Hrachya Acharyan’s lexicological article «Words borrowed from Armenian in Persian» was accompanied by the publishers with the following note. «This article of Academician Acharyan was in the course of being printed when merciless death cut the thread of his life»… (it was 16 April 1953)… A passage from the article in question, with certain abridgements, follows below:
«It is a linguistically well-known phenomenon that the language of a conquering nation affects the language of the conquered nation to a greater or lesser degree, according to the numerical superiority, the strength and, above all, the cultural level of the conquering nation. That phenomenon can go so far that it can even swallow up the language of the conquered nation. To take an example from our surroundings, let us recall Arabic, which in the 7th century, coming out of Arabia, conquered the East and the West and wiped out the local languages of Egypt, Sudan, Palestine, Syria and Mesopotamia. But there is also the opposite phenomenon to this. If the conquering nation, despite its power, is lower from an educational point of view than the conquered nation, it can be affected to a greater or lesser degree by the language of the conquered nation. Thus the Romans ruled over the Greeks, but from the in many respects more civilized Greeks they not only borrowed their science, but also a great many words. Likewise the Turks, although they conquered the Greeks, were themselves also affected to a certain degree by the Greek language. In the literary and popular Turkish of Constantinople there is a group of Greek words, such as names of crafts, especially of navigation, of kinds of fish, even of fruits, which are borrowed from Greek»… …«Turkish also has borrowings from Armenian»… …«The number of words borrowed from Persian in Armenian is large. Persian too, however, has borrowings from Armenian, though in a very small quantity»…
BAREKENDAN This is the name given to the eating-day that precedes every weekly fast. But notable is Bun Barekendan, which is the Sunday preceding the Great or Forty-day fast. That day is the day of the believers’ greatest joy and rejoicing. In the whole year they do not spend so joyfully as on that day. Even Easter does not come up to it. As if to take revenge for the coming 7 weeks of fast, on that day the believers bring out their entire store of foodstuffs and spend the whole day eating and drinking, so much so that, as a proverb, it is said: «It is not Barekendan, it is belly-living». On that day it is also permitted to display every kind of public buffoonery, even disguised with a mask. This is the carnival well known to the Europeans, which existed among us long before the European one. Abovyan, at the beginning of his book «Wounds of Armenia», gives an extensive description of a village Barekendan at the beginning of the 19th century. That day is also Abeghatogh, that is, even the ascetic monks leave off religious abstinence and live in worldly amusement.
The Monday following Barekendan is called «baklakhoran»; from that day the fast begins and the tradition-keeping Armenian people withdraws its hand from every kind of animal foodstuff (meat, oil, eggs, milk, yoghurt, cream, caviar, fish and so forth). All this is forbidden until the evening of the Dipping. In the house of a believing man no such foodstuff of any kind must any longer be found. In Constantinople the Muslim Gypsies come out on Monday morning, crying: «Yemeklere syupyurke!» («A broom for the foodstuffs!»), and everyone gives them the superfluous animal foodstuffs of their house, in order to clean the house. The word «Barekendan» has no ancient usage; it is not attested from the 5th century, but from it we have «barekendanal», «barekendanutsanel», «barekendani» and «barekendanutyun»; the last of these is already used in the Holy Scriptures. The «Concordance» gives 6 testimonies, of which let us recall Psalm XXIX 7: «I said in my prosperity, that I shall not be moved for ever». The existence of that testimony not only confirms the existence of the word in the first half of the 5th century, but also establishes the etymology of the word. There is no longer any doubt that the word «Barekendan» is composed of the words «bari + kendani» and is a genuine Armenian word. In Persian there is bargandan, which is also written barqandan and which in Georg Dpir’s dictionary is explained in the following way: «A feast of joy and of rejoicing and of amusements, which takes place at the going-out of the month of Shaban». This word is borrowed from Armenian in Persian.
But what business has a Christian word in Persian?The Persian believing people mourns, laments all year long in memory of the martyrdom of Ali, Hasan and Hussein. Every mullah or dervish, at the head of a travelling troupe of actors, goes from village to village and, gathering the village people in the village square, presents tragic mourning-spectacles before them. The people, squatting on the ground, its head covered in its hands, weeps, mourns, sobs, paying a few shahi. Such scenes have no end in Persia, until the 10th of Muharram, which is the day of splitting the head.
The Armenians’ Barekendan, with its spectacles of rejoicing and of joy, even with masquerades, has aroused the envy of the mourning Persians, who, in order to spend at least one joyful day a year, have borrowed from the Armenians that feast and its name. Armenian Barekendan is the day preceding the mourning days of the great fast; the last day of the Muslims’ month of Shaban too is the day preceding the strict fasting of the whole month of Ramadan. Thus «Barekendan» and «bargandan» coincide completely in meaning. From the point of view of the form of the word there is no difference at all. Among the Armenian people the word «barekendan» is pronounced in the form «barkendan». The first consonant of the word, as well as the «d» sound of the last syllable, are entirely the same and represent the correct Eastern pronunciation. The second vowel sound «e» is deleted in both alike. The Persian letter «g» corresponds to the «gh» sound of modern Persian (modern Persians pronounce the Arabic letter «q» as «g», as in «aga»: There is no doubt at all as to the origin of the Armenian word «barekendan», whereas the Persian form «bargandan» withstands no explanation. If the Persians had thought, by popular etymology, to turn the letter «g» or «q« into «x» and had said «barxandan», everything would of course have changed and all Armenian linguists would have interpreted that Armenian word from the Persian word «xandan» – «joyful, laughing». This is why and how an Armenian word entered Persian. This word does not exist in the old Zoroastrian religion, and therefore not in the Zoroastrian language and literature. The «Q» sound shows that the word is foreign. Words written with the letter «Q» are for the most part Arabic, but this word cannot be Arabic, on account of having 6 consonants (it is well known that native Arabic words have generally 3 consonants)»…
The problem of knowing the world, of knowing reality, is a vital necessity for every generation. In today’s boundless, many-natured flow of information and in Armenia’s present conditions — all the more so and, especially, national self-knowledge is given importance… It seemed that even the events of the last decades ought to have «opened the eyes» of many, helping to unmask the masked faces in today’s many-layered reality, to distinguish the true from the false… Yet a considerable majority of people is groping in a widespread darkness. There had been occasion, in one of my former notes, to mention one of the eastern fables that come from the depths of the centuries. The content of the fable, in brief, is the following. A group of blind men are brought to an elephant and told to try to guess, to understand, what it is that stands before them. One feels the elephant’s leg and says — «It is a pillar». Another takes hold of the tail and says — «It is a rope». A third feels the trunk and says — «It is a snake». Yet another touches the ear and says — «It is a fan». Each of them is convinced that he is right, but in reality all of them see only the part, not the whole.
The principal meaning of the fable –
Partial knowledge is not the whole truth: Man often perceives only a fragment of reality and thinks that that is the whole truth.
Truth is many-sided: Reality can be understood only by combining different viewpoints.
The meaninglessness of disputes, when no one admits the limitation of his knowledge: People often argue because each has his limited experience and does not see the general picture (as the present political arena is — with its «figures» and the appraisals, the discussions unfolding around their activity)…
Behold the same fable — in Hovhannes Tumanyan’s rendering…
THE OPINION OF THE BLIND (From the fables of the East)
In broad daylight Three-four people The blind men came And ran against the elephant.
One, who touched the thick, terrible body, — Hey, careful,- he cried,- there is a wall here. The other, who had felt the leg before him— — What wall,- he laughed,- this is a stump I think. The third’s hand had fallen upon the trunk. — It is a snake, a snake,- he roared,- why are you still standing. While the fourth, holding the tail Laughing ha-ha, was mocking them. — Ah, you are truly blind. No one understood. It is neither this nor that, but a hanging rope. No, it is a wall,— no, a stump— no, it is a snake,— no, a rope… And each one making a noise apart, Just as they had come And run against it, So they turned back again blind-blind – The elephant like a mountain — under the clear light.
«…Imagine that it is twenty years that you have been acquainted with a notable man, and for that they consider you twenty years old, whereas you are 50 or 60 years old. Something of this kind is what is usually said — that it is 35 years that the Armenian Question has existed, because it is 35 years that it has been placed before European diplomacy, and that too they count from the day of the Treaty of Berlin. A fundamental error, which, by limiting people’s thinking within the frame of these 35 years of time and events, becomes the cause of many errors. Yet if we free ourselves from that great error, if we look at the question over a greater extent, we shall easily recognize its character as well, and we shall more successfully approach the possibility of its reasonable and natural solution. For European diplomacy, yes, it is 35 years that the Armenian Question has existed, but for us too it is not so, is it, it is not 35 years that it has existed», – Hovhannes Tumanyan wrote in the article «The Armenian Question and Its Solution», which was first published in 1913, in the January issues of the Tiflis daily «Horizon».
Always bound by his cultural and public activity to the Armenian nation — 2 years before occupying himself, in 1915, with the care of Western-Armenian refugees and orphans, he was analysing «the Armenian Question» and sounding the alarm. «… And so the Turkish-Armenian people with its question has likewise been one of the unhappy victims of the conflict of the European states, and unconditionally the unhappiest. The unhappiest, because it was in the heart of Turkey, in the most difficult and most dangerous place, and Turkey was to let it go only with its last breath. And she — Turkey — has resorted, resorts and will resort to the most monstrous means to put an end to that people together with its question, to close once and for all the matter of the Armenian’s fatherland and national rights»…
In the nightmarish days of 1915 he was selflessly trying to save the Armenian refugees who had escaped from the claws of the «man-eating beast», who by the paths of suffering had reached Ejmiatsin.
