AN ARMENIAN PRINCESS A Tale of Anatolian Peasant Life

AN ARMENIAN PRINCESS

A Tale of Anatolian Peasant Life

BY EDGAR JAMES BANKS

BOSTON: THE GORHAM PRESS TORONTO: THE COPP CLARK CO., LIMITED

Copyright, 1914, by Edgar James Banks

All Rights Reserved

The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.

CHAPTER I AK HISSAR

NESTLING among the hills of Central Asia Minor is the little village of Ak Hissar, or Aksar, as the natives call it. The name comes from a neighboring old castle, a relic of the early days when the wild Turkish hordes from the distant East swept over and conquered the country. The white ruins of this ancient fortress are now almost hidden by mulberry trees. Its dungeons, once dark and damp, but now lighted by the warm sun, had they the power to speak, could narrate tales of horror to the children who make them their innocent playhouses.

On a little square in the heart of the village stands the great wooden government building, before whose rickety, half-closed door the little8 folk often stop to gaze at the soldiers quartered within. It is here the governor lodges when he comes to the village. Here the passports are issued. Here the tax collector stores his money. Here the prisoners are chained. And it is here the villagers learn the latest news from the outside world, or discuss weighty questions, while lounging and smoking and sipping their coffee.

At one end of the single street of the village may be seen a little, whitewashed mosque. From its slender minaret, towering above a roof of reddish tiles, the muezzin rubs his sleepy eyes at the appearance of the first rays in the east, and sings to the Faithful that prayer is better than sleep. And by the side of the mosque, in a thatched hut with bare openings in its walls for windows, the little Moslems go to school, where they sit from early morning till late in the afternoon, squatted on the dirt floor in a circle about the priest and teacher, and imitating his nasal accent obtain their education by memorizing verses from the Koran.

At the other end of the village stands the9 Armenian church, a small building surmounted by a wooden cross. As in most Protestant churches in Turkey, for the protection of the worshipers, the few windows are grated with iron bars. Nearly opposite the church is the Armenian school, where it is taught that other countries than Turkey exist; that czar and emperor and king are not governors appointed by the Sultan, and that there are other things worth learning besides the Koran.

The rest of the narrow street is lined with buildings peculiar to Anatolia. The low houses with latticed windows to shield the faces of the Osmanli women from the polluting eyes of the stranger are at once distinguished as Turkish homes. Here and there are grouped the shops, their entire fronts open to the street. Year in and year out the grocer sits patiently behind his stock in trade, consisting of a box of coarse salt, a cone of sugar, and a few glass jars filled with spices, candles, and cigarettes. The saddler exposes for sale huge gorgeously decorated packsaddles and long strings of blue glass beads, which, good as they are as ornaments10 for the donkeys, are even more potent to protect the animals from the influence of the evil eye. Half concealed behind his dark-brown loaves of bread, the baker mixes his dough, and with long-handled scoop pushes it far back into the stone oven. On a shelf before the little eating house is displayed a row of bright copper pans, filled with boiled rice, eggplant floating in oil, curdled

milk, and other dainties savory to the palate of the Anatolian peasant. In the fruit shop are baskets overflowing with grapes and figs, and huge piles of delicious melons, which provident nature has bestowed so lavishly on the improvident Turk. The little village, remote as it is from the busy world, can boast of its money changer too. Badiark, a young Armenian, sits from morning till night at his little glass case rattling his silver coins to inform the passers-by that he has money to sell. For a coin worth twenty cents he gives nineteen cents in change; the other cent is his profit. To the distressed villager who is able to pawn a family jewel, a house, or a piece of land, he lends his idle capital at what11 in his eyes is a moderate rate of interest, twenty per cent a month. And the village is so small that the young money changer has leisure for another occupation when not collecting interest or making change. Conspicuously arranged with his money is a bunch of reed pens, and some ink; and for the villager who would write to a

distant friend, the versatile Badiark, with scholastic air, selects one of a stock of flowery-worded letters which he keeps on hand, adds the date and the name of the sender, with awe-inspiring seal, and collects therefor a goodly fee. Thus the young money changer grows wealthy.

