by Franz Werfel
From Iskuhi's eyes it was evident that she might have said much. But after a while she answered in one simple sentence: "We have some old songs that are very beautiful."
"Won't you sing one of them, Mademoiselle?" begged Stephan, who sat watching her from a corner. Iskuhi had scarcely known he was there. And now she felt more clearly than ever before that the Frenchwoman's son was a real Armenian boy, without any trace of foreigner in him. It may have been this perception that made her overcome her reluctance and begin to sing "The Song of Coming and Going," which, less on account of its text than its flowing melody, had become the working-song of the seven villages:
"Days of misfortune pass and are gone, Like the days of winter, they come and they go; The sorrows of men do not last very long, Like the buyers in shops, they come and go.
"Persecution and blood lash the people to tears; The caravans, they come and they go, And men spring up in the garden of earth, Whether henbane or balsam, they come and they go.
"Let the strong not be proud, let the weak not look pale, Since life will transpose them; they come and they go. The sun pours down fearless, for ever, his light, While clouds from the altar, they come and they go.
"The world is an inn on the road, oh, singer, The people, its guests, they come and they go. Mother Earth embraces her well-taught child, While ignorant nations may perish, and go."
During this song Juliette could feel quite clearly in Iskuhi that impenetrable something, presented as shyness, as grief, even as the reluctant acceptance of gifts, but which stubbornly resisted all her blandishments. Since she had not understood all the words, she asked for some of the song to be translated. The last verses brought from her a cry of triumph:
"Well, there you see -- how proud you all are! The well-taught child, to whom Mother Earth behaves so obligingly, is Armenian. And the ignoramuses are all the others.
Stephan asked, almost peremptorily: "Something else, Iskuhi."
But Juliette insisted on hearing something amorous. Nothing too solemn. And nothing more about "well-taught children" and "ignorant nations." "A real love song, Iskuhi."
Iskuhi sat very still, bent slightly forward. Her left hand, with its crooked fingers, lay in her lap. The deep-hued sun behind her filled the window-space, so that her face was dark, its features indistinguishable. After a short silence she seemed to remember something. "I know one or two love songs which they sing round here. One especially. It's quite mad. Really it ought to be sung by a man, though the girl's the chief thing in it."
Her little girl's, or priestess', voice seemed to come from a void. To this cool voice the wild song was in strangest contrast:
"She came out of her garden And held them close against her breasts, Two fruits of the pomegranate tree, Two great and shining apples. She gave them me, I would not take.
Then, with her hand, she struck -- Struck with her hand upon her breast-bone. Struck three times, six times, twelve times -- Struck till the bone was broke."
"Again!" Stephan demanded. But Iskuhi could not be persuaded to repeat, for Gabriel Bagradian was quietly standing in the room.
