Forty Days of Musa Dagh (8 page)

 

 

Suddenly the thought came to Bagradian: "We shall at least have to do
something to defend ourselves."

 

 

Altouni set down his bag on the chair again. "Curse it! What are we
talking about? You're dragging the old stories out of me again. I'm a
doctor, and I've never believed particularly in God. And yet, at one time,
I was always having arguments with Him about it. You can be a Russian,
or a Turk, or a Hottentot, or God knows what -- but to be an Armenian --
why it's impossible."

 

 

He seemed to jerk himself back from the edge of a gulf to which he had
strayed. "That's enough. Let's leave all that. I am the hekim. That's all
that matters to me. And I've just been called away from this pleasant
company to a woman in labor. You see, we still keep putting Armenian
children into the world. It's crazy."

 

 

Grimly he seized his leather bag. This talk on the threshold, which had
gone to the roots of the matter, seemed to have riled him. "And you?
What's wrong with you? You've got a very beautiful wife, a clever son,
no worries, all the money you want -- what more do you need? You live
your life! Don't bother yourself with all this filth. Whenever the Turks
have a war, they leave us in peace -- we've always known that. And after
the war you'll go back to Paris and forget all about us and Musa Dagh."

 

 

Gabriel Bagradian smiled as though he were not taking his own question
seriously.

 

 

"And suppose they don't leave us in peace, little Father?"

 

 

 

 

Gabriel stopped an instant on the threshold of the big reception-room.
About a dozen people were assembled. Three elderly women sat together
round a little table, in silence, with the tutor keeping them company,
presumably at Juliette's orders. But even he seemed to take no trouble
to get them to talk. One of these matrons, Dr. Altouni's wife, was
also a survival of Gabriel's childhood. Her name was Mairik Antaram,
little Mother Antaram. She wore black silk. Her hair, drawn back off her
forehead, was not yet quite grey. Her wide bony face had a look of daring
in it. Even though she said nothing, she sat at her ease, allowing her
inquisitive glances to travel freely about these people. The same could
not be said of her neighbors, the wives of Harutiun Nokhudian, the pastor
of Bitias, and of the village mayor, the Mukhtar of Yoghonoluk, Thomas
Kebussyan. It was enough to look at them to see how embarrassed they felt,
how much on their best behavior, even though they had taken all their
finery out of the wardrobe so as not to be shamed by the Frenchwoman.

 

 

Madame Kebussyan had the worst time, since she could not understand
a word of French, though she was one of those who had been to school
in the American mission at Marash. She blinked up at this extravagant
candlelight, from lustres and chandeliers. Ah, Madame Bagradian had no
need to economize! Where did she buy such thick wax candles? They must
have come from Aleppo or Istanbul even. The Mukhtar Kebussyan might be
the richest man in the district, but in his house, apart from petroleum,
they only burned thin tallow candles and tapers of mutton-fat. And over
there, next the piano, in tall candlesticks, there were even two painted
candies, as in church. Wasn't that going a bit too far?

 

 

The pastor's wife, who was feeling equally ill at ease, asked herself
this very same question. To her honor be it said that, in her case, no
squinting envy colored her feelings. The women's hands were folded on
their laps. This evening, in honor of the soirée, they had left their
sewing at home. The wives of the pastor and the mukhtar eyed their
husbands in astonishment at these two old men.

 

 

And indeed both gentle pastor and massive mukhtar had changed completely.
They formed only a part of the masculine group around Juliette. (She
was just then displaying the antiques which Gabriel had collected and
set up in this room.) Among this group were the two schoolmasters,
one of whom, Hapeth Shatakhian, had once spent a few weeks in Lausanne
and ever since been conscious of the fact that he had an unusually good
French accent. The other, Hrand Oskanian, was a dwarf, whose black hair
grew very low upon his forehead. As Gabriel entered the room, he heard
the loud-voiced French of the proud Shatakhian: "But, Madame, we should
be so grateful to you for bringing a ray of culture into our wilderness."