Ak Hissar is not without accommodations for the stranger. The quaint doorway of the dilapidated inn opens into a single large room on the first floor. In the farther corner, under the great stone arch, the innkeeper prepares the coffee, and keeps alive the coals for the nargilehs furnished to his guests. About the sides of the room, and raised slightly from the ground, runs a wide platform, upon which sleep side by side the travelers who cannot afford the luxury of a bed in one of the little12 chambers above. A door in the rear leads to the stairway, and out to the spacious stables. The inn is more than a stopping place for strangers. All day long the idle villager, loitering in its shade, lazily sips his coffee and smokes his pipe, or watches the graceful maidens filling their earthen jars with water at the well. Here, too, during the summer evenings, the simple peasants gather to listen to the tales of a wandering story-teller; or they are held by the weird Oriental strains which the village musicians improvise on the

clarionet and pompoms; or proudly they watch a pompous soldier as he flourishes his sword before an imaginary enemy; or, if not wearied by the labor of the day, they join hands, and sway about as they execute the fantastic step of their national dance.

The pride of the village is the shop of the old Armenian merchant Dicran, for it is larger than the others, and, like some of the shops in Stamboul, possesses both door and window. Displayed within are silks from Brusa, print goods from England, bright colored sunshades for Turkish ladies, and boots and slippers13 worthy even of the Moslem priest. Dicran is justly regarded as the chief of the village. When disputes arise among the villagers, does not Dicran settle them to the satisfaction of both parties? Does not Dicran sell goods to people who have no money, and trust them till better times come? When the tax collector is severe, extorting more than the people can pay, does not Dicran intercede for them? If the soldiers are dragging a debtor to prison, does not Dicran pay the debt? When a villager is in trouble with the government, does not Dicran alone dare to take his part? When the mayor is in doubt, is not Dicran consulted? And when work is scarce, is it not to Dicran the poor villager goes? Dicran is old, and his hair has long been gray, but his form is powerful and erect, and

few even of the younger men would care to grapple with him. Some call him severe. When his dark, penetrating eyes look from beneath those gray, shaggy brows, as if to search the very soul, and detect fraud or deceit, none could be more severe; but kinder heart than Dicran’s never was.

CHAPTER II CHILDHOOD DAYS

DICRAN’S history was long and mysterious. All that the neighbors knew of his early life was that many years before he had come from an Armenian town in the far east of Turkey, bringing with him his only child, Takouhi, a little blue-eyed girl. Dicran himself seldom spoke of his past, yet it was whispered about that he was descended from a branch of the ancient family of Armenia, supposed to be long extinct. His stately bearing, together with his last name, Lucinian, “son of the moonlight,” a name by which the early Armenian kings are known, may have given rise to the story; however, those who knew him best believed in his royal lineage.

In his native land Dicran had prospered, but the Turkish officials, perhaps suspecting his15 origin, or coveting his wealth, had confiscated his property, and slain his son and his son-in-law while defending it. With his little girl Takouhi, whose mother had died in her infancy, he wandered from home to find peace; and at the age of forty, by some chance, he came to Ak Hissar. He was the first Armenian who settled in the village. But gradually other Armenians came, forced by continued oppression to leave their homes, and soon they equaled the Turks in number. During the twenty years of voluntary exile, Dicran had partly regained his fortune.

The little blue-eyed Takouhi grew up, and married Vartan, a clever Armenian lad whom Dicran had taken into business. Two children were born to them, both girls. Vassinag, the older, who resembled her father, was dark, with large black eyes and thick glossy hair. Her features were of the pure Armenian type. Europeans might think her nose somewhat prominent, and call her swarthy, but beneath her dark skin glowed a ruddy tinge of health,16 and it was not surprising that the Armenian lads of the village cast their glances at her.

Armenouhi, the other child, a decided contrast to her sister, was her grandfather’s favorite, and his constant companion. It seemed as if all his affection for his long-lost wife and daughter centered in her. He never tired of holding her on his knee to tell her stories; and at night he himself put her in her cot near his own bed. Armenouhi was of a type rarely seen in Eastern countries. Her eyes were blue, her hair a rich dark brown, her soft fair skin clear and transparent. In her chin was the suggestion of a dimple, and every word or smile brought others to her cheeks. She was a vivacious, light-hearted little maiden, ever happy, but happiest of all when in Dicran’s presence. The old man would often sit and gaze inquiringly into her innocent eyes. There was a tradition in the family that the great Armenian king, Dicran, or Tigranes, as he is sometimes called, married the beautiful daughter of Mithridates, king of Pontus, and that the fair young wife bequeathed her likeness to her descendants;17 so that if at times her likeness

seemed to vanish for several generations, it would at length reappear in all its beauty. Armenouhi, so Dicran was always fond of thinking, was the very image of the daughter of the famous king; she had the same features, the same blue eyes, the same sweet expression; and already, in her early childhood, she gave promise of surpassing beauty. Her blue eyes, the more beautiful because so rare in the East, captivated all who saw them. As the pet of the village, she was at home in every household, and the other children were not jealous, for was she not Armenouhi, granddaughter to the wise and good Dicran?

Death knocked again at Dicran’s door, and Armenouhi’s mother died. Armenouhi was then cared for by Yester, the wife of the thrifty Herant, who lived next door. The people used to say that Herant was more fortunate than some of his neighbors, for in return for his thrift and labor his mulberry trees always yielded a bountiful supply of leaves for the silkworms, and with the profits of his industry he18 bought the cocoons of others to send to the royal silk factories at Hereke. Armenouhi grew up in this good family, loved by Herant and his wife, and having as her playmate their only child, Takvor, a manly lad some four years her senior. He shared with her his playthings. He took her to Dicran’s shop and to the village well, and to the playhouse in the old castle. From the first they were always together, and each was at home in the house of the other. He acted as her safeguard, and looked after her wants. Once he caught her when she was on the point of falling into the well. For her he often had his pockets full of walnuts. To save her little hands, he pulled the burrs from the

chestnuts she gathered, or climbed the mulberry trees, and threw the ripe fruit into her checkered apron. To see the two playing in the shade of the plane tree by the well, or listening to the stories in the grandfather’s shop, or romping hand in hand over the hillsides, or riding Dicran’s horse, was a familiar picture.

Badiark, the young money changer, alone envied them their happiness. When he saw19 them together, he sneered at a boy who would play with a girl. Finding them on one occasion in the shade of a tree outside the village, happily pulling grass to feed their horse, he thought to annoy them by driving the animal away. He raised his heavy stick, and struck the horse in the mouth. Then frightened at the blood spurting from the wound which he had so maliciously caused, he hurried away to the village, while the horse, accustomed only to kindness, held down his head and came nearer the children. With tears filling their eyes, they gently stroked his nose with their little hands, and tried to ease the pain with comforting words. They found that one of his lower teeth had been broken.

When Takvor and Armenouhi played with the other village children among the ruins of the old castle, there was one little room which they called their own. Here they kept house together. Some blocks of wood were the chairs and tables. An ancient brasier was the stove. On a shelf stood a row of broken bottles, for Takvor was the hakim, as they called the physician,20 and Armenouhi was the hakim’s wife. Together they cured the pretended diseases, and healed the imaginary wounds of their playmates. The medicine prescribed was from the long black bottle, or from the green or the blue bottle. Whatever the trouble was, however, the cure was always the same cold water from the well. The patients more often clamored for pills or tablets, for they were manufactured from little lumps of sugar broken from the cone in Dicran’s shop. One day when their patients had left them, Takvor took his playmate’s hands in his, and looked into her great blue eyes.

“Armenouhi, some day when I am a man, I shall be a real hakim, and I shall have real patients, and real medicine. Will you then be the hakim’s real wife?”

“Just the hakim’s wife,” she whispered, and her steadfast eyes rested in his.