«In August of 1915 Hovhannes Tumanyan had asked Catholicos Gevorg the Fifth to permit the veharan to be used temporarily in order to give medical help to the sick, suffering thousands of children of the refugees, to save the helpless Armenian little ones from the epidemic. Having received a refusal from the Catholicos, the next day Tumanyan has the closed doors of the veharan opened, and with his daughter and the poet Hovhannes Hovhannisyan, dressed in white smocks, they gather hundreds of sick children by cart and in the veharan the work of treating them begins»,- one of those orphans who had reached Ejmiatsin from Pesandasht, S. N. Aslanyan, remembers («Pesandasht Was Besieged», p. 258).
«It was the night of August 19. The unforgettable heavy night of the Ararat plain… My father, in a black cloak, the cap on his head, came hurriedly out of the room — to shelter the refugees in the buildings, he was running from point to point, from tent to tent… from one dying person toward another dying person. He was giving orders, commanding, cursing, reproaching, smiling, caressing, growing angry. One day, in the pouring rain, he ran, he forcibly opened the newly built patriarchal veharan, which until then had been inviolable. The refugees poured inside. The angry Catholicos reproaches the poet, saying.
You know , that I am the Catholicos of All Armenians… Tumanyan answers.
You know , that I too am the Poet of All Armenians»: (From the memoirs of H. Tumanyan’s daughter — Nvard Tumanyan).
MEMORIES FROM THE EJMIASTIN ORPHANAGE (H. Tumanyan)
«The Ejmiatsin orphanage was not truly an orphanage, but a shelter for little children, because children who had parents were also received. It was a refuge where children snatched from the claws of death by starvation were gathered, poured in, temporarily, until they should arrive from our cities and take them away. It was not an orphanage, just as many of our present-day orphanages are not orphanages, but the name stuck and it remained an orphanage. I shall not be mistaken if I say — beginning from the end of July, in the course of a month and a half, as many as ten thousand children entered the Ejmiatsin orphanage and came out from there, while the number of those remaining inside was 3500. I too am one of them, who was among these children, but when today I sit down and try to recall, it is as if I have not seen them — the children. I have not seen them, I have not known them one by one. It was terribly, terribly hard to speak with them and to make them speak… If I have spoken and made them speak, even that was very little, by chance…
Yet continually before my eyes is their multitude, their puny, hungry and naked multitude, which was standing in the wood waiting — until they should empty the seminary… It is already empty… And at the giving of the sign, under the hot midday sun, raising clouds of dust, greedily it took a current toward the seminary… Then before the entrance of the seminary… Behold the forest of the ossified arms and hands of thousands of mothers, which, as if bent by a gigantic storm, in a widespread dull noise and turmoil, from every side are pushing forward countless, numberless childish skeletons, skeletons that were still breathing…
I remember those dense-dense and long rows of childish skeletons, when for feeding they were seated by the supervising ladies and young women, who, like liberating spirits, were continually circulating over them, dressed from head to foot in white shirts, the ladies and young women paled, wasted, from pain and from the unbearable heavy air and smell… Sitting silent in dense-dense and long rows — their many-thousand eyes were staring unblinking toward the doors, from where they would bring in the pails of tea, coffee or food… For the greater part of the day they were scattered on the bare floors, in the long antechambers or in the spacious courtyard, they could not remain on their feet, their thin shins and childish feet were hurting, the feet that had fled a few hundred versts, that had covered a few hundred metres of road…
I remember also that good day, when for the first time the supervisors complained that they had already become mischievous, that it had become difficult to manage them, when for the first time we saw how the gaps between the school benches piled in the antechambers had filled or they had climbed upon them and some are singing merrily in a group, some, astride the benches, are playing at horse, and some are making jokes, shouting, shouting again, joyfully-joyfully… And all our eyes too filled with tears of joy… I remember how thereafter pair by pair, in school order, stretched in long columns, singing innocently, with their old schoolmistresses and schoolmasters, they were walking in the avenues of the seminary, while the death-bearing sledges, howling «dead!… dead!…», were gathering the dried corpses of their mothers dead of starvation, mothers who would come, curl up exhausted near their children — under the walls of the orphanage or, like mown hay, fall in a group under the trees of the grove… At last — behold also the long rows of vans and sledges, which filled them, dressed in red and white blouses, and carried them, scattered them toward various cities… And who knows, even now in those various cities when they are asked whether they have a mother, they answer — «yes», and they still have the names of their mothers written down, without knowing that there were not even so many buriers to be found in Ejmiatsin as would arrive in time to bury the mothers of many of them»…
Overcoming the pain of the bleeding — old and new wounds of the «Stricken Fatherland», Tumanyan sheds his Light — with hope and faith. «And poets, who have not defiled their lips with a curse, Shall praise your new life — with new songs, with new word»…
TRNDEZ – «THE GREAT MIST FELL, THE SNOWMELT FELL»…
At the sources of the most ancient feasts and rites is Nature, the mystery of Cosmic order, the cycles of the year, by which Man’s vital activity, the continuance of Life, is conditioned. Consequently the ritual calendar is strictly regulated and any change breaks the logical chain. The Armenian calendar, formed on the basis of the Haykian teaching — Sun-worship — is a testimony of what has been said. The Haykazunis have for millennia marked and to this day mark the beginning of the new year at the coming of spring — glorifying the successive Reawakening of ever-renewing Nature, when after the winter «slumber» vegetation blooms again, the soil bears fruit and again calls to life the whole animal world…
«The great mist fell, the snowmelt fell, The soil breathed, the breeze came, The sun rose, brightly rayed, It made inquiry, bent toward the soil. The Sun — Pretty girl, what shall I send you. The Girl — I want flowers of every kind. The Sun — O springs, o little rivers, Are you still asleep beneath the ice. Come out, come out, Quickly, toward the light, With new liveliness And with new strength Babble And call The pretty ones asleep in the soil — The flowers and the shoots»…
In this poem written by Hovhannes Tumanyan in the year 1913 is the joy brought by the snowmelt — the tidings of Nature’s Reawakening — of the Earth’s «new breath»… This mystery is marked by the Armenians who have remained faithful to the Armenian national traditions — with the feasts of Trndez, of Barekendan — glorifying the fire and the light distributed by the life-giving Sun…
Trndez has come — The great mist fell…
In parallel with the passing year, people take leave of «the old» — by special rites they purify their mind, their body and the surrounding world (the house, the dwelling, the streets…).
In order to mark the ripening of Nature and with the aim of stimulating the coming fruitfulness they organize special ritual celebrations, among which are Trndez, Barekendan. The firebrands taken from the ritual bonfire of Trndez — the half-burnt sticks — they turn around their house, they light the dark corners of the rooms and of the stable, with those firebrands they light the lamp of the house, they renew the fire of the tonir, with burning sticks they hold firework displays in the gardens, in the meadows and in the fields — with a view to abundant harvest.
After the «bitterness» of the harsh winter, after the «distresses» caused by the winds, the frosts, the snowmelt brings the tidings of the approaching coming of spring — the awakening of people shut in their houses, of animals that have wintered in their dens, of the plant world that has gone to sleep under the soil — from the «wintering-place — the winter rest». When «the downpour of snow» and «the blizzard of the wind-beaten winter» pass, the snowmelt announces the coming of spring — the stirring that replaces the winter quiet, when the ice splits and beneath it the murmur of the river is heard – the Good Vitality of the Earth…
«The feasts and rites marked from the most ancient times until today at different times of the year are not simply calendar events, but deeply mysterious rituals, which are a means of restoring Man’s connection with the Universe, with the general order of Nature, with the value-system of the Ancestors»,- the Kurms of the Haykian Brotherhood explain.
«The feasts have been formed in commemoration of the continuance of Life, in glorification of the inexhaustible vital force, in confirmation of the succession of the seasons upon the Earth — of the transitional moments — to stimulate the fruitfulness of the soil, of animals, of people, and, in the memory of generations, to strengthen the cultural bond with the Forefathers. Consequently every action of the ritual bears an exceedingly great mystery and it is important to present the whole rite in its exact meaning»,- writes Kurm Mihr Haykazuni and continues.
«Among the principal feasts of the Haykian calendar is Trndez, which is one of the four auxiliary feasts — with a Creative mystery, and also — the feast of love. We mark it in the month that closes the year — on the Hrand day of the month of Hrotits (on the 15th of February) and it symbolizes the passage toward the coming of spring. Hrotits – the fire from the foot — in help, in assistance of the upper Fire of the Sun.
The patrons of the feast are Victorious-armed Vahagn and Glorious Mihr the Gods — as bearers of the mystery of the Fire element that symbolizes martial valour, the will, for the mystery of the feast is Fire, around the Fire the ritual ceremonies unfold.
The etymology of the word «Trndez» – «atr end dez»: the fire under the dez — the pile of wood… The feast is dedicated to Fire, which of the four elements is «the finest and the lightest — burning and light-giving». The symbolic colour of the feast is yellow. Fire in the form of a blazing bonfire is the symbolic assistance by Fire to man’s foot — to the root, to the foundation, and also — to the body, to the soil, to the whole of Nature — hastening the snowmelt that begins after the harsh months and the return of sun-blazing days.
On the feast of Trndez people jump over the hill-shaped piled flame-burning bonfire, so that «the fire may take to man’s body», so that the fire with the light and the warmth of its rays may flood people’s body and mind — consciousness.
For people fire is not only a source of warmth or of light, but also — a means of living connection — between Man and the Universe. It has the mystery of the Creative First-beginning and is perceived as the symbol of the Life-giving Sun — upon the Earth. Hence also — one of the principal mysteries of Sun-worship — the Ever-burning Fire that burns in the temple — in the sense of the continuance of Cosmic order.
Fire has a purifying, transforming power and in that regard is greatly applied in various rituals (the circling around the fire, the jumping over the fire, the «anointing» of weapons with fire — the purifying)…
The principal rite of the feast of Trndez is the kindling of the bonfire — with fire brought from the hearth. Its hot flames in a symbolic sense «strengthen the warmth of the Sun upon the Earth». Over the bonfire jump the newlyweds, the young people, the families — in sign of Rebirth, of fruitfulness of harvest, of driving away illnesses, of ensuring abundant fruitfulness…
The ritual bonfire of Trndez is kindled with the help of offered grains placed under a stack prepared beforehand of specially chosen, clean wood, with the addition of rose-oil, of fragrant plants. From that sacred fire a spark — a particle people take to their home — in sign of the continuance of the Light of Life, of well-being… They divide it and offer it to close ones, to kinsmen. At the end they do not extinguish it with water, but with the ash of the bonfire they quench the last glimmerings of the fire (or they cover it with earth).