 

 

That day Juliette had had an inner conflict to sustain. It had been so
hard to decide in which clothes to receive her new fellow-countrymen.
So far, on such occasions, she had always dressed very simply, since it
had seemed to her both undignified and superfluous to attempt to dazzle
"ignorant half-savages." But even the last time she had noticed how the
magic she could shed upon her guests was reflected back upon herself. So
that today she had yielded to temptation and chosen her most elaborate
evening frock. ("Oh, well," she had thought as she examined it, "it dates
from last spring, and at home I shouldn't dare show my nose in it.") After
some hesitation, since the frock itself was so resplendent, she had also
decided to wear jewefry. The effect of this deliberate decision, of which
she had at first been rather ashamed, surprised even her. It is pleasant
enough to be a beautiful woman among many, but the feeling soon wears
off. In lighted restaurants one is only a pretty member of a beauty
chorus. But to be the unique, the yellow-haired châtelaine, among all
these dark, glittering-eyed Armenians -- that surely was no everyday
fate! It was an experience, bringing back the flush of youth, a glow to
the lips, a light of triumph to the eyes.

 

 

Gabriel found his wife surrounded by humble, dazzled admirers. When
Juliette moved, he recognized again her "sparkling step," as he once
had called it. Juliette, here in Yoghonoluk, seemed to have found her
way into the hearts of his simple-minded compatriots, though in Europe
she had often jibbed at the society of the most cultivated Armenians.
And strangest of all . . . In Beirut, overtaken by the war, without
any chance to get back home, Gabriel had been haunted by the fear
that Juliette would be devoured with homesickness. France was fighting
the worst battles in her history. European newspapers seldom reached
that corner of the world. One was entirely cut off, could find out
nothing. Till now only one letter, dated November, had reached them,
by many long detours. From Juliette's mother. Lucky that at least she
had no brothers. Her marriage with a foreigner had estranged her a little
from her family. Be that as it might, her present tranquil frivolity had
come as a great surprise to Gabriel. She seldom seemed to think about
home. In this fourteenth year of their married life the unhoped-for
seemed to have taken place.

 

 

And indeed there was something essentially new in her, as she put her arms
round his neck. "At last, mon ami, I was just beginning to be anxious."

 

 

She began to be concerned with his hunger and thirst, almost to the point
of exaggeration. But Gabriel had no time to eat. He was surrounded.
Naturally that morning's official inspection had not passed without
leaving some trace on people's minds. The very fact that the Turkish
authorities should have chosen a Sunday -- the hour of high mass --
for their visit, might itself be considered a hostile sign. An omen of
intricate hostility.

 

 

But the Musa Dagh colony had been almost spared in the bloody events of
1896 and 1909. Yet such men as Kebussyan and the little pastor of Bitias
were sharp-eared enough to become alert at the slightest suspicious rustling.
Only this evening-party and Juliette's radiant presence had been enough to
distract them from such troubling of their peace. Now, as, remembering his
promise, Gabriel repeated the müdir's words -- that this was no more
than a general wartime measure -- they all, Kebussyan, Nokhudian,
the schoolmasters, had of course long since answered the riddle themselves.
They became light-heartedly optimistic. The most hopeful of all was
Shatakhian. He drew himself up to his full height. The Middle Ages were
over, he opined, addressing his glowing words to Madame Bagradian.
The sun of progress would rise, even over Turkey. This war was its crimson
dawn. The Turkish government was under the surveillance of its allies.
Shatakhian glanced expectantly at Juliette. Had he not acclaimed progress
in faultless French? His hearers, in so far as they understood them,
seemed to share his views. Only the silent Oskanian, the other teacher,
smiled sarcastically. But he always did when friend Shatakhian let himself
go and revelled in his own linguistic verbosity. Another voice made itself
heard: "Never mind the Turks. Let's talk about something more important."

 

 

This had been said by Krikor, the apothecary, the most remarkable person
in the room.

 

 

 

 

Krikor's very garb denoted the fact that his character was subject to
no change. All the other men, even the mukhtar, wore European dress (a
tailor, back from London, lived in Yoghonoluk). Krikor had on a kind of
light-blue Russian blouse, but made of the softest raw silk. His face,
without a wrinkle in spite of the fact that he was sixty, with its white
goatee and rather slanting eyes, was more that of a wise mandarin than
an Armenian. He spoke in a high, but oddly hollow, voice, which sounded
as though much learning had exhausted it. And in fact Apothecary Krikor
owned a library surely unequalled in all Syria -- and was moreover
himself a walking library, a man of encyclopedic information, in one of
the remotest valleys on earth. Be the subject the flora of Musa Dagh,
desert geology, an extinct species of bird, copper smelting, meteorology,
the fathers of the Church, fixed stars, cooking recipes, the Persian
secret of extracting oil of roses -- Krikor's hollow voice could supply
information, and that in a careless, casual manner, as though it were
rather an impertinence to have asked him such a trivial question. There
are many "know-alls" in the world. But Krikor's genuine personality could
not have shown itself by this alone. No, Krikor was like his library.