In those days the Bagradian villa grew more and more animated. There were guests at nearly every meal. Juliette and Gabriel both of them welcomed this animation. It was becoming hard for them to be alone together. And guests made the time pass more quickly. Every evening meant a fresh victory, since it strengthened a hope that with it the perpetual shadow had moved its threat a little way farther off. July had almost arrived. How much longer could this menace last? There were rumors that peace was soon to be signed, and peace meant safety. Pastor Aram was now a regular guest. Hovsannah, who still had not quite managed to recover, had asked him to go and take care of Iskuhi. She, after all, knew how accustomed he was to living always with his sister, that he became restless when he had been a few days without having seen her. But there were other frequent guests at Gabriel's table. The main group was composed of Krikor and his satellites. The apothecary's tenant, Gonzague Maris, was among them. This young Greek was not merely welcome as a pianist. He could appreciate beauty and pretty frocks. He "noticed things"; Gabriel Bagradian no longer, or very seldom, "noticed" them. Juliette's dress-making hobby, which after all was no more than an aimless method of whiling away her time with thoughts of Paris, found its applause in Gonzague Maris. He could always, while eschewing vapid flatteries, manage to say something delightful, not only about Juliette's appearance, but in skilful praise of the inspirations with which she tried to enhance Iskuhi's charm. Nor did he ever speak as a blind enthusiast; it was as an artist, an initiate, that he raised the thick eyebrows which slanted at so wide an angle. So that Juliette's workshop, by virtue of Gonzague Maris's insight, was lifted out of the region of hobbies on to a plane of acknowledged values. His aesthetic sense had also been applied to his own appearance. Gonzague was doubtless poor and a man with a, presumably, checkered past. But he never mentioned this. He avoided Juliette's questions on the subject -- not because of any special secretiveness, or because he really had much to hide, but because he seemed to regard whatever had been with a contemptuous shrug, as unimportant. In spite of, or because of, his small means, he was extremely well-dressed whenever he called at Villa Bagradian. Since it was certain to be some time before he got another chance of replenishing his European wardrobe, he took scrupulous care of his clothes. This spick-and-span-ness of Gonzague affected Juliette very pleasantly, without her ever knowing that it was so. Its effects on the two schoolteachers, Shatakhian and Oskanian, were not so gratifying. Gonzague aroused splenetic rivalry in them. The diminutive Hrand Oskanian was invaded by a reckless jealousy. Neither his poetical calligraphy on parchment nor his so distinguished, portentous silences had yet succeeded in winning Madame Bagradian's attention. She ignored his inner worth, his reserve, his dignity. And yet this conceited half-breed, by his vain sartorial display, had managed instantly to attract her. Oskanian made up his mind to take up the unequal struggle in this department. He hurried off to the village tailor, who, half a generation back, had practiced in London for two years.
On the walls of this English maestro's establishment there were fashion-plates of impeccable "lords" of that period. But there was not much choice of material -- only a few yards of thin, grey cloth, hoary with age, scarcely good enough to use for lining. That did not deter Oskanian. He chose a lord from among the models, one whose male svelteness was neatly moulded into a long swallow-tailed morning coat. The first fitting revealed the fact that the swallow-tails reached down to little Oskanian's heels. He did not object, though the tailor seemed rather doubtful. When the masterpiece was ready to wear, Oskanian stuck a white flower in his buttonhole -- it too in imitation of the "lord." Unluckily his own inspiration was allowed to supply the finishing touch. He hurried to Krikor, from whom he bought the strongest scent in the shop, a good half-bottle of which he proceeded to sprinkle about his person. So he did, at last, for the first five minutes, manage to get himself noticed by Madame Bagradian, and by all her guests -- the consequence being that Gabriel had to take him on one side and tactfully ask him to wear another coat for a couple of hours, while the grey chef-d'oeuvre was being hung out to air in the kitchen garden.
One fine morning in July Gabriel made a suggestion. How would it be to spend tomorrow evening and the following night on Musa Dagh? To see the sunrise. It seemed a very European notion -- the genuine inspiration of a tourist whose life is spent between concrete walls, among business letters. But here? The guests, all down the table, were perturbed. Only Hapeth Shatakhian, anxious not to put his foot in it, appeared to welcome the delights of a night spent in the fresh air. But Gabriel Bagradian disillusioned him: "We shan't have to sleep in the fresh air. I've found three tents in one of the attics here, all of them perfectly fit to use. They belonged to my late brother, who took them on his hunting expeditions. Two of them are perfectly modern hunting tents, they're big enough to hold two or three people. The third is a very beautiful Arab pavilion. Either Avet
is must have brought it back from one of his journeys or else it belonged to our grandfather. . . ."
Since Juliette rather welcomed this break in the monotony and Stephan was already jumping for joy, the following morning, a Saturday, was fixed on for the expedition. Apothecary Krikor, to whom there was no new thing under the sun, since he had already done and experienced everything from fruit preserving to comparative theology, began to reminisce about the days when he had lived and slept in the open.
Iskuhi seemed unenthusiastic. No wonder! She had too much knowledge of the cruelty of sleeping out of doors -- of unsheltered earth. Not three hundred miles east of this dining-room the dying convoys toiled along the roads. Bagradian's heartless game annoyed her. She had no inkling of its purpose. "I'd so much rather stay here," she begged.
Gabriel turned to her rather sharply. "Impossible, Iskuhi. You don't want to spoil our sport, do you? You must sleep in the pavilion with Juliette."
Iskuhi stared at the cloth and struggled with words. "I've . . . I'm afraid . . . You see, every night, I feel so glad I can sleep in a house."
Gabriel tried to make her look at him. "I've been counting especially on you."
Iskuhi still did not look up. She bit her lips; Bagradian seemed very set on a trifle. "I really insist on it, Iskuhi."
Her face had already begun to twitch. Juliette signed to her husband to stop worrying Iskuhi. She made him understand that later she herself could soon persuade the child. But it proved harder than she had thought. She attempted womanly advice. All men were really children, au fond. Any woman who cared to direct life found it best to give them their boyish way whenever possible. A real man was never so grateful for anything else, and consequently never so easy to manage. If one wanted to have one's way in the important things one ought never to mind giving way in trifles. These maxims sounded as if Juliette were advising herself, the married woman. But what, after all, had Iskuhi to do with the little masculine foibles of her host, Gabriel Bagradian?
She turned away her embarrassed head. "This isn't a trifle for me."
"After all, it may be very jolly. At least it's new . . ."
"I have too many recollections of the novelty."
"Your brother, the pastor, doesn't mind."
Iskuhi drew a deep breath. "It's not just my obstinacy."
But Juliette seemed to have thought of another way. "If you stop here, I won't go either. I should hate to be the only woman among all those men. I'd rather stay here."
Iskuhi cast a long glance at Juliette. "No. Impossible. We can't do that. I'll come if you want me to. I've got over my first feeling already. I'd love to do it for you."
Juliette looked suddenly fagged out. "Well, we've time enough till tomorrow morning. We can think it over ten times if we like."
She clasped her forehead and shut her eyes. She felt vaguely faint, as though certain of Iskuhi's memories had at last begun to invade her consciousness.
"Perhaps you're right, Iskuhi, in what you feel. We all live such a safe kind of life."
Next morning they were up early. Because of the ladies they did not choose the short cut up through the ilex gorge, but the gentle, if rather tedious, long way round, over the northern saddle. Today, for all its clefts, rocky bastions, wildness, Musa Dagh proved a well-disposed mountain, which showed its best side to the climber. Iskuhi's quiet was lost in the general hilarity. But even she seemed, little by little, to cheer up.
Gabriel Bagradian could observe with what astonishing celerity his son was shedding his European habits ever since he had begun going to Shatakhian's school. "I can scarcely recognize him," Juliette had recently said to Gabriel. "We shall have to be very careful. He's already begun to speak that dreadful, hard Armenian French, like stones being broken. Just like his wonderful teacher." By now Stephan knew the Damlayik nearly as thoroughly as his father. He played the guide but could never manage to stay on the road, since he kept looking out for every difficult short cut to climb and exercise his gymnastic skill on. Often he was far ahead and often well behind the rest, so that his voice could only just be heard when they called him.
They reached the beautiful meadow sooner than Gabriel had reckoned. The tents were already set up. There was even a flag, waving above the Arab pavilion of the sheikh, or Grandfather Avetis. It was embroidered with the arms of ancient Armenia -- Mount Ararat, the Ark, and the dove fluttering in its center.