At the coming of spring — the feast of Trndez that precedes the Areg day of the month of Areg — the Armenian New Year — has also the meaning of being freed by fire from «the old». The Coming of Spring that follows the passing winter announces a new beginning — new plans, new fruitfulness…
With the round-dances unfolding around the ritual bonfire the Haykazun Arevordis send off the cold of winter and greet the awakening of Nature from the winter «drowse», when the Sun «born» on the Mihr day of the month of Mehekan is already 54 days old and with the return of the warmth of the weather the period of Nature’s coming ripening, of fruitfulness, begins — in expectation of the Earth’s «motherhood». In harmony with Nature, people too prepare for the re-blossoming of the vital forces — with the happy expectation of love and of fruit-bearing.
With the ritual fire of Trndez the Haykazunis warm, purify the body, the heart and the consciousness of the newlyweds, of the lovers, they honour love — offering one another reciprocally symbolic gifts, sweets…
After the celebrations that end with merry feasts announcing the coming of Nature’s reawakening — of Good vitality, of well-being — of prosperous days, with ritual foods, with national dishes, with tables rich in pulses, aghandz, pokhindz, dried fruits, the period of fasting begins — with the restriction of food, with abstinence, the purification of man’s body — of the «inner temple» — and of the mind, and the preparation for greeting Nature’s successive blossoming… They take leave of winter with the summing-up of the works accomplished in the passing year and they compose the plans of the coming year»:
In the year 1904 the enemy had set out on a great campaign against Sasun. The people of Sasun were in armed revolt — going out to unequal battle and defending themselves with a freedom-loving spirit… Karo Sasuni’s story «Let them remain alive» — below…
«LET THEM REMAIN ALIVE»…
A
Poghe and Moso, two valiant brothers, one day, of the days of horror and injustice, went up Tsovasar and from there they never returned. The gunpowder smoke that spring had come down from the high mountains and remained spread over the plain. The warm vapour rising from the wooded places of Argavank brought the smell of gunpowder to the ploughmen , who had their wrinkled brows bent to the plough-beam. The cannon was roaring there — above, to stifle the voice of freedom. The life of the village was moving, but the mouths remained shut, and the clenched lips locked the village’s care in storm-tossed hearts. The oxen were drawing the fate of these men of the soil, who had ancestral hearths of centuries, but had no free life.
Poghe and Moso never returned from Tsovasar… The mourning for these unburied heroes — mixed with the spring snowmelt, with the turbid waters — came and troubled the bright hearts of Argavank, which were proud as the mountains of those two self-sacrificing men. They were the glory and the honour of the village, set like statues on the mountain peaks. And the village could not even weep its mourning. In the ring of oppression the Armenian’s bones had been crushed. The Poghean’s tonir remained extinguished that day. No one had the heart to lay a finger on a mother’s supreme grief. The ploughmen, bowed under the yoke of suffering, scarcely dared to speak with their oxen. – Ah, alas, today no smoke rose from the Poghean’s roof…
And the oxen with silent patience carried this mourning through the furrows — like an ancient fate. Seyran, the mother of these two unmatched valiant ones, a stout and thick-boned woman of the plain,.struck through the heart as with a dagger, with a firm palm seized the mouth of her wound and, like a wounded bear — for weeks withdrew into the tondrtun. There,.in her solitude, she pressed out the maternal tears, until the last drop dried from her veins. The two young brides also cast off the crimson veil, became ghosts wrapped in black,.they went in and out of the old hearth, and with the loss of their love they lived also a mother’s anguish, deep and incurable.
Little by little the tonir smouldered. To keep the lamp of the ancient hearth alight — the mother set her dried breast against the storm and melted like oil. Seyran took the black kerchief upon her head, wrapped her manly and steadfast jaw in it, clenched her lips stubborn and bold one upon the other and with a deep and quiet gaze, in which death was buried, came out of the tondrtun. There, on the wall blackened with smoke, where at night she would lay her head to sleep, she hung the caps of her splendid sons — of Poghe and of Moso, the fezzes bordered beside them, the sole remembrance from the wedding chest of the young bridegrooms. Those two caps — crowned with black fezzes, took the place of image and statue, and the wall of the tondrtun — above the mother’s head, became the sacred sanctuary of the Poghean’s house. The tonir inherited from seven generations was kindled every morning, the black pillars and beams bound an ebony arch upon the jet-black walls. The mother’s deeply mysterious house came to resemble an ancient pagan mehean, and Seyran — like a high priestess, faithful and steadfast — with a resolute brow came out into the village. She became, silent, yet mysterious, unknown, yet the embodiment of a palpable force for those around her.
The secret of the revolution had often come and gone by unknown roads to nest under the Poghean’s roof. Hrayr with his comrades had broken bread at Seyran’s table. And Seyran, when she unpicked the threads of their charukhs — had nourished a maternal feeling toward these motherless giants fallen from the mountains. When one day Poghe and Moso took the road to Tsovasar, Seyran became the true mother of all the devotees, who had no number, and whose death was spreading a conscious immortality in the soul of the Armenian community. Seyran with a deep faith proper to women believed in the covenant of freedom,.she became the embodiment of sacrifice on the road of the supreme mystery and, when she kissed the brows of her two green suns in the last midnight, beside the maternal heartbreak, the noblest feeling of self-sacrifice was flooding her soul: was she not herself cutting her own heart in pieces — to send it as an offering to the holy purpose. Now Poghe and Moso had fallen by the enemy’s bullet, but for Seyran they were not dead. The fighting spirit was everywhere and Seyran, baptized in the font of self-sacrifice — had forgotten the world, had pressed out all maternal weaknesses with her tears and had opened wide her spiritual heart to all those who passed through the mountains like ghosts, and spent the night with the wolves in the caves.
A mysterious secret always remained folded under her brows, and she,, like one who has no need of consolation — consoled others for their personal griefs. People, keeping pace with time, found it natural that this woman, firm as an oak, should live and think for others, with virtuous impersonality.
B Seyran ten years ago lost her husband. Alone, like a stout pillar, she set her shoulder to the Poghean’s great hearth, until the boys matured. The tempest came and cast down the two fresh and high-grown branches: only a shoot remained upon the trunk. And now, that the elders were gone, Seyran spoke like a grown man with Gale, who was a young herdsman barely eighteen years completed. – Gale, my boy, you remained the Poghean’s only lamp,- and stretching her hand toward Poghe’s and Moso’s caps — – You shall keep their honour. Gale’s and the brides’ eyes filled with tears. While Seyran with a tender glance measured the boy’s slender stature: as if she did not wish to notice the tear in those two fragile beings, and went to a corner — to prepare bread.
That night travellers were to pass through the village, A secret breeze slid under the eaves: unknown shadows rubbed against the walls, and at midnight the Poghean’s door opened. Seven weary and armed men fell into the tondrtun. There was silence and peace in the village.
Seyran unpicked their charukhs, and washed their feet. Crushed by this noiseless maternal tenderness — they – men of arms who had forgotten how to speak – were bewildered before the word of consolation. Their comrades’ mourning was fresh, the mother’s wound — bloody. In the dim light of an oil lamp — they were eating bread, and with their feet hanging in the tonir — they were warming themselves. They were silent, and the silence with a stone weight was weighing upon their shoulders. At last… – Mother, how are you? – May you remain alive, may they remain alive… Seyran’s hand was directed toward the caps, faithful and unconquerable.
The fedayis, strengthened by a mother’s this faith in immortality — felt a double force in themselves, to take the mountain road before the dawn had yet risen. The secret, swift as a breeze, impalpable as a shadow, would come and pass through the Poghean’s tondrtun. The next day, Seyran, her waist firm,.her lips pressed, a bundle of wood on her back — was heading toward the city. She would linger before a number of shops,.then she would go as far as the Armenian Prelacy, and after sliding the secret letter into the secretary’s hand — a piece of bread and cheese wrapped in her apron, she would stand near the gate of the great prison. The country’s chosen sons were gathered there in chains. Seyran — doing and not doing — would get a word or a couple of lines through to them, and from them would seize a word in her fist — to carry to the outer world, which would go to echo as far as the distant mountains.
The years passed thus. The Poghean’s great hearth was worn under the feet of secret travellers. Seyran’s knees grew calloused on the roads of the prelacy and the prison. Yet the tonir always remained alight in memory of her immortal dead: and, every evening, Seyran prayed before Poghe’s and Moso’s caps — for the success of her hero sons scattered in the mountains. The house, which for a hundred years continuously had been called the Poghean’s hearth after the great grandfather’s name, and from generation to generation those who bore that name kindled the buried fire — for the sake of continuance, now, by many, was called Seyran’s house — granting a maternal right to this faithful and self-sacrificing woman, who embodied the force of the secret revolution in the hearth that was dying out little by little.
C
1904… The mountains had become tongue, and Tsovasar was speaking. The village-world of Taron was seized by a spiritual conflagration. David of Sasun — standing at the head of Tsirin-Katar — was shouting with a shepherd’s voice.
Hey, you who are asleep, stand awake, You who are awake, take up arms…
And the voice from the mist of Mush was sending a wave under the walls of hundreds upon hundreds of villages. The underground houses were shaking, the ghost of freedom was setting the souls on fire, and the blood was boiling in the veins of the peaceful tillers of the soil. The Armenian inner world was thundering.
The tiller now would approach the manger of the enraged buffalo with more love, and after scratching its ears, with a warm shudder would feel the door of the secret store of the weapons, which would open before the unspeaking one — to wipe his rifle, the light of his eyes, his treasure. It was another thing, another thing… The Armenian tiller’s life was turning out of its axis. The cannon-smoke again formed piles of cloud on the summit of the high mountains. Those shouting «salavat» from the four sides of the world had gathered — coiled like a seven-headed dragon at the skirts of the Taurus. The people’s eye hung from snow-clad Tsirin-Katar, weaving in the soul a thousand and one tales of freedom.
Hrayr’s call of fire, passing from hiding-place to hiding-place, came down from Tsovasar into a dark stable of Mush. Blind Yako wove a song from it and called… And the song spread from mouth to mouth through the villages and the towns, swift as a fire, kindling as a fire. Whoever is brave — what is he waiting for, Already it is time — let him come. It is the hour of death-war, Whoever is a fearless brave — let him come.
Man of iron, soul of stone…
And the souls of stone were trembling with revolutionary fever. Death and freedom weighed equal in two scales. The spirit of valiant men had risen again. The challenge had set the village secret bands in motion. The sworn young men were in feverish preparation. Arms and armour, charukh and stocking, glove and head-wrap — their soul folded in them — were waiting for the band-leader’s command — to split the snow toward Tsovasar. The mass was breathing the atmosphere with full lungs. The Armenian Inner World was thundering.
That evening’s twilight was cloaking a mystery in the streets of Argavank. At the open doors of a few houses women were standing like an unmoving shadow: as if their eyes had grown cold after a departing traveller. The band of Argavank was holding its last meeting in a stable crouched in the corner of the village. That night seven devotees were to become man of iron, soul of stone, and were to go to take part in the fateful fight. The village was sending its offerings to Tsovasar…
Gale was a fresh young man, matured under Seyran’s hand and before the sanctuary of Poghe’s and Moso’s caps. He had already passed into the ranks of the village’s sworn ones, and that evening, fevered by the secret breath,.his soul was swaying between his mother and the mountain road. Yet the blood was boiling in his heart and he was valiant — to the point of not blinking an eye before the bullet. He felt that he would not be able to stay behind from that road, but with his head hung from these thoughts — he reached the door of the stable, where the band-leader and the helper were keeping watch. The band without hesitation had given its verdict. The only lamp of the Poghean’s house could not be extinguished. Gale they had not counted among the ranks of the devotees. – Gale, go home, the band has decided that you shall not go up the mountain… – Can such a thing be, brother… The word remained unfinished. The band-leader repeated commandingly. – It is the verdict of the revolution. Gale was accustomed to the secret band’s strict discipline. He hung his head, swayed a little, wanted to speak, but felt that it was superfluous, and turned back toward home. Seyran — kneeling before Poghe’s and Moso’s caps — was journeying in spirit through deep snow-clad gorges — to bring bread and water to the fedayis’ positions, where it seemed she would find her two lions — still leaning on their rifles. And having opened her heart wide to all — she would take into her maternal bosom the valiant ones stuck in the snow and kiss their brows — under the hail of bullets.
At that moment, Seyran’s soul, without a direct touch, in a general self-sacrifice, wanted to be reconciled with Gale’s departure. Gale’s return with hung head woke the mother from her distant dreams. She stood up and approached her bewildered and crushed only boy. They looked at each other silent and heavy with thoughts. In Gale’s eyes the ray was dimmed, the soul defeated and from shame the glance remained hung to the ground. In his mother’s questioning gaze he discerned the gleam of Poghe’s and Moso’s eyes and he was afraid to raise his brows toward the caps. – Gale, my boy, why did you come early…
Gale’s head remained hung. Seyran’s voice was coming from the deep, bathed in a wave, as if it were the voice of great-grandfather Poghe, sounding from the world beyond. Seyran’s soul, crossed with abysses — the maternal fire was trembling upon this one single flickering ray, but her being had long been cut off from the everyday surroundings and bound to the idea of immortality, which was eternal and filled her tender heart. Faith had become a hardened fact in this woman, who believed that Poghe and Moso had been killed, but were not dead, and their breath was hovering over the mountains, where the valiant ones passed swift as an eagle,.firm as stone.
Seyran, without repeating the word, looked sharply at Gale. A desertion, which might bring a stain upon this self-sacrificing roof, had thrown the mother into inner agitation. This tondrtun, anointed with the memories of Poghe and Moso, was for Seyran more sacred than the Cathedral of the Illuminator. Gale whispered. – They did not enrol me among the devotees. It is the band’s decision, it is the verdict of the revolution… Seyran’s eyes darkened, but in the soul a pride stirred for her valiant boy. And this refusal — well-meaning and comradely, she regarded as an insult to the Poghean’s hearth, to her hearth. The slight from the comrades brought down a pillar from her heart. The house seemed to collapse upon her head. The walls, the beams and the pillars made the black mourning felt sharp and deep. The hearth remained standing upon Poghe’s and Moso’s caps. She approached, took Gale by the hand, like a schoolboy,, with a voice barely audible from clenched lips and set teeth said. – Gale, my boy…
Silent and with a heavy heart they passed through the dark streets and stood at the door of the stable, where the sentry was waiting. From within the whisper of low voices was heard, so mysterious. A deathly silence reigned inside. But the sentry thrust his head in and said. – It is Seyran and Gale, there is no danger. Seyran entered with resolute steps, still holding Gale by the hand (however much a boy may grow, for a mother he is a little child). She looked at all of them — with maternal pity, and the sacred covenant warmed her dried heart. There was blood in everyone’s eyes. The weapons were gleaming before them. Wonder was playing on their faces. They were looking at one another’s faces. The silence thickened with mystery in the humble hiding-place. The clenchings of Seyran’s lips increased. – Can such a thing be, what you are doing, you turn the honour of Poghe’s and Moso’s house to dust… If on this day’s day no devotee is to go from our house, then why do we live… Let such a thing not be: the house will be torn down upon my head. Emotion seized them all. The feeling of self-sacrifice gave a warm wave under their hearts. A mother’s supreme sacrifice was passing beyond their imagination. They knew Seyran — with her stubborn will and in many secret works and they knew that she had a more resolute voice than the village band. The band-leader in vain poured out his reasons, but he could never say. – «It is the verdict of the revolution». All of them felt that the spirit of the revolution had come and nested in that bereaved mother’s heart: – a heart, where there was room for all those who were wearing out the mountains and the gorges for the covenant of freedom. Seyran’s heart was full, but her eyes were dry and her lips stubbornly clenched. – Gale, you too prepare… And the band no longer made two of Seyran’s one word. Seven devotees, at midnight, kissed their comrades, received Seyran’s blessing, and threw themselves into the snows like wild goats. The village was proud. Hearts were swollen with joy, and the song was sounding under roofs blackened with soot. – Man of iron, soul of stone, Be the avenger of the Turk…
D The storm hovered with force over the heights of Tsovasar. Tsirin-katar fell silent and remained standing like a monument. Under a rock Gale’s corpse remained unburied. The black tidings came with the dark clouds and thickened above Seyran’s hearth. The village crouched upon itself and was terrified of that great mourning, which was extinguishing even the last spark of an ancestral hearth.
Seyran shut herself in the tondrtun. Those coming and going heard and were silent. Chin in hand she thought, she thought… With a thin and deep grief she watched the brides, who like a shadow would appear and moan Gale’s loss, which was making their old wound bleed. Seyran’s heart was wrung with inexplicable pains, and not even a drop of tear was pressed from her eyes, that the heart might grow light. In the dark of night, until light, she spoke with herself. She judged, she wept in spirit,she dreamed, she wandered the mountains, she bound the wounds, she wiped the sweat and the blood of the fighters and the wounded, she took heart and returned to her faith…
One morning, the brides saw Gale’s cap and fez hung beside the others, which formed three little sanctuaries for this faithful mother’s heart. Seyran came out of the house with the weight of her mourning, but self-sacrificing and wholly devoted she opened her heart to those who had grief. She consoled those mothers and brides who had a wandering valiant one. – May they remain alive, our dried blood a sacrifice on their road. And in this consolation Seyran would find her consolation too, because when she said «THEY», the three caps hung from the tondrtun would become fedayis, and she would see the stout statures of Poghe, of Moso and of Gale, who were passing from Tsovasar — clad in sword and armour.
Seyran came out again — to wear out the road of the prelacy and the prison. She was silent as stone, and the soul firm — as iron, which has no longer anything fresh. The Poghean’s bright house entered its shadow. The plough passed to others. The remaining fields the neighbours ploughed and sowed by halves. The oxen were emptied from the great stable, and only a few milch cows remained — to wet the dried hearth. The younger bride could not bear all this, she received leave and passed to her father’s house. Seyran pressed her heart and with a movement of the head gave her consent, but the bride’s departure weighed on her heart like a millstone, and the world appeared hollow to her eye. This one opened like a wound, which she could not forget until her death. The elder bride bound herself to Seyran’s shadow, she withered her youth within these mourning walls, and together with the mother, like two candles they burned and melted before the sanctuary of the caps — consoled by the faith of immortality. The fedayis — in the days of persecution, by fives and tens directed their steps toward Seyran’s house, at midnight they pushed the door softly and entered, as they would before a safe cave. The memory of three heroes, and especially Seyran’s presence, had turned the Poghean’s house into an unbetraying fortress of the revolution, where those who had given up their life could sleep one day — without a trembling of the heart.
The fedayis would dry their soaked bodies over the ever-burning tonir: and Seyran would become a thousand pieces — to lavish her tenderness on these valiant sons, with the longing and the dream of whom she would pass every night, In the quiet and dim light of an oil lamp,.when the beaten fedayis would gather around the tonir — to eat fresh bread and sour soup, the tragedy of the hearth would possess these men of stone, who would have the heart to ask. – Mother, how are you? – May you remain alive… After this warm heartfelt answer, the lips would clench — to restrain the wave of the heart: she would raise her brows toward the row of caps and from the depth of the soul, faithful — she would add. – May they remain alive… May you remain alive. A religious silence would descend upon them all»…
…«The tottering tondrtun would remain standing by the sacred memory of her three sons. She remained clinging to the memories, and her eyes watered from waiting for the immortals.
Z
That Sunday Argavank was in a bustle. The village had lost its monotonous quiet. And people were moving more quickly, the conversations were proceeding aloud and vigorous, instead of the usual silence. The general inspector of the schools, for the first time, was to visit Argavank,.and his visit had a double significance in the eyes of this labouring multitude, which had heard from mouth to mouth that the new inspector was the founder of the revolution and its apostle at the same time:, the type of the self-sacrifice of old days, the greatest of all revolutionaries, and the object of worship. The inspector had come and gone from distant horizons to spread light and spirit in the ancient light-giving cradle of Sahak and Mashtots. And the village, which awaits an extraordinary event, once a year to burst out of its unmoving and silent life, with the confusion of a torrent was piling one upon another — seizing the lower streets and the roofs of the village, and having formed many-coloured clusters — was leaning toward the opposite road, which led to the city.
Only in that rare short moment, the villager would forget the field and the palm, the plough and the sickle, so that, a little later, his curiosity barely satisfied, he would return to everyday life, quiet as the soil, patient as the ox, a fatalistic eternity on his face. The apostle of the revolution is to come… The news, which like fire from tonir to tonir had passed making the circuit of the village, under Seyran’s roof was recorded only with the title of representative of the revolution,.the inspector given over to oblivion. Each one in the manner of satisfying his soul’s curiosity would understand this coming. The elder and the elder’s deputies, the village-head and the schoolmaster, wanted to greet the inspector, to appear with a white face before him — to secure a contribution for the school. The village committee and the band-leaders wanted to present themselves to the representative of the revolution with a display of their whole composition. The old comrades crouched in modesty were nourishing a dim light — to greet a revolutionary apostle of past days, simple and unspoiled, the ideal and unbending leader. For the multitude that had remained rustic the one coming was the great one of the nation, endowed with all kinds of attributes, and the word «nation» had the meaning of revolution with this multitude.
The inspector had set out from the city. On foot he was passing through the villages, leaning on a pastoral staff. He was dressed simply and without care. From his shoulder hung a leather bag, in which were placed his notebooks and a piece of bread. His greying beard and hair given to the wind — he was passing through the flowering fields. Bright was his broad brow, and on his face there was a sweet and captivating smile. A deep and dreamy mystery was shining in his radiating eyes. He,.like a warm and widespread breath — would open to his surroundings, would embrace the soil and the villager, man and nature. From his appearance a complete dedication was reflected, as if he were an ancient hermit newly come down from the mountains, from whose silence wisdom and goodness were dripping. The inspector had come from smiling and prosperous capitals, from the webs of glory, where the dailies in large letters would record the names of orators, where the pedestals of ambition were arrayed in an open circus, where men confused enthusiasm with great victories. Having voluntarily renounced all the pleasures of life — he had always avoided the glittering glories,.like his shadow,.without being able to lock them in his eyes,.the soul always troubled,.he mixed with the toiling and silent multitudes and was imbued with their deep and immeasurable emotions.
The founder of the revolution was filled with sadness from this glory-seeking atmosphere, he branded the proud,.he rained thunderbolts on the heads of the unscrupulous, moral terror became the lot of all the great ones and for a moment doubt possessed this firm soul. Unable to bear these mad self-denials, one day he left Polis, which was on fire with speeches,and took the road of the land of Taron — to become a brother there with the silent and petrified hearts, to take the smell of the labourers’ sweat and to read the history of nameless heroes written in blood upon that soil and those rocks.
Here, where fifteen centuries having taken tongue — were speaking to him from ruined fortresses, from the cupolas of monasteries, from split rocks,.he found a silent and iron people — bent over the plough, but sometimes seizing Tur-Getzak, full of wounds, but — valiant, flayed, but — proud, nameless, but — wise and self-sacrificing. And he loved his faith — concerning the revolution founded by his own hand. The founder of the revolution found the true temple of his great work in that country and with consolation approached all those who in their soul kept buried the faith of the sacred covenant. Night and day, a pastoral staff in his hand, he wandered mountain and plain, heard and recorded the crucifixion and the martyrdom of the believers of past days, became acquainted with all the folds of the secret work, prepared the list of names of all those silent men who walked through the darkness — lit by the lamp of their soul, grew familiar and made friends with those of whom the papers had not written, from the platforms whose names had not sounded, who however formed the salt of Armenian life, – the moral building of the revolution was rising upon their shoulders. The apostle approached all these like an old and known comrade, spoke with them without a preface, as if to continue a conversation left unfinished years before.
The pedestal of the great and the powerful cracked. A moral blight touched their faces. The sleep of prelates, abbots and notable men fled. And they were bewildered by the scourge of this unofficial called one, who had come to cleanse the sacred temple of the revolution of Pharisees…
The apostle that day had taken the road of Argavank filled with old thoughts and emotions, and drunken with the life-giving mystery of the abundant plain, to the teacher accompanying him he was speaking of the soil and the village, of future possibilities. He was a learned man, and at the same time an inspired believer. Argavank was spread before him. Below the village the road had come and plunged into the black piles of fallow, and like a long grey sheet was shivering in the open plain. The inspector paused a moment,.he embraced the surroundings, drew a deep breath. A memory — like an old dream, played in his thoughtful eyes. A tragedy known to him, ever known, come and gone,.fresher, more palpable, flooded his heart. A deep silence descended upon them. And they like weary pilgrims approached the village. The village in the order of its stature,.in official position has seized the mouth of the road. Confusion, questioning glances. – Is it he, is it not he… Doubt, movement, disappointment. Neither horseman, nor pomp. But the one coming in his simplicity seems to carry an unnamed awe. The villagers for a moment think upon the simplicity of hermits. At last, the village schoolmaster recognizes. – It is the inspector, yes, yes, it is he.
The feet of the village-head, the band-leader and the schoolmaster become entangled with one another. – Welcome, a thousand welcomes, upon our head, upon our eye. – Greeting… And the people crowded behind them and upon the eaves still look into the distance, to greet the appearance of horsemen. – Pray enter, pray enter. The village elders take the word from one another’s mouth. The inspector — leaning on his staff, kind, very kind looks at them, but he thinks. – I wish to visit Seyran’s house. – Mr. inspector, let us go, rest, then… The village and the inspector do not understand one another. Two old fedayis — with worn-through treks and earthy breast, approach. In their eyes there is a spark, and on the face — a heart-moving joy. The spirit of old, old days had woken in them — with the recollection of their lost comrades. – Let us go, comrade inspector… Let us go to the Poghean’s house, they were our old comrades… The apostle without a word accompanied them. The village elders kept the official order, and the current with dignity turned and followed them. The memories of harsh days trembled on the lips of mature men. The village as if were newly waking from the drunkenness of the Constitution, with a broken body, thoughtful.
One of the old comrades ran to give Seyran the news. Seyran was standing at the door, far from the rustic mass, but in spirit with them and with a panting beat of the heart she was waiting for him who was to come from Tsovasar. And behold, from the lower street a humble one was coming up, a compassionate and speaking smile on his face, bringing an old and known breath with him, and the village swaying — was following him. In Seyran’s eye Hrayr was pictured, who ten years ago, one day of the bloody days, thus humble, thus apostolic, wearing treks — with lively steps was coming up toward the Poghean’s bright hearth.
After years of long waiting and despair, this coming opened like a miracle in Seyran’s soul. She was seeing with her eyes the return of her worshipped self-sacrificing ones, and with them — the fresh statures of her three valiant sons were filling the Poghean’s threshold. Seyran forgot the years’ bottomless grief, the joy of finding the sons lost in the mountains sent a wave from the maternal dried veins, and the emotion rose like a warm torrent toward her face. Like a silent and unmoving statue — she was watching the traveller approaching her. The tears drop by drop were falling from her eyes dried for ten years, and the furrows of tears were dividing in two the smile of happiness, which was trembling on the pale face.
The founder of the revolution and Seyran greeted one another like old acquaintances and fellow-working comrades. The past had no curtain for them, and time remained on the arrow of past days. They were silent, but their soul was kindled with memories. – Welcome, you came upon my eye, a sacrifice to the road by which you came… The inspector with an impossible emotion could only make a tender movement.
They settled in the tondrtun. The old revolutionaries coming and going had broken the salt and bread of the Poghean’s hearth. The inspector was watching with admiration Seyran’s face, where an impossible tragedy was recorded. The two fedayis — filled with the joy of orphans who have found their parents, were pressed close to the great comrade, one may say — had gone under his arms, intimate and tender.They that day had the psychology of one carrying a victory: the word belonged to them. The village notables were arrayed along the walls, silent and waiting. The tondrtun — mysterious like a place of prayer, as if was speaking to all of the tragedy enclosed within its four walls. From Seyran’s eyes tears were flowing of themselves. She was silent and quiet and on her face a pale smile of happiness was glittering. The bride was standing by the pillar, unmoving as the pillar, with a pale face. The fedayis, in an almost inaudible whisper, told the leader of the revolution the history of the lost comrades. Imperceptibly from Seyran they pointed to the caps hung from the wall, which had turned this house into a revolutionary pantheon.
The apostle was filled with boundless sadness. The tragedy of the Poghean’s house and this bereaved mother’s faith were growing – to the degree of becoming boundless – in the apostle’s eye , the hardness of the revolution with its whole weight was presenting itself to the founder of that pitiless movement, and he, bewildered before this untold grief remained — not finding a word of consolation and of comfort to address to a mother, who without being brought down had stood like an oak against terrible storms. Crushed and exhausted by that bitter and storming reality — he instinctively took refuge in the ordinary expression. – How are you, mother… Yet the ordinary question, which had been given without the expectation of receiving an answer, was sounding deep, very deep within Seyran’s heart, and she, filled with tenderness and dedication, with a bright and faithful face would answer. – May you remain alive… May they remain alive… Seyran’s hand and eyes remained stretched toward the caps of Poghe, of Moso and of Gale, and the face was anointed with a wondrous vision. A shiver passed through everyone’s body. The apostle of the revolution saw the treasury of his great founded work embodied in this woman. With a reverent soul he looked at Seyran, looked at the Temple of the Immortals, bowed and with great emotion kissed the mother’s hand. Silence had stood as a liturgy in everyone’s soul. The old revolutionary spirit was smouldering under the Poghean’s ceiling — with the fragrance of incense. And the breezes — thousand-winged, having taken the moral breath condensed in the atmosphere — were carrying it to the distant villages and towns.
The idea of immortality having risen again — once more wandered in the Land of Taron — like a ghost. Seyran that evening stood long on the threshold of the house and looked at the high mountains. When twilight descended and thickened upon the roofs of Argavank, she returned to the tondrtun and told the bride that with her eyes she saw Poghe, Moso and Gale, who like rocks giving one another their backs — were passing armed down the slopes of Tsovasar…
K. SASUNI «THE MYSTERY OF THE MOUNTAINS» («Let them remain alive», «BAGIN» monthly, 1977, no. 11, Beirut)
«1904… THE MOUNTAINS HAD BECOME TONGUE, AND TSOVASAR WAS SPEAKING»…
«1904… The mountains had become tongue, and Tsovasar was speaking. The village-world of Taron was seized by a spiritual conflagration»… …«The underground houses were trembling, the phantom of freedom was setting the souls on fire, and the blood was boiling in the veins of the peaceful tillers of the soil. The inner world of the Armenians was thundering»… (Karo Sasuni «Let Them Remain Alive»)
«Whatever is written about Sasun and its inhabitants is bound to be pages of epic. From ancient days it has come thus down to us»…
«…There is no need to adorn the pages of books with adjectives, to seek beautiful styles and to create types. It is a world of heroes and of martyrs. There are graves that resemble beating hearts, there are names that resemble a carved khachkar, they are indelible. One may touch, kiss, kneel before them and cross one’s face and say: «Here there are ruins, here there are graves, but here there is no death».
…«Wherever the Taronetsi may be, with every child a Sasun is born in his house, in his son, in his grandchildren. One day they took their storks and in a flock migrated northward, they met Mount Aragats and nested upon its slopes, and they remained Sasuntsi still. An invisible red ribbon has bound Aragats to Tsirankatar; they are the same people — old man and old woman, youth and maiden, boy and newborn, they speak the same language. From the rocks of Aragats too they are now making new Sasuntsis; the creating artist is again a Sasuntsi.
People born on the heights of mountains, among rocks, have an unchanging heart,.a hard face, mighty arms, but a kind soul, which resembles God. They took these hearts with them when they went to Armenia. There too they found the rocks of Sasun, the stones, the mountains and the kindness. In place of Tsirankatar they looked to Aragats»… …«The Sasuntsi on the slopes of Aragats too speaks in his own language, as if he lived cut off from the world, with his own manners and mentality»… «At whichever end of the world they be born and reared, the Sasuntsi is always a Sasuntsi. I know a Dalvoriktsi forgotten in an unknown corner of Europe; he did not know the local language, his wife did not know how to read and write, the children spoke the Mush dialect. Every year he would take a local maidservant, would teach her his Mush language, then would send her off — to take another servant and to teach her his ancestral language»… (Fr. Vahan Hovhannesian, Bazmavep, 1974, nos. 1-2).
In 1904 the enemy had come out in a great campaign against Sasun. The Sasuntsis were in armed revolt — going into unequal battle… Karo Sasuni’s story «Let Them Remain Alive» follows next…
Culture is the product of a certain level of the historical development of man and, in general, of society, which reflects the worldview, the way of thinking, the way of life, the value system, the traditions, the conduct of the individual or of a given community, of a nation…
Nature, the environment greatly influence the formation of human thinking and condition the character of culture. The multi-millennial culture of the Armenians, the festive-ritual system are anchored on the foundations of the national perception of the world.
Among these mountains, with its traditions, A simple people lived with love, And its soul was clear and majestic Like its mountains, its springs. (Tumanyan, «Anush»)
For the world-building villager, the peasant who feeds the world, Nature with its visible and invisible forces is a whole living system, of which he himself — man — is also a particle. He converses with Nature — with the spring, the mountains, the rivers, listens to the talk of the breeze… «You are the work of my great-grandfather Krmants Kristopor, o spring» (Sero Khanzadyan «With My Father and Without My Father», p. 224).
Many Armenian writers have depicted their native village with its surrounding mountains and gorges, with its inhabitants living a life of their own… The reflection of the inner world of the Armenian is found in memoirs as well as in artistic prose, in the documentary descriptions of eyewitnesses…
A number of stories with autobiographical passages were created by the Armenian public figure and historian Karo Sasuni (1889-1977), born in the Khulb district of Sasun — immortalizing the inhabitants of the patriarchal village of his childhood…
«The summits of the mountains are close to the sky, And the mountain people — to the Creator». (K. Sasuni)
«Our village was called Aharonk, or Ahronk. The Kurds called it Hnze, whose older name was Handze. (…) Aharonk was an important village — lying to the south-west of Mount Handok, on the western border of Talvorik, at the foot of Mount Spitak Khazak, on the left side of a branch of the Tigris (which comes from the Darkosh and Handok mountains), three kilometres from the river, up toward the mountain. «The village formed one general network of vineyards, gardens, fruit trees, and with its springs, little waterfalls and countless brooks it had a paradisal look. Behind the village rose the mountain — about 1000 metres higher than the village, and it was called Sarbanak. Above it came Spitak Khazak, the high plateau of Hasamtin Druk Saruk, and that vast expanse of 15-20 kilometres is the mountain lands of the village — covered with oak forests, with wide expanses of meadows and with streams, which came down on the right and left sides of the village to join the Tigris. (…) «In both the river and the mountain parts of the village there were countless game animals. Countless was the partridgewith its kinds, there were wild ducks. Herds of wild goats would come near the village, at a distance of two kilometres. Of wild beasts there were plenty of bears, wolves and fox, and in the river otters, naturally — also plenty of fish. There were all kinds of domestic animals, but the most plentiful of all was the goat». (K. Sasuni, «Our Family (Memories from the days of childhood and youth: our house)». This writing, 52 pages, handed down to us — by his son and translator Babgen Sasuni, was composed in Beirut, 1942-1943. The author specifies: «Written for my children (…) who were deprived of a grandfather and a grandmother and of the memory of their ancestors»,- wrote Anahit Ter Minassian.
Excerpts taken from the review written by Levon Nairtsi of the book «The Mystery of the Mountains» — below.
«His heroes seem to be giants, each one, who «usually walk with iron steps, steady, slow and uniform, a bronze statue». («Arko-Moso»). He has a veneration for that outwardly rough and uncouth, but inwardly so humanly feeling, noble and upright mountaineer, who is bold and brave, as only a mountaineer can be, and valiant and hard-working, like every Armenian villager. «A people bent over the plough, but sometimes seizing Tur-Getzak, full of wounds, but valiant, flayed, but proud, nameless, but wise and self-sacrificing». We know well,- every Armenian knows, with what fear and trembling he does his ploughing and sowing. How many – how many times he must call «Lord God», until he brings the fruit of his sweat home… How many terrors Nature holds in store — to make the righteous labour of his sweat go to waste upon his head! One must know that people deeply, one must love them — to be able to write such lines.
«Have you seen the millet threshing floors and that heart-breaking labour the mountain villager performs when carrying the threshing floor home, his eye always fixed on the clouds of the sky? Have you measured that desperate heartache the villager feels when the threshing floor remains under the rain?» («The Immortal»).
Vigen Glak – Sasuni is a writer of village life. His village is our so beloved, simple and unadorned village, with its stacks of dung-cakes, with its earth-dug huts lost under the snows, with its tondrtun «mysterious like a place of prayer», where the smoke of the tonir «inherited from seven generations» rises every dawn in billows toward the sky like a prayer; where «the black pillars and beams have bound an ebony arch upon the jet-black walls».
Rightly has Sasuni observed – our tondrtun is a «pagan mehean», and our grandmothers — each a high priestess keeping unextinguished the fire and the smoke of the Armenian hearth… (Let them remain alive»).
Winter in the village… Who does not know the winter of our mountains? Who does not know how our mountain village falls asleep in winter like a bear, «withdraws into its shell like a tortoise» and only waits for some «event», «to burst out once a year from its unmoving and silent life»? Among those extraordinary «events» is, of course, Barekendan too — with its dances, joys and feasts on the roofs of the village.
Vigen Glak knows, when needed, how to portray that village to us with a few words, with a few juicy strokes of a master’s brush: «Here is a vague swaying in the mist, and the top of the poplar rises above the expanse; then out of the unknown our house rises up, and all at once the village with its vineyards and fields, its hills and gorges spreads out before me».
A very beautiful, living and moving picture is the village morning, when the village, like that sleeping city of fairy tales, as if by the power of some magic wand, awakens from its deep sleep,- all at once, suddenly, «with an explosion», as Sasuni says: «The rooster, the church clapper and the sexton would break the silence. The sun from the top of the mountain , like an all-covering torrent, would flood the village and the gardens. The bride and the cow, the hen and the kid, the ploughman and the ox would mingle with one another. The lowing of the herd, the braying of the donkey, the quarrel of women, the cursing of the reaper»… And all this mixed with the «good morning», «God have mercy on your parents» of the old women and old men. («The Hunter»).
Vigen Glak is a lover of the nature of his homeland. He is the singer of the mountains, and it is no accident, of course, that this first collection of his stories bears the title «The Mystery of the Mountains». Generally sparing in descriptions — he gains poetic momentum and ardour when he must describe the native mountain and gorge, the sunrise and the storm. He is not verbose in his descriptions: «A piece of cloud spread its wing over the summit of Darkosh, gradually expanded and hung down toward the abysses»… Only a few words, and a whole scene unfolds before our eyes, but those few words that he gives as description,- he gives condensed, precise and vivid. Beautiful is the scene of the storm («Leylan»), when the caravan — lost in the inaccessible heights of Darkosh, wages a struggle of life and death against the elements of nature. Beautiful, above all, is the description of the Tigris, which is worth reading in somewhat long quotations — to form an idea of K. Sasuni’s poetic momentum…
«For thousands – thousands of centuries the merciless struggle of nature had passed, whirling, down through these chasms. The Tigris had driven like a spear into the flanks of the haughty mountains, had split their massive breast with immeasurable abysses. And the monolithic mountain — divided into two pieces — its summits stood face to face over the pit, bowing proud and contemptuous glances toward the dragon, which for centuries remained coiled at their pedestals. Meanwhile, down from the summits, through the middle of the valley, the bowels of the mountain had spilled out, the rocks had split and toppled. Huge stones had been beaten and rounded by the waves; like a sawn tree — the flanks of the mountain had been opened layer by layer, to record the history of this endless battle of myriad centuries»…
And a little further down: «And the mountain — rumbling from the depths of its womb, here – and there would clench its stone fists on the throat of the Tigris — tight enough to strangle. The river would hiss like a dragon, its breath would stop, its mouth would foam, its body would writhe, it would desperately bite at the rocks and, at last, freed from that stone fist, it would howl in terror, without looking back it would rush toward the south, and the waves at full gallop would leap upon one another’s shoulders — like the frenzied running of hunted deer». («Leylan»).
…«But what occupies K. Sasuni is not these external descriptions. What interests him, the main thing, the essential, is the inner world of man, the hidden folds of the human soul. Let us take, for example, just one of his stories – «The Immortal». Here the village with its simple and unadorned appearance is only a background. The essential is human relationships – complex, tangled, full of passions and contradictions. People are rough toward one another, merciless, stone-hearted. Here the agha is a «tyrant», the tax collector «merciless», the priest and the church warden are busy oppressing the people. And it is understandable, of course, why a simple shepherd like Jaje, born and raised far from people, on the mountain, from the very first day of entering his village found himself in a deep labyrinth of contradictions — in a world of «lies, injustice and falsehood», where the lamb-eating wolves were far more numerous than there – on the summit of his Spitak Khazak.
He — that deep, sensitive soul, conscious of his inner worth and inclined to philosophize, «that tongueless man, who kept the fire of innate thought and judgment banked in the thousand – thousand folds of his soul until the end»,- naturally could not, would not reconcile himself with his surroundings… And he rebelled against the village and the evil village customs. Being truthful to the point of rudeness, he became the merciless scourge of human shortcomings. The villagers were afraid of him, «in the village Jaje and hail became synonyms». And despite all this, they had respect for him and «of a straightforward, unbending man flaring up for justice they would say «he is a piece of Jaje»». Jaje from early childhood, still there — on the mountains, had heard from his father and mother that God is the creator of earth and heaven, that God is merciful, just, the protector of the weak. He knew from the priest’s explanations that «God created man in his own image», which means that «God created man exactly like his own character, like his own face, in his own mould»…
And Jaje becomes pensive, withdrawn, ever more inclined to philosophize. He «gradually withdrew from people and the more contemptible he found them, the sharper his relations with God became. In his inner world stormy disputes took place and his mind was inclined to strike at, to grind down the fundamental cause. And thus he stood face – to face with the Creator»… And one day — in the presence of the whole village, enraged, he hurls into the priest’s face: «Priest, so then you, the church warden Shamas, the sexton Yegho, the thief Kiko have the character and the face of God? I yours too, and your God’s too… So, God has teeth like your teeth? Come on, go, go, carry the image of God on your backs and devour the village.».
The rupture — between him and God becomes inevitable. Jaje becomes godless, he «no longer took communion, did not enter the church»… And so until his death. He knows that whether he wants it or not — it is all the same — he will die, he feels it, yet he cannot reconcile himself with that thought. If man is the creation of God, according to His image, then why is there death? God is immortal, man — why mortal? The feeling of death, which leads many – many to resignation, on the contrary leads Jaje to rebellion. He does not want to yield without a struggle and at the moment of dying, taking the «khanjal» in his hand, he cries: «I will not give my soul to the angel Gabriel… If they come near — I will strike… I want to go to Spitak Khazak again»…
This is that mountain, Which is riveted deep in the pupil of every one of us; Which is under the skin of every one of us – flesh, bone, Which lives, is a real existence And is a dream, a boundless legend…
This is that mountain, From which comes, like torrents of limpid water, the blood of our vein, To which goes, like an air-swift kiss, the last breath of our breast…
This is that mountain, From which the farther we go — the more we feel that we are its own, To which the closer we come — the more we feel what we are…
With his many-layered word and speech one of the original poets of Armenian lyric poetry — Zareh Khrakhuni (1926-2015), presents a whole worldview…
Culture is not a random collection of customs. Every culture is a complete worldview. «What is the Universe, the world, what is the role of man in that complete system»…
The interpretations of reality — the way of seeing, perceiving and explaining one’s surroundings are conditioned by the worldview. Every epoch, every nation has its own particularities of comprehending the world — anchored in the traditions of the Ancestors, in the festive-ritual heritage they shaped.
The child from the very beginning enters the world of culture, later discovers the ideas, the perception of the world, by which his way of life and his attitude to the world are conditioned…
In brief, concise lines a great symbolic idea is enclosed also in Zareh Khrakhuni’s poem «The Mountain».
ZAREH KHRAKHUNI
Wisdom enclosed in silence, which is the expression of the Armenian national worldview…
THE MOUNTAIN
Be sure not, When you climb up the mountain — Be sure not To speak, laugh, shout, call aloud —
It is an embittered primeval god, Whose forge of thunderbolts has gone out; It is a hero with snow-white hair And a wrinkled face, No longer able to bear arms and armour; It is a prophet – who, although Forgotten by heaven — Still keeps his eyes fixed above — awaiting a new message…
Careful, son – be sure not, When you go up the mountain — To let reverence slip from your hand, to fall short in respect, To speak, laugh, shout, call aloud And disturb its age-old sleep; Because Though it has neither star-roaring thunder, Nor the flaming blade of lightning, nor the curse of the forefather – Yet, when you With play and mirth wound its weary heart, Its eyes bereft of light Weep the anguish of the powerless, The tears turn to stone, they freeze, On the dense height of the past They become a majestically rolling rock Or a terrible heap of snow — They crush you like an arrogant fly.
In historically difficult times for the Armenian people, the sober-minded intellectuals of the Armenian nation sought ways to strengthen «the foundations of life». In such a period — as a means of struggle — many Armenian figures of the 19th-20th centuries strove for the rebirth of the National spirit — extolling strength, manliness, the spirit of victory… In Armenian literature the «pagan movement» takes shape, which emphasizes the necessity of casting off medieval religious impositions and of returning to the national sources. As Charents writes — «My heart has kindled the unquenchable fires — Ancient dreams and fiery longings»… The paths of the searches stretched toward the Light of the distant centuries of the Homeland: «A distant longing was burning my heart, Your boundless distances of light were calling».
«The Armenian literary-social milieu of the early 20th century was imbued with national aspirations and with searches for new artistic form and content, which had their direct and powerful influence on the literary process in general and on creators — in particular. It is precisely in these conditions that in Western Armenian literature one of the interesting phenomena of our literature has its beginning — the «pagan movement», which, being closely connected with the similar world literary movements of the period, in particular — the French and the Belgian, at the same time manifests its national content»,- writes Marat Tadevosyan in his article «The national image of Armenian literature in the system of various artistic methods» («The national particularities of Armenian literature» Yerevan, 2003) and continues:
«To harmonize the past with the present: this was the aesthetic and ideological credo of the participants in the movement. Besides D. Varuzhan’s «Pagan Songs», the moods characteristic of the «pagan movement» were expressed in L. Shant’s drama «The Ancient Gods», in R. Zardaryan’s prose work «The Glorification of the Altar», in H. Siruni’s «Toward the Temple of the Miracle» and V. Tekeyan’s «The Wonderful Resurrection» books, as well as in individual poems of Siamanto, R. Sevak, Aharon, L. Esajanyan and others. In 1914, edited by D. Varuzhan and. H. Siruni, the yearbook «Navasard» was published in Constantinople, a considerable part of whose artistic and scientific-philological materials was devoted to the pagan past. As contemporaries note, the literary-social atmosphere was saturated with «paganism» («the national», K.A.), which was the prevailing mentality of the time (as is attested if only by the titles of literary works and of individual periodicals — «Pagan Songs», «The Ancient Gods», «The Glorification of the Altar», «Navasardian Prayer to the Goddess Anahit», «Navasard», «Mehyan» and so on).
A decade later — here is what H. Siruni writes: «Varuzhan had just offered to people the imperishable beauty of his «Pagan Songs» and opened a new line in people’s souls. Another small group of believers was already digging the foundation of a «Mehyan». And all, all felt a thirst for the Unknown Beauty and called it into their souls. And all believed that this beauty came from the distant centuries.
We wanted to bind Armenian literature, which was becoming estranged, once again to the native soil and to its untold beauties. We wanted to rekindle in our souls the sacred Fire with which our ancestors once lit their altars. We wanted to lend an ear to the tale sung by the centuries and to torment our soul in order to interpret its mystery. We wanted to tear out – and cast away from our hearts the alien flowers, and, purified, repentant, await the new dawn, with throbbing heart and open arms». («Navasard», Volume I, Issue I, Bucharest, 1923, p. 3).
Having different artistic levels, worldviews and. individual temperaments, «the pagans set themselves aesthetic, ideological, moral, historical-cognitive tasks that were not alike at first glance. Nevertheless, despite all the differences of worldview among the participants in the «pagan movement», it had certain common national and social roots. In the national sense the meaning of that movement was to inspire the present generations with the heroic episodes of the past, to give them lessons of strength and endurance. For the salvation of the people the national spirit must be restored, which, in the opinion of many intellectuals, had manifested itself precisely in the pagan centuries of our history, and afterwards was distorted and destroyed under the yoke of foreign tyranny and under the influence of the Christian preaching of submission.
«In the pagan movement, especially in Varuzhan’s poetry, the social subtext of the new artistic searches was also expressed very definitely. The past was set against contemporary bourgeois reality — the reality of the «golden calves», which belittles man and deprives him of the influence of will, aspirations and feelings. This inevitably called into being a romantic, extra-historical view of the past, since in the latter Varuzhan and the other «pagans» wanted to see and glorify what they sought and did not find in the present — the freedom of the individual and the heroic spirit, the unfettered development of his spiritual and physical powers, the simplicity and purity of human relations». (Ed. Jrbashyan, Aesthetics and Literature, Yerevan, 1983, p. 262).
«The pagan movement» did not arise suddenly, although contemporaries consider the years 1912-1913 the beginning of the «pagan» movement. It is true that it became a literary current and took its final shape only in the 1910s, but years before that creators were already turning to «poetic paganism». This concerns above all D. Varuzhan, who as early as 1905 writes: «Pagan life attracts me day by day; if it were possible today — I would change my religion and would embrace poetic paganism with love» (D. Varuzhan, Letters, Yerevan, 1965, p. 131). «I have the «nostalgie» not only for our heroic ages, but for those of all mankind. When will paganism return, and the ancient victories, to win which heroes were needed, and not diplomacy?» (D. Varuzhan, Letters, p. 151, 152).
In the centuries that followed paganism the character of man has been corrupted — of the man «mighty and incorruptible like wine», «in place of virtuous valour treachery reigns today». One must be renewed both as a man and as an Armenian («Where has classical Armenianness gone, one must seek them in the corpses of ruins» (Ibid. p. 187) – this is the subtext of the poet’s worldview.
The depiction of pagan life and spirit becomes for Varuzhan a literary programme and goal. «I worship the past… in spite of the futurists — I shall found the school of the worshippers of the past»,- he proclaims. Already in 1907 several poems of the collection are created («Abandonment», «Blessed art thou among women»). In 1909 the cycle «Flowers of Golgotha» is also outlined. «Now I have undertaken to prepare a new volume drawn purely from lived life, with somewhat more analytical, more profound and psychological songs» (Ibid., p. 172). In 1911 among his «works to be published» D. Varuzhan also mentions «Pagan Songs», which testifies that it was already essentially ready for printing»…
… «It is for the present and from the positions of the present that D. Varuzhan turns to the «mighty» pagan period, to historical and mythological heroes and figures — striving to revive the chivalrous spirit — strength and beauty. By this he wanted to respond to the spiritual and intellectual demands of his people and of his epoch, to make the past serve modernity. D. Varuzhan grounds and interprets anew the ideal of paganism, which in his work is a complete system, as much aesthetic as philosophical-ideological. The depiction of strength and beauty, of «the struggles of the irons and of man» was directed toward the discovery of the ideal of man and of the beautiful, which the poet’s literary opponents were unable to see. As a consequence of the fundamental opposition of «Life and dream» (T. Chyokyuryan), dissatisfaction and disillusionment with the present arise. That is why in «Pagan Songs» the anti-philistine and anti-bourgeois orientation was natural and logical. In the poem «The Concubine» Varuzhan evokes the pagan past thus: «Glory to the mighty way of life of the chivalrous ages, Where the Beautiful and drunken Strength were worshipped… Glory to you forever — o curly-haired knights, just-hearted, Beneath whose armour-clad breasts there beat A heart forever self-sacrificing — for the weak, for the oppressed, And for beautiful women, for the myriad treasure of their body».
In «Pagan Songs» Varuzhan brought the glorification of manly strength, the cult of feminine beauty (and of the beautiful in general), the worship of light and of feminine nudity, instead of philistine, unnatural, painted and false manners — the unfettered enjoyment of worldly life; he depicts the suffering man and mankind, the beauty of suffering and of pleasure»…
«AND THE SUN RISES WITH THE MAJESTY OF A HIGH PRIEST»…
Hayk — with its provinces usually separated from one another by natural boundaries — by mountains and river basins, the entire Armenian Highland with its geographical position and its historical course have conditioned the character of the Armenian nation. The culture of the Armenians, shaped by the national worldview, has often been influenced by political events, by customs imported from abroad… «The spiritual life of the Armenian people has undergone great ruptures and has been subjected to such unexpected turns that at times it was simply interrupted — entirely losing its connection with what came before. Alarming political upheavals so shattered the chain of historical succession that at times the next generation fell into such ignorance and such a helpless state with regard to the not-distant past as we — today. The fragmented condition of the country and the frequent interruptions of the normal course of life hindered the elaboration and preservation of unified traditions.
As soon as the political storms calmed down, the acute periods of misfortune were left behind, and life entered its usual course, interest in the past awakened, the study of the monuments saved from the alarming times began — with the aim of understanding the connection with ancient times, of linking the present with the past in some way». (Nikoghayos Adonts).
At the end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th century, the heroes fighting weapon in hand in the liberation struggles waged by the Armenians were also encouraged by our intellectuals, pen in hand. «The poet’s dreams and longings collided with leaden reality, were steeped in the sea of blood of the Armenian massacres, shattered or took on the crimson of blood. He tried «to weave a future, to create a world», whereas he could not present the painful truth, for prison and exile were ready. And often the poet turned to myth, to vision, to ballad, to fairy tale, to allegory and to dream, and with the boundless possibilities and genre particularities they offered he was able to create images of epic and popular heroes, as well as to glorify the eternal values of the survival of the Homeland. At times, too, the spirits of freedom and the valiant men of pagan-chivalrous times were invoked — to inspire the heroes of the new times, to lead them to struggle and to build the desired world.
We read one of Isahakyan’s notes from the spring of 1896: «O ancient world, mysterious world, dark and bright world, wonderful and marvellous world… «people» of the deep and inscrutable world. You were not weak, cowardly, lustful, tender like us, you were brave, strong, terrible, giants, the earth trembled under your feet, and the sky shone above your heads like a crown… Awake from your graves, let your strength spread over us, let your mysteriousness and your aspirations, your fire and your flame possess us, warm us… O ancient world, lavish, gigantic, tremendous world»…(Av. Isahakyan, Memorial Book, Yerevan, 1977, p. 231). These pagan outbursts, the glorifications and invocations of manly strength and power, of free life and delight, were the daring ventures of the innovative poet, whose powerful echoes were heard later in Western Armenian poetry and became a dominant art — the «Pagan current». Moreover, Isahakyan was one of those exceptional ones who invoked the Strength, the Might, the Valour, the Fire and the Flame of the mighty spirits of primeval times — in order to criticize the philistine, feeble and cowardly milieu of his days, to arm and to encourage the heroes of the new day. He did not idealize the Ancient gods (the Dits, K.A.) and did not make them literary heroes, as other poets did.
He discovered the genealogical miracle of divine and mythical epic heroes in Azatn Massis — in the inner eruption of his Homeland, in the unprecedented exploits of the popular heroes of those days and in the immortal creation of our great epic» (quoted from A. Kh. Khachatryan’s article «Avetik Isahakyan’s epic poem «Massa Manuk»»).
To the armed Armenian braves fighting against violence — to the heroes «turned into holy lions» he wishes «Sun» — health and a bright life — in the spirit of the Haykazunis, who for millennia have glorified the Sun and the Light:
«Let us wish the Sun to the great braves – To Andranik and to Vardan, To Serob, that limpid spring … To those thousand – thousand valiant lads, Who have no number and no count, those who, like the stars, Glitter and have no name, To the brave and fearless lads, To those braves, the eye of the night, Who know the language of the road. To all, all the fedayis, Who give light and have no count, May they live long, a green sun, May they remain bright» …
Like the Armenian Ancestors — «the Light glorified with the birth of the Dits» — the Sun, the light of day — the Eye of the «Unapproachable light» with its radiant beams, with the brilliance spread at dawn by its shining rays, continues to be praised to this day…
Light, joyful light… And not the light of evening, At the setting of the sun, But the joyful light of righteous being — Of the dew-footed morning…
…Kneeling Nature rises to its feet. The night office is ending. And the Dawn approaches slowly, Like a watchful Sacristan — Extinguishing and putting out Every kind of lantern and lamp. And the sun rises With the majesty of a high priest.
And the lazily sprawled, fleshy shadows Begin, as it were, to digest themselves —
They lose flesh, grow thin,
Gradually becoming taut
And slender —
Like a dark-skinned dancer.
The Dawn goes on blowing its crimson horn, From all of whose narrow holes widely sprays The Righteous Sun itself, And there sounds that melody, simple and complex, Which sounded with the birth of the gods:
«Light, joyful light»…
Light, joyful light, Joyful and surpassing light, Singing and playing light. You daily apostle,
Who bring only faith,
But frustrate and drive away
Even veiled-disguised hopes.
You messenger, but also a pander,
You — a scout, but also an informer,
But above all — always love
And after all — always love…
Light, joyful light,
Like the rain
Pour down so,
That in the world
Only one-single shadow may remain,
And that only in the sky —
Only the curved shadow of the rain —
The rainbow…
Light, joyful light, Act so, That with your painter’s fingers Even the hawks, colour-adorned, May become, as it were, roosters And sing again with a peculiar cock-a-doodle-doo That melody, simple and complex, Which sounded with the birth of the gods «Light, joyful light»…
Light, joyful light, Spray, Sift down, Bury yourself so and so deep, That we may not live — like the fish In its ever-dark, windowless state, That under your skilful, all-penetrating rays Even secretive water may become sincere-clear, And from your noiseless strokes and your warmth Every unbaked dream may crack at once, And may be sung again even with that very crack That melody, simple and complex, Which sounded with the birth of the gods: «Light, joyful light»…