 

 

This was composed of only a few thousand volumes, most of which were
written in languages which he himself was unable to read. Providence
had set many obstacles in the way of his ruling passion. Such French and
Armenian works as he possessed were the least interesting. But Krikor was
more than learned, he was a bibliophile. The bibliophile is more enamored
of the very existence of a book than of its form and contents. He has no
need to read it. (Is not all true love much the same?) The apothecary
was not a rich man. He could not afford to give expensive orders to
booksellers and antique shops in Istanbul or abroad. He could scarcely
have paid the freightage. He had to take what came his way. The foundations
of his library, he insisted, had already been laid in his boyhood
and his years of travel. Now he had agents and patrons in Antioch,
Alexandretta, Aleppo, Damascus, who from time to time sent him a parcel
of books. What a red-letter day when they arrived! Whatever they might
be -- Arabic or Hebrew folios, French novels, secondhand rubbish --
what did it matter, they were always so much printed paper. Krikor
contained within himself that deep Armenian love of culture, the secret
of all very ancient races which survive the centuries. This queer,
and most of it unread, library would scarcely have sufficed to supply
the apothecary's vast store of information. His own creative audacity
filled in the gaps. Krikor completed his universe. Any question, from
statistics to theology, he answered out of his plenitude of power. The
innocent happiness of poets glowed in his veins each time he threw out
a few major scientffic terms. That such a man had disciples goes without
saying. Equally obvious that they were composed of the schoolmasters of
all seven villages. Apothecary Krikor was the Socrates of Musa Dagh --
a peripatetic who, usually in the night, took long walks with these,
his disciples. Such walks offered many chances to increase his followers'
respect. He would point up at the starry sky.

 

 

"Hapeth Shatakhian, do you know the name of that reddish star, up there?"
-- "Which? That one there? Isn't that a planet?" -- "Wrong, Schoolmaster.
That star is called Aldebaran. And do you know what gives it that reddish
tinge?" -- "Well -- perhaps our atmosphere." -- "Wrong, Teacher. The star
Aidebaran is composed of molten, magnetic iron, and that's what makes it
look so red. Such at least is the opinion of the famous Camille Flammarion,
as he writes in his last letter to me.

 

 

And that great astronomer's letter was no mere empty fabrication.
It existed in fact. Krikor, in the person of Camille Flammarion, had written
the letter to himself. To be sure, he rarely sent himself such letters;
only on the most solemn occasions. Usually the disciples heard nothing of
them, since even Voltaire and Raffi, the great Armenian poet, had several
times been inspired to exhaustive answers to Krikor's questions. Krikor
was therefore a corresponding member of Olympus.

 

 

All the educated families in Musa Dagh took an annual holiday, if only
to Aleppo or Marash, to the American, French, German missionary schools
there, in which their education had been completed. Not a few among the
village elders had returned from America to enjoy their earnings. Almost
as war broke out, a batch of émigrés had crossed the Atlantic. Only Krikor
had remained where he was. It was rare for him even to visit a neighboring
village. In his youth, he declared, his bodily eyes had seen enough
wonders of the world. Occasionally he hinted at these journeyings, which
had lost themselves in remote distances, eastwards and westwards, but
in which he had, on principle, taken no train. It is uncertain whether
they were of the same nature as Flammarion's letter. Nothing in Krikor's
tales savored in the least of exaggeration or bragging. His accounts were
steeped in shrewd observation and consistency, so that even such a man
as Bagradian might not have suspected. But Krikor was always insisting
on how little need he saw for travel. All places were alike, since the
outside world is contained in the inner. The sage sits, quiet as a spider,
in the net which his mind has spun round the universe. So that, when the
talk was of war or politics, of any burning question of the hour, Krikor
would begin to get restless. Last arrogance of the mind! He despised
all wars not contained in books. That was why Krikor had snubbed the
political observations of the schoolteacher. And he concluded: