
the mystery of its essence. Therein is the real tragedy...Ó
ÒThe colony is created...Ó
ÒYes. The nation ceases to exist, and instead of it, a certain pseudo-nation is
established. The language is transformed into many languages, the style is lost, and meanings
are replaced by words.Ó
Ò They write with dead lettersÓ, added Haig Shoushan. ÒBastard, fake, inanimate
languages are created.Ó
ÒArtificial, deceiving! ApovianÕs greatness is in this; when he returned from Germany to
his own people, he threw aside his enormous cultural supply, his mental sensitivities, and baring
himself, approached his people and spoke to them with the rough and crude words that he had
borrowed from their own mouths. Not one insincerity, not one lie, not one unnecessary ornament.
And he created magnificent literary works, fundamental and essential...The poor peasant does not
plant roses on his land, but he plants wheat...Our Mkhitarians of Venice and the gentlemen of
Istanbul and other places, did not have land to plant anything, so they built artificial roses;
colorful, pretty and paper-made. The consequence was that, the cornerstones were lost...instead
of one dominant mentality - we said, that the race is the mentality - different mentalities were
created, and that central light which the nation used to enlighten its mystery of being, to establish
its universal essentiality, to vitalize the torch of its blood, was veiled...Ó
ÒBrother, we have been sitting like this... at least let us drink somethingÓ, suggested
Herian, as he ordered a bottle of wine.
He wanted to show his enthusiasm with something.
ÒCheers to you, Sultanian... How eloquently said! The torch of the blood...Ó
Sultanian drank and paused for a moment, as if to hear the contradictory and sorrowful
sounds that were rising within him.
ÒMan sometimes is afraid to thinkÓ, he continued, ÒHe is afraid to verbalize that which,
like a mute wave, pounds against the heart... Horrible events have come here. We have entered a
new earth-shaking era of history:ÊHorrible new forces have come out, masses have been roused
, borders have become distorted, new appetites and new demands have come forward...The
world has been shaken by a hurricane, and the heavy clouds accumulating over the horizon are
suggesting even more, fiercer hurricanes... We must have all our energies to go through these
hurricanes; to go through them, and to resist them. Yet resistance is possible only with powerful,
overbearing spiritual strength...Whether we like it or not, our blood flows, but blood which has
flowed is void of meaning, if it does not radiate. Death which is accepted with free will for a
supreme ideal, is a spiritual lighthouse which illuminates life; otherwise, it is despair and
meaningless...Ó
ÒYou cannot say, that we did not fight...Our heroic squads, the miraculous resistance of
our people, the epics about our volunteers, our army...It is now four years that we have been
fighting, and it is still not over...Ó, interrupted Beronian.
ÒI am not the one to deny that...I am saying, that the world has turned upside down,
humanity has lost its equilibrium, new forces from below the surface are invading to subdue new
possibilities, the seemingly-permanent foundations of societies are cracking, states are changing
and peoples and races are being reclassified...This is not new to us: Our history has always been
horrible and yet grand, and we have always lived a dangerous life. If we did not disappear, it is
because in the hours of danger we rediscovered our essence, our unity, our spiritual
countenance...That is it! Those peoples who are deprived of a strong spiritual countenance, who
have nothing to say or contribute, in whose hands there is no flame to enlighten that general
chaos, are doomed to disappear.Ó
ÒBrother, your are drinking nothingÓ, complained Herian.
ÒWe are drinking, arenÕt we?Ó
ÒIf only the glasses were full...Ó
ÒCheers...Ó
From the next room, a group of people were also seated and drinking.
One was singing with a half-voice.
A sad, Eastern song. As if it was a mourning from a deep heart.
ÒHe is singing Payati Ó , said Beronian.
ÒWhat?...Ó
ÒPayati. . Persian...Ó
They all listened silently.
ÒWe interrupted youÓ, said Haig Shoushan referring to Sultanian.
ÒI said what I had to say...Ó
ÒThat is not the question; the question is Ó, interrupted Gara, Òthat unity, about which
you speak; how can one bring it about? The Armenian nation is composed of various
elements...Let us take, for example, an Armenian from Istanbul and put him in front of an
Armenian from Karabagh...even the language...Ó
ÒA quail and a hawk...Ó
ÒYou said it well...Ó
They laughed.
ÒThat is not a serious objection...those differences exist in all peoples; the Sicilian and
the Venetian, the Cossack and the white Russian...Ó
ÒNaturally. That even constitutes a peopleÕs wealth...different types, different
dialects...ÕDavid of SassounÕ is sung in all provinces, all dialects, with local improvements...Ó
ÒBut ÔDavid of SassounÕ is not sung in Istanbulian Armenian...Ó
ÒBut no! Can you imagine? Istanbulian Armenian and ÔDavid of SassounÕ...?
ÒThose people have lived there for centuries; during the Byzantines they even ruled the
city, however, they did not build one church in Armenian style...Ó
ÒThat is very remarkable...Ó
ÒIstanbul was a colony.Ó
ÒLvov was a colony too, right?Ó
ÒBut no!Ó said Sultanian, Òbut no! Let us leave Istanbul...Our national epics have been
sung by the provinces in different dialects, but they have been sung and inspired by the same
central motifs. That is what counts.The heroes of poetry have raised in the heart of the race the
same powerful and dominant sound. The spirit has been the same everywhere.Ó
ÒI even believe, that the Armenian spiritual geography can be defined by ÔDavid of
SassounÕ; wherever it was sung, it was Armenia, and wherever it was not sung, it was colony.Ó
ÒIf you like...Ó
ÒThe race is formed from various spiritual currents, different myths, different deities. If
we excavate our lands, Armenia will be filled ghosts coming from far, very far distances.Ó
ÒThe mountain man, the valley man...Ó
ÒThrace, Urartu...Ó
In the nearby room they were not singing any longer.
They were silently drinking.
ÒThe fundamental prototypes have remainedÓ, continued Sultanian. If we wished to
distinguish with broad lines, we could approximately ascertain and identify them. First, the
Thracian Armenian. They had crossed over Asia Minor like a hurricane which turned everything
upside down. Tall, strong, agile. Fierce warriors, ruthless conquerors. Their gods were drunk with
happy, complex visions; they were gods nourished with wine and blood. Archers, stone grinders,
movers of rocks, dancers on ropes, taking spirit from awe-inspiring worships, swift-moving and
fast-running people. They worshipped the heroes, the fire, the mountains. And they were like fire
and like the mountains.Ó
ÒTheir traces can be seen until today in Ticor and Bakaran. Truly the rocks have been
moved...a gigantic enterprise...Ó added Beronian. Ò When you look at them, they make you
dizzy...Ó
ÒYes. Then there are the others...let us conditionally name them the Urartian prototype.
These are by their nature clerks, bookkeepers, merchants, travelers, and sometimes artists,
writers. This element was occupied with trade, yearned for the modern, imitated the foreigners,
maintained and decorated the temples, the churches.Ó
ÒGood diplomats...Ó
ÒPeace-loving; Prosperity, charity. Without flight, without sacrifices, non-heroic. Without
daring. In fear of deities, kneeling worshipers. Slave-minded and cunning. The Gulf race...Ó
ÒThe tragedy is that, when the land became a place full of dangers, they fled and
scattered everywhere...Ó
ÒAnd foreigners judge our people by them...Ó
ÒYes. Try to make those foreigners understand, that they make up a negligible part of
the Armenian nation, that our real people have always remained on their lands, in their mountains,
worked, fought, and built...Ó
In the nearby room they were singing again. They were singing a dance song.
Those seated around the table were hitting it with their fingers, as a large and tall man -
with Circassian clothes collected around his belt - danced.
Dam li di bel
Bel li di dam
Di bel li dam...dam-dam-pedam...
As they said these words, they hit on the table and danced.
The dancer was an aged, bearded man...
For a moment they all looked there. ÒThe Caucasus!Ó said Gara smiling.
ÒO yes, what were you saying?Ó
ÒThe Gulf people...Ó
ÒThat is what I wanted to sayÓ, Sultanian said after thinking for a moment, Òlet us leave
the foreigners...Even for us the time has come to differ, to differentiate, to choose. We must draw
a ruthless border between us and them; we must promptly cut and throw away that darkness with
a mental knife...Ó
ÒEasy to say...Ó
ÒIt is not easy. What I am saying, is directed, naturally, to that elite which must carry on
itself all the responsibilities. Let us look at our past and have the courage to be accountable to
ourselves. This morning we were talking about the necessity to return to primeval spirits. Who are
those spirits?...Ó
ÒOur history is a closed book...Ó
ÒBut if we did not understand it, who will? The past, doubtless, is a series of mysteries
and it is difficult to comprehend everything...Our Christian historians have distorted everything and
even deceived us to push forward their biblical world-view which was foreign to us...Ó
ÒThat was a crime, such a...such a...such a...Ó
And Gara, with bitter and hissing words, lashed the clerics.
ÒLet us leave thatÓ, continued Sultanian, after listening to Gara patiently,Òthat is not
important now...When we look at our past, one thing is clear, that over a period of more than thirty
centuries, the Armenian nation has made superhuman efforts to create a great culture; but, every
time it had to remain unfinished, and we could never reach our true goal... Assyrians, Romans,
Byzantines, Tamerlanes, Genghis Khans, Persians, Arabs, Turks have destroyed what we had
just begun to build, they robbed us, they took the best of us, they usurped the creations of our
race...Ó
ÒThe political slavery of foreign so-called scientists has come to such an extent,Ó added
Haig Shoushan, that when they make excavations in Turkey, that is in Armenian provinces, they
are afraid to even mark the map with the name Armenia.Ó
A large noise was raised. Everyone present was putting forward proofs of malevolence,
and getting angry about it.
ÒThe Byzantine, during its best period, was three-quarters Armenian...Ó
ÒThe Armenian architecture of the first centuries of Christianity may be considered the
second Renaissance of the Classic age...Ó
ÒThey talk about Turkish art...it is laughable...Ó
ÒNot that! I want to say...Ó
Ò...It is laughable...Ó
Ò The trip of Leonardo Da Vinci to Armenia and its consequences...Ó
ÒThat is one special enmity...Ó
Ò...In Tuscany, Christianity was introduced by Saint Mineado...Ó.
ÒSilence! Silence for a minute...!Ó
ÒBrother! Let us see what Sultanian wants to sayÓ.
ÒFirst, let us drink...Let us drink this cup...Ó
ÒNo, it really is laughable!...Ó
Excerpt No. 4 (Pages 166-172)
The customers in the nearby room were no longer dancing, singing.The aged bearded
man, whispering at the edge of the table, his eyes full of tears, was narrating something.
They were all listening, saddened.
The man who had opened his hands, was speaking moving his head right and left. When
he stopped for a moment, they all used the pause to drink.
Then he spoke again. They drank again.
ÒWhen everything is ruinedÓ, said Beronian after a silent period was established, Òthe
neighbors will take even the last stones of your house...Ó
ÒThe Kemalists are bombarding with canons the splendid remnants of our ancient
churches which remain in our provinces, so that there would be not one trace left of the Armenian
nationÓ, added Haig Shoushan.
ÒYou will see tomorrow, they will consider Kemal a great man and a liberator...Ó
ÒSuch are the affairs of the world...the American missionaries, who are the pioneers of
their capitalism, will glorify these bloodthirsty beasts...Ó
ÒThese are old pains, about which it is better not to talk...Ó, said Sultanian. ÒBeronian is
right; when nations become miserable and deprived of historic significance, they are despised and
robbed. When one day, we stand on our feet again, the number of our friends will increase. Let
us first think of ourselves, recover spiritually, and then we shall see...Ó
ÒA while ago, Sultanian, you were speaking of our historic effort to create a great
culture...we interrupted youÓ, said Gara.
ÒYes, that is what I wanted to say...Ó continued Sultanian, Òthat culture is spirit and
great culture is specially unique to small peoples...Ó
ÒIf you like. At least that is so in the past; Athens, Florence...Culture is not wealth,
civilization, reformed social system or state power, but pure spirituality; A lamp that illuminates
and enriches life...Thus, if you examine our history well, you will see that from the beginning, from
the days of the legends, we have run after that lamp, that light. Ara...Ó
ÒThe king, that light, the king, the sun,
Who bared his sword to declare war
Against the dark wings of darkness;
And rejected ShamiramÕs love...Ó
Gara recited the lines of the poem that he had written and looked at SultanianÕs eyes.
ÒThere, like thatÓ, encouraging Gara with a head gesture, continued Sultanian. ÒIt is
significant, that our history starts with that golden legend. As if history is telling us: Take that light
and march on...And we have walked over difficult roads and every time that light died, we have
wandered in darkness, we have come down from our height and resigned from our
greatness...The legend of Ara and Shamiram is the war between two principles: On one side Ara,
with the strong and agile body of a cougar, courageous, enlightened mind, the absolute and
powerful sun-king; the will woven with eternal rays, the daring visionary who created
awe-inspiring symbols, the chief priest who transformed blood and suffering into ecstasy and
expressed the meaning of the universe with light; and, on the other side Shamiram, the
Assyro-Babylonian desert-warmth, womanhood, hysteria, libido, the pigeon and the snake, the
gold and the crime, the temple of lunar worship...Ó
ÒYou forget, that Ara was the one defeatedÓ, remarked Shoushan.
ÒAnd thatÕs the way it had to be. According to the rules of tragedy, the hero must
sacrifice, he must be crowned with death, to be born again. The sun sets to rise again...Ó
ÒIt is a little romanticÓ, remarked Beronian.
ÒPerhaps to us, but not to our peopleÓ, answered Sultanian. ÒOur people have never
gone far from that principle. First, donÕt forget that Zarathustra was born in an Armenian
province, Karabagh, and we, along with the Parthians and Persians, have been his worshipers for
centuries; then, when they imposed Christianity on us, we transformed that religion into
Araism...For our people Jesus is the Sun. Jesus is the resurrected Ara. Light, fire. Our peasant
keeps a constant fire in his hearth, he swears by the sun, he worships the light, he invokes AraÕs
death and the setting of the sun by sacrifice, and prays turning toward sunrise...Ó
ÒThat is trueÓ, agreed Beronian, Òour people say Ômy sunÕ, Ô your sun my witnessÕ,
Ômay your fire never dieÕ...Ó
ÒThey also sayÓ, remarked Gara, Ôhuman-godÕ!...Ó
ÒTo us the divine is not an external, ruthless and irresistible ruling force, but a power
which is like light, and always reborn through and recreated by man. Man himself must become
light, ray, divine...Perhaps our ancestors have possessed spiritual means to reach to that
greatness, means which we have lost.Ó
They fell silent.
In the next room they were singing again. A melancholic Eastern melody which was
complaining as in mourning.
The bearded man, holding his head with his hands, was listening. His face had turned
red, his eyes were swollen.
All had drunk.
Herian - while no one had heard - turned his ear toward the song, filled his cup, drank and
became extremely sad.
He remembered Zvart.
ÒWhateverÓ, he said as he looked blearily into his friendsÕ eyes. ÒWhatever, let us
drink some...Ó
They laughed.
Òwhat is it?Ó he stammered, confused, Òdid I say something bad...?Ó
ÒNo. IÊremembered that your name is Ara...Ó, said Beronian.
Herian turned very red.
ÒAnd you had to say something...!Ó
ÒAll that is very good, very beautifulÓ, said Gara, Òbut the immediate life, its
demands...the political conditions, the economic factors...Ó
ÒIÊknew that one or the other would raise that objectionÓ, answered Sultanian. ÒThe
objective conditions, the historical laws...they are there, no doubt they exist, however, let it not
surprise you when I say; great things have always been accomplished in spite of objective
conditions. That is one thing that the race of bookkeepers and priests does not understand...Ó
ÒMe, a priest?Ó Gara said angrily.
ÒNo, no, we are not talking about youÓ, comforted him Sultanian. ÒI say in
general...Look, let us consider our history; if the economic factor was the most supreme factor, we
would have become, long ago, Persian, Arab or Turk; however, our history is composed of
incredible successions of tragic events, in the name of one supreme stupidity...! Even today and
tomorrow, how can we compete with the enormous Russian production machine, we, who are rich
only with stones...?Ó
ÒYou are an extreme pessimist; our economy is adequate for usÓ, objected Beronian.
ÒThose times when we could isolate ourselves in our mountains and live according to
our traditional lives are gone...The world is interconnected now and all peoples must contribute
their own unique values...Ó, said Shoushan.
ÒVery trueÓ, agreed Sultanian. There lies the question: With what values can we
participate in the general life...? Today mankind is hungry for matter; crazed, bewildered, it runs
after material goods and; to acquire those goods it destroys, burns and bombs everything...ÓÊ
ÒThey destroyed our home as well, and sacrificed us as well,Ó said Herian.
ÒYes! Tomorrow they will put machine against machine, factory against factory. They will
get involved in the production of matter, they will swear by the name of matter, they will deify iron,
cement, the compounds of steel, the object and will sacrifice the human being and his
individuality...We, the small nations, cannot compete in that race, but we can save the pure
human values. Instead of iron creative power, instead of cement spiritual ascent, instead of steel
depth of mind and spiritual structuring. We can put against the smoky, dark, noisy factory, the elite
which is dedicated to human dignity. We can bring forward great and strong individuals, persons
who are capable of inventing and managing the goals of their lives, who are content with their
spiritual ascent, who can be self-structured, self-realized completely... I foresee a human race
made of the mighty ones of inner life, the heroes of spiritual ascent, torch-bearing, of divine
creation...When one day, those insect-converted mobs which have submitted to economic
shackles revolt against the machines and complain loudly about the loneliness and emptiness of
their souls, that race will come out of its hidden interior places and will return to humanity the
human and will fill the void with new and magnificent meaning.Ó
ÒThat is poetryÓ, Beronian remarked murmuring.
ÒAnd let it be poetryÓ, answered Sultanian, ÒLet it be poetry. Poetry is as real as life and
death, and after all more essential to life than iron and cement...Ó
In the neighboring room they were fighting.
ÒBrother, I didnÕt say that, I said...Ó
ÒHow can you say that, you said...no! Can such a thing happen...? You come, you sit at
my table, you drink my wine...!Ó
ÒBrother, I didnÕt say so, I said...Ó
And the bearded man, furious, rocking right and left, his bullÕs eyes bursting out, was
beating his hands against his chest and shouting.
That lasted a few minutes. Then, everyone sat down again and continued to drink.
Beronian, who had stood up, to watch the scene in the next room, suddenly noticed
someone coming in and called him.
He was a short-necked, graying-haired, myopic man.
ÒLook! Mardig, come here!Ó invited him Beronian.
The man came in, shook everyoneÕs hands, and sat down. He was the editor of the local
Armenian paper. He looked at everyoneÕs faces with his myopic eyes and fell silent.
ÒWhat is it, are you having a good time?Ó he asked a little later.
ÒNo, just talking about this and that...Ó
He fell silent again.
ÒDrink something!Ó
He refused with a head gesture.
ÒOh, friendÓ, teased Beronian, Òyour mood seems to be bad...Ó
The editor did not answer. He smoked.
ÒWhat, you are drinking wine from MilanÓ? he asked mechanically.
ÒNo, from Gakhed...Ó
ÒYeah, Gakhed...you see?Ó
ÒWhat...?Ó
ÒThere things are warmed up again...Ó
ÒWhere is there...?Ó
ÒWhere would you like it to be...? In our grand country...Ó
ÒWell, well, we got it! You want to scare us...donÕt tell us things full of lies...!Ó
ÒAnd Beronian looked at his face doubtfully.
ÒNo, by my sun, I am saying the truth...new telegrams arrived...Ó
Everyone stretched his head toward him.
Ò A general mobilization is declaredÓ, continued the editor in a neutral voice. ÒA state of
war, giving up the guns, etc...Ó
ÒWar...?Ó
ÒA general revolt of Turkish people. First, it started in Beyig-Vedi...The Kurds on the
other bank of Arax, joining with the Turks of Sharour and Nakhichevan, attacked our troops, cut
the communications and are advancing toward Zankezour.Ó
ÒThe Turks were preparing for that for a long time...Ó
ÒThey are rushing. They want to put the Peace Conference in front of a de facto
situation. The tragedy is that we do not have guns, and the government has started to rely on the
population to give up all of their guns.Ó
ÒWhat a situation...!Ó
ÒWe must return immediatelyÓ, exclaimed Herian with a saddened voice.
ÒWe must ask our local mission about that. The papers will come out soon. The reality
becomes known, and perhaps many will leave...Ó
All the customers in the restaurant had come and gathered around the editor. They were
shouted, interpreted, became sad.
They were cursing the states.
Herian and his friends decided to go immediately to the Armenian mission to receive
detailed information.
In the streets, the Armenians were snatching the newly-published newspapers from one
hand or another. A deep grief marked the faces of the passers-by. Everywhere groups were being
formed. They were talking, arguing, becoming sad.
ÒBrother, it is five years now, five years, that this situation has gone on...!Ó
ÒThey say there are no arms...that is it. arms, arms, arms...!Ó
ÒThere are arms here, but the Georgians would not let us send themÓ.
ÒThey do not understand, that if we are defeated, they will be defeated as well...the Turks
have their eyes on all of Caucasus...Ó
And the voices became deeper and more trembling.
Excerpt No. 5 (Pages 336-345)
What was going on? Babken MiranianÕs windows were still lighted!
He stopped. Turned his ears. No, this was no party. No sound could be heard.
The curtains prevented him from seeing inside. He looked at his watch; it was around three
oÕclock in the morning. At that hour they are usually asleep. Then, what was the reason that their
lights were on? Could it be, that someone is sick? Could it be, that something happened...?
Being uncertain, he waited.
From the street nearby footsteps of passing troops could be heard. The soldiers are
leaving, he thought, could it be...?
He knocked on the window pane gently. No one answered. He waited and knocked
again, this time harder. A shadow moved behind the curtain, came closer, moved the curtain
aside, put its nose against the glass but could see nothing because of the darkness.
ÒWho is it...?Ó
It was MiranianÕs voice.
ÒIt is me, Herian!...Ó
A little later, the street door was opened.
ÒI saw some lights, I thought perhaps something happened...what is it? Man and wife, all
alone, are you having a party...?Ó
ÒNoÓ, replied Miranian, trying to give an accent to the indifference in his voice,Ò no, we
were just sitting...please come in...the matter is that...Ó
When Mrs. Vartouhi stood up from the sofa to greet him, Herian noticed her eyes were
extremely red, she was pale and her shoulders were hanging down from exhaustion. But it was
surprising that she was dressed up so well. She had put on that deep blue satin dress that she
had brought from Baku, which looked so well on her and which Miranian loved very much.
ÒBy my sun!Ó exclaimed Herian, forcing himself to look cheerful, ÒBy my sun, you
resemble a queen who has just lost her throne...Ó
The lady looked confused, put her hands against her face and started sobbing.
ÒWhat happened?Ó asked Herian bewildered.
ÒBrother, nothing!Ó answered Miranian with a guilty voice, Òshe is really wearing herself
out in vain...she did not want to sleep and all the time she has been crying...The matter is that at
eight oÕclock we are heading to the front...Ó
ÒThe front...? What is it, war...?Ó
ÒYou ask as if so far what has taken place was not really war, as if war had ever
stopped...Simply, the fights are still continuing; thatÕs it...only this time the situation seems more
serious...the Turks are advancing toward Gars, and on the other side, the Red Army is
threatening Georgia and us...They say, our chief general, Nazarbegian, is very concerned...Ó
Herian sat down and looked down.
They fell silent.
Miranian went to the other room and returned with a bottle of cognac in his hand. He put
the glasses on the table and filled them up.
ÒWhat is it, you are coming from a party...?Ó
ÒNo, I was just invited somewhereÓ, answered Herian.
ÒVarya my dear! Have a drink with us...! IÊbeg you, donÕt be sad, smile, sweetheart,
smile...!Ó
The lady wiped her tears, smiled and took the glass.
ÒYes, thatÕs how!Ó said the cavalry officer cheerfully. ÒTruly, whoever lives in fire does
not fear fire...what can he fear? It has already been five years that we have had no rest. The
Austrian front, the battles of Baku, Sareghamish...I have four wounds, my body is used to it...well,
let us drink to being alive...Ó
Herian drank, and avoiding to disturb their intimacy, stood up to leave. Miranian
complained.
ÒPlease sit down, letÕs talk a littleÓ, he said,Òwho knows when shall shall we see each
other again...?Ó
He turned his head and looked at something far. He became focused again.
ÒVarya, my dear, if you like, set up the phonograph and play something...something
light...gypsy style...Ó
ÒNot now, later...Ó
ÒFine, as you like...Until now we were playing and listening,Ó he said, filling up the
glasses. ÒDrink...! We were listening to my favorite pieces...I must say, music is what I love
most...Ó
ÒMusic?Ó asked the lady, with a sad and jealous voice.
ÒMusic and Varya...If it wasnÕt for those mixed-up times, I may have attended
PetersburgÕs music school to continue my violin playing...IÊwas making pretty good
progress...Ó
He stood up, sat down by his wife and put her hands in his hands.
A strange fate awaited our generation, a senseless fate...Because France and Germany
had some problems to solve between them, Alsace-Loraine, economic superiority and I donÕt
know what else, fire started falling on our heads...The world became ruined, militarized,
savage...When one thinks how far we have come from everything, when one thinks...! Tonight, as
I sat with Varya, we were listening...BachÕs Concerto for Two Violins, BeethovenÕs quintets,
BrahmsÕ Fourth and other pieces...how good it was, how good...! I specially love Bach; his
restrained fire, his spirituality architectured with bright lines, his cool warmth and that...how can
one explain...that bright attitude toward life...Ah, Varya my dear, put the Concerto for Two Violins
on and let Mr. Herian listen...Ó
He put his head between his hands and remained so until the music ended. When he
raised his head - Herian had never seen him in that state - his eyes were burning, his face was
cleared and transparent.
ÒThere, now tell me!Ó he exclaimed with a sad voice, Òhere on one hand this bright and
awe-inspiring dialogue of the violins, this felicitous discussion between death and love, and on the
other hand, the ignorant, bloodthirsty, filthy Turk...Bach and the Turk...! No, nature is ruthless...!
Herian, who was used to raising arguments with Miranian, this time could not restrain
himself. He leaned back on the armchair and said:
ÒTo be truthful, if we consider our Abaranian peasant, it seems that he would not
understand BachÕs music much either...Ó
ÒThat is not the question, that is not the question!Ó complained Miranian. ÒIt seems that
even in Germany there would be many peasants who would not understand Bach at all. I have
thought about that often...The question is that, with the Armenian peasant, behind his exterior
crudity, in his unconscious depth, the potentialities of the human mind and the highest spiritual
flights are recorded...Put him in other, ordinary circumstances and he will enter into the complex
world of Bach and the other greats, as if it were his own home...He will enter that world, because
his spirit is woven of the same substance as BeethovenÕs spirit , and they belong to the same
race...They are able to pray in the same temple, to become sad with the same sadness, to be
spirited with the same spirituality, to sit together, to look into each otherÕs eyes, and to
understand each other without speaking...thatÕs it...!Ó
He approached the table, filled up the glasses again, and drank.
ÒThatÕs it...! But the Turk...! Here, facing each other, these are two opposite worlds
which reject each other...What is so terrible, Captain Herian, is that the Turk has no spiritual past,
his unconscious mind is a dark night, full of bestial instincts and primitive appetites...It has been
shown, that when the Turk receives the highest education, he becomes assimilated. He fears
culture, because he understands that culture - when it is not exterior style with no content - is
deadly to him. And that is very understandable; to create culture one must become transformed,
reborn spiritually, take flight, give new values to life and live with those values. But he is used to
destroy, to burn...Wherever the Turk has passed, no forest remained, no vegetation remained, no
homes remained...ask the Greeks, ask the Serbs, ask the Bulgarians...Even today, observe their
savagery toward defenseless civilians, not only toward women and children, but also toward those
miraculous works of architecture, which have lived for ten to fifteen centuries, which have
contributed to the glory of mankind and the foundation of Christian art...You know, of course, that
the Kemalian government has commanded its troops to bombard these structures, all the
churches which witness the genius of our race, with canons. And that not because of military
necessity, but simply to ruin and destroy...Think of the miraculous works of Akhtamar, the palaces
and churches of Ani which are unlike any others...Bastards...!Ó
ÒWithout doubt you are rightÓ, agreed Herian with a sad voice.
ÒI am an officer; war is war; a cruel thing...To fight, that sometimes is essential...but it is
dishonorable to slay women and children, it is dishonorable to destroy only to destroy...The Turk
is a dishonorable soldier; brave, enduring, fearless, but dishonorable. He is more a murderer,
than fighter. And as a murderer, he cannot tolerate that which has to do with the mind and the
soul. The Turk is primarily the anti-culture. Because of them, for centuries long, one of the
worldÕs richest and most beautiful areas, Armenia and Asia Minor, has been closed to the rest of
mankind, emptied of its greatness, forced to give up its messiah. In those circumstances, how
could there be a connection between them and Bach...?Ó
He fell silent. He walked from corner to corner.
ÒI say all thisÓ, he continued, stopping in front of Herian, Òbecause I want to account to
myself why IÊam going and risking my youthful life... I could be killed, but I want to know what will
I be killed for? I will fight and kill others; I want to know what am I defending and for what will I be
killing others...? Country, people, independence, you will say. Those are general words. If this
country, these people, this independence are not more than what they appear to be now, if they
are not the incarnation of a high and creative soul, if they are not the defenders of a calling which
was prepared for centuries and is deeply present, then I am a fool for wishing to become a martyr
for nothing...IÊam leaving - let this not seem so strange - to defend the Bach spirit against the
Turks...Ó
ÒWhat are you talking about, dear Babken?Ó said the wife, directing her eyes toward her
husband.
ÒIÊdonÕt knowÓ, said Miranian, after thinking for a moment, ÒI donÕt know...perhaps
what I am saying is really strange, perhaps it is laughable and makes me look gullible...You see,
dear Varya! We have lived for years away from Armenians. We have been Armenian, of course,
but more by birth than mind and soul...Russian culture, Russian education...our eyes were fixed
on Petersburg...On holidays we went to church, to the courtyard rather than inside, we practiced
light patriotism, we gave money to the refugees from Turkey, so that they would not beg in the
streets and humiliate us, we heard uncertain things from our fathers about Armenian literature,
and the word Armenia was like a distant historic bird, which had nested in unknown places and
was surrounded with pain and dreams...My father, during his free hours, loved to browse through
various books related to Armenians; ÔBrotherhood Help for ArmeniansÕ, a discolored collection
of photos from Ani, YesovÕs, BadganianÕs, AdontsÕs books...In general, have you noticed that
our merchants, because of whom foreigners have such negative opinions about our innocent
people, in order to caress their patriotism, love to collect books related to Armenians, which they
never read, and even if they did, they would not understand them...? But that is not what I wanted
to say; It was that when one opened those books, he became really despaired. Ruined churches,
fallen stones of sculptured ornaments, destroyed steeples, deserts, and in the deserts, a few
peasants and a couple of priests...A kind of total annihilation, which would wound you rather than
vitalize you...Ó
ÒThat is so!Ó agreed Herian, ÒÊIÊhave had that same impression often...Ó
Ò IsnÕt that so...? In the streets torn, filthy, unshaved beggars, and in the books, fallen
stones, and in the papers, descriptions of endless horrors...To us, who have lived freely - to our
proud and bold people who are used to fighting - all that was hurtful, demeaning...Our heart was
mourning and our mind was subdued. We could not reconcile with that reality and we could not
understand that reality. And then all of a sudden everything changed, when events rushed into our
heads with the speed of lightning, turned our lives upside down, reversed the values, took us and
threw us into the mouth of the hurricane...Have you really thought, what kind of conversion that
was...? From a stable, firm century which had taken a final form, like an Arab hero, we suddenly
fell on a flying carpet and rushed into another century...I will never forget that day, dear Varya, you
remember, donÕt you, when we entered Armenia...?Ó
He closed his eyes, remained silent for a moment, then continued:
ÒA new country, never before seen...as soon as you saw it, it was as if a light was turned
on in your heart...Everything seemed so intimate, so peaceful, so attracting...ItÕs impossible to
explain...I canÕt find the words...The pictures at my fatherÕs library suddenly became alive, they
were crowned with the sun, they became alive with another life, entered an environment full of
brightness and hidden meanings, and I understood...I say I understood, but I must use another
word, letÕs say I felt, IÊlived, I rediscovered in myself that which I had not noticed
before...IÊbecame different, other...And that which before seemed so far, so high and so
uncertain, suddenly became so clear and with those lands, those mountains, those buildings
took on a full, complete life...There, that is the essential...When I say Bach, let it not seem
surprising to you; I developed my musical education with his example and with him I am able to
measure spiritual heights...Have you been to Etchmiadzin, Captain...?Ó
ÒI have been there, of course!Ó
ÒGood! Consider HripsimeÕs magnificent temple, for example, stand in front of it and
examine it well, and you will see, that its plain, simple lines, its color which is lit by its inner fire, its
complex clarity, its restrained and controlled flight, it is truly and only truly a structure of
Bach...The same body transformed to spirit, the same fire-soaked blood, the same
rhythm...When Goethe says that architecture is frozen music, the example is right there...IÊfeel
that deeply, with my soul and my body, with my whole being, and so I tell myself: Here is Hripsime
and there is the beast; Bach and the beast...the war is between them...Ó
Miranian was speaking so much from the heart, he was so full of sorrow, that no one had
the strength to interrupt him. Herian had never seen him so serious, so deep into himself.
ÒTherefore, I say that the war is between themÓ, he continued. ÒFor me, this is how the
question is posited: Either this spiritual wealth defended by the sacrifices of tens of centuries or
the darkness wins...Our struggle is a just, essential and sanctified struggle...Our struggle is a
struggle that belongs to all of humanity, a defense of the gems which make its crown of life...That
is absolutely so, either Bach or the beast...Ó
ÒAnd if the beast wins...? Already there are those who are shaking the hands of
murderers, those who are helping them, those who are arming them...Ó
MiranianÕs eyes became filled with anger.
ÒYou say, the beast may win?ÊHe exclaimed, ÒThe beast may win...? At that time that
beast will also defeat those who are shaking its bloody hands...A day will come, when a savage,
ruthless, tyrannical force will pass over their heads...TodayÕs victors, because they trampled on
the sacred principles that they declared, because they denied their own ideals, will be defeated,
subdued, belittled, forced to bow down in their moral rags, while the beast, terrible and ruthless,
will roar wildly, and will pound its iron fist on the table of accountability and threaten them...Ó
Herian was listening with astonishment and admiration. How strange is the human
creature, he was thinking. You live with a man side by side for months, you establish a friendship,
you eat together, drink, talk, argue, and it turns out that the man you thought you knew is totally
someone different. That Miranian preached about Napoleon, he stood in front of the mirror for
hours fixing his uniform and medals, he got involved in delicate discussions about Bajarski
steaks, he loved his horse and his wife, and in general left the impression of a spoiled, wealthy
young man full of sarcasm; but, lo and behold...Bach, Hripsime...!
A milky, foggy light rested on the windows.
The faces of those in the room became discolored. The morningÕs first light, like a white
voice calling from outside, slowly pushed its way inside and everything started waking up.
Something disappeared, drowned in darkness, and a new, different reality was born.
Miranian put off the torchlight, stretched up his arms and yawned. Varya, who had
gathered her legs and nestled on the sofa, because of her gorgeous dress and the obscure light,
resembled an enormous wilted flower. She lifted her heavy eyebrows, stared with a foggy stare,
suddenly became focused, jumped upwards.
ÒIÕll go changeÓ, she said, Òmy Babig wanted that I wear this dress tonight for sure...
he loves it...he wanted for sure...Ó
ÒAnd I willÓ, said Herian, Ògo change this collar, these stupid shoes...I will return and
then we shall say goodbye...Ó
ÒMy dear Captain, please wait, there is still some timeÓ, begged Miranian. ÒVarya, go
ahead my dear, change, and we shall drink one more glass...IsnÕt it so, Captain, one more
glass?Ó
Herian wanted to insist, but the officer gestured with his eyes and made him understand
that he had something to say. When the lady left, he took Herian to a corner and said with a low
voice: ÒThis is what I wanted to say...! I am leaving...at war, anything could happen...!Ó
ÒWhat will happen...? This is not the first time...is it...?Ó
ÒSure, that is so...but war is war...the bullet has no mind...to tell you the truth, this time I
have strange premonitions...after all, itÕs life, and no one knows...thatÕs what I wanted to say; if
something happens, IÊbeg you, donÕt leave Varya alone...Her sister is in Tbilisi and she would do
well if she went to stay with her...You may tell her that is my will...let her go to her sister...Ó
ÒI will tell her, be sure of that...and in general you donÕt have to worry about anything
until your return...it is even unnecessary to talk about that...Ó
ÒHere she comes; let us drink...!Ó
When the lady entered, they raised their full glasses, and Herian, giving his voice a fake
enthusiasm, exclaimed: Ò And , please, give those dogs a good lesson...in such a way...that is
necessary...Ó
ÒAnd I wish, that one day the ship will reach its destination...I wish you success...Ó
They pulled their heads back and emptied their glasses.
After an hour, when Herian returned to say farewell, Miranian, wearing his warm coat, with
the scarf around his neck, was already sitting on his horse and was ready to leave. When he saw
Herian, he became cheerful, pulled back the horseÕs bridle, leaned down and shook his hand
firmly.
ÒNow, itÕs time to go...Ó
ÒBabig, BabigÓ, called his wife running after him, Òlet me, my sweetheart, kiss you one
more time.Ó
He leaned, took his wifeÕs head in his hands, kissed and then whipped the horse.
ÒMay luck be with youÓ! shouted Herian.
The sounds of the horseÕs hoofs disappeared. The street, suddenly, became empty.
The lady went inside sobbing.
Translation Copyright @ 1996 by Shant Norashkharian