CHAPTER III THE PARTING

IT is only in the larger of the Turkish cities, where you hardly know your next-door neighbor, and where people of the same religious faith collect in quarters, that the Moslem and the Christian cannot live in peace together. In the country village, where everybody knows the secret thoughts of his neighbor, the feeling is no less kindly than between the members of the different churches of a Christian country town. The Moslem peasant counts his beads; the Christian, like the Moslem, prostrates himself in prayer. Allah and Elohim were originally the same name of the same God, revealed to the one through the prophet Mohammed, to the other through Christ. The Christian children play with the little Moslems in the courtyard of the mosque, and the little Moslems join their Christian comrades in their games about22 the holy well, and drink the holy water. The Moslem buys his goods of the Christian merchant, and the merchant trusts him when he cannot pay. Moslem and Christian work together in the field, and when their labor

is over, sit side by side in the inn to listen to the story-teller. The one never asks the other whether he be Moslem or Christian; and the friendship existing between them is often quite as enduring as if they worshiped together.

All this was true of the people of Ak Hissar, and their unity of purpose and unity of labor brought flourishing days to the little village. Herant had his full share in the general prosperity; for his mulberry trees throve, his business increased, and he became known throughout the country, even as far as Constantinople, as a successful raiser and buyer of cocoons. It was he who produced the silk for the beautiful rugs and hangings for the Sultan’s palace at Yildiz, and for the presents which His Majesty was pleased to bestow upon visiting foreign princes. The Sultan recognized the services which he rendered, honored him with a decoration,23 and invited him to the capital, to become the manager of the various silk factories throughout the Empire.

The prospect of living in Constantinople appealed strongly to Takvor, for he was studious, and had long ago absorbed the teachings of the simple village school. Now at the age of fourteen, it was his one great hope that in some way or other he might fulfill his first and greatest ambition of becoming a physician. His single unhappiness was that of leaving Armenouhi. Perhaps he should never see her again. Although she was but ten years of age, she was far more developed than a Western girl of those years, and already had been asked for in marriage by the young money changer Badiark, who offered a suitable dowry; but, contrary to custom, he was told that when she was older she might answer for herself. The rejected suitor, seeing her the constant companion of another, knew full well what that answer would be.

Armenouhi was greatly depressed by the thought of losing Takvor. Naturally the few remaining days were spent together in their24 favorite haunts. For the day preceding Takvor’s departure, the village priest arranged a farewell picnic, to which all the children were invited. Early in the morning the party climbed the eastern mountain, and upon reaching the summit at noonday the priest’s good wife spread the long white cloth upon the ground and heaped it with food for their hungry mouths. Takvor was given the seat at the head of the table.

“Who shall be the lady of honor to sit with Takvor?” asked the priest.

“Armenouhi!” shouted the children, in concert, as if there could be no other answer.

It was a happy party, and their peals of laughter rang over the hillside. Takvor and Armenouhi alone were sad.

“Come,” he whispered, when dinner was over and the children began to play; and the two wandered away from the others and sat down in the shade of a tree, where the silence of the gentle spring day was broken only by the distant voices of their playmates and the tinkling25 bells of the sheep grazing on the mountain slopes.

The field was dotted with white anemones, and Takvor began to pick them.

“Oh, there is a happy omen for us,” cried Armenouhi, and she pointed to a magpie hopping about in the grass.

“But yonder comes his mate, and the good omen is turned to bad,” replied Takvor; “and there is a third magpie, and that foretells calamity.”

“But what evil can be greater for us than your going on the morrow?”

There was no answer this time, and Armenouhi sat in silence and watched Takvor picking the little white blossoms. As if to help, she occasionally picked a flower and gave it to him.

Takvor made a wreath of the flowers and was placing it on her head, when the red ribbon that held her hair became loose and fell. Both reached for it, and for an instant both held it; they pulled, and the ribbon parted. With her26 piece Armenouhi rearranged her hair; Takvor put the other in his pocket.

That evening at home, when nobody was by to see her, Armenouhi selected the largest and best of the blossoms, bound them together with the ribbon from her hair, and laid them away between the leaves of a book.

CHAPTER IV THE TAX COLLECTOR