This pavilion was indeed the resplendent relic of a prouder, more magnificent age. It was eight paces long and seven wide. Its scaffolding was of poles thick as an arm, of precious woods; its interior walls were the finest carpets. It had one great disadvantage. It was impregnated with the reek of camphor and musty cloth. The walls had been rolled up and sewn into sacks, which from time to time the steward Kristaphor had buried under mountains of camphor and insect powder. The modern tents, brought back from London a few years ago by Avetis the younger, aroused far more admiration, though they were only made of the usual canvas. But they were "replete" with every convenience which the perspicacity of an experienced hunter could have desired. Nothing had been forgotten in these tents: collapsible field-beds, far from uncomfortable, silk sleeping-bags, featherweight tables and chairs that fitted into one another, cooking sets, tea sets, pots and plates, all of aluminum. Rubber bathtubs and wash basins. Not to mention wind-proof lamps for petroleum and methylated spirit.
They began to sort themselves for the night. Juliette refused the sheikh-pavilion and took up her quarters in a modem tent, with Iskuhi. Krikor and Gonzague were given the other canvas tent. Teacher Oskanian explained, with a somber glance at Juliette, that he preferred, for reasons of his own, to sleep under the open sky -- apart. As he said it, he threw back his woolly head, as if expecting a general chorus of approbation at so proud and resolute a decision, while at the same time a cooing, feminine voice would beseech him to relent and change his mind. But Juliette did not so much as mention the wild beasts and deserters to which he exposed himself for her sake.
Bagradian secretly thought of this night out of doors as a dress rehearsal. But it passed without any incident -- like hundreds of picnics of the same kind. Nothing romantic -- unless indeed it were the fact that the cook Hovhannes prepared supper over an open fire. The daring house-boy Missak had ventured a few days back to go to Antioch, where a well-disposed army contractor had sold him a whole mule-load of English tinned foods, which they sampled that night. Sato had followed the party at a distance. She lurked in the dusk beyond the fire, and during the meal Stephan jumped up from time to time to take her some of his own food. They sat round the fire on rugs, like all picnickers. Missak had spread out a tablecloth on a flat knoll for the dishes. The evening was pleasantly cool. The moon was near its first quarter. The fire began to burn more faintly. They drank wine, and the strong mulberry brandy distilled by peasants of the district. Juliette soon broke up the party. She had a queer feeling of disquiet. Now at last she could understand Iskuhi's reluctance. All around her glowered the savage, unpeopled earth -- so horribly in earnest. This was perhaps a rather malicious game that Gabriel played at. The others also said good-night. Oskanian strode off, with head erect, to pay for his vanity with a chilly night, as near the encampment as possible. Gabriel posted sentries. Two men together for three hours were to keep guard around the tents. Gabriel gave out rifles and ball-cartridges. Kristaphor and Missak had gone on hunting expeditions with Avetis and were quite used to handling firearms. At last Gabriel lay down. Neither he nor Iskuhi could sleep.
The girl lay taut, not moving a limb, anxious not to wake Juliette. But Gabriel twisted and turned for hours. The reek of camphor and mildew stifled him. At last he dressed again and came outside. It was about fifteen minutes to twelve. He sent the sentries, Missak and the cook, to bed. Then he paced slowly up and down, sole guardian of the "Three-Tent Square." Often he switched on his pocket-torch, but it only lit up a tiny circle. Bats flapped though the dark. As the moon rode seawards out of a cloud, a nightingale began
singing in the deathly quiet with such bubbling energy that Gabriel was stirred. He tried to find out how it had happened that his deepest thought was already taking so clear a shape. There they were externalized -- three tents against the dark sky. How had it come about? Thinking was impossible now. His soul was too full. As Gabriel lit a fresh cigarette, he saw a ghost standing not far off. This phantom wore the lambskin cap of a Turkish private, and was leaning on an infantry rifle. Its face was invisible -- probably a very hollow-cheeked face, against which its cigarette had begun to glow. Gabriel hailed the ghost. It did not move, even at his second and third call. He drew his army revolver and snapped the catch with a loud click. It was sheer formality, since he felt quite certain that the man had no intention of molesting him. It hesitated a while before it moved, and then a queer, long-drawn, indifferent laugh came rattling out of it. The cigarette-end vanished, the ghost with it. Gabriel shook Kristaphor awake. "There are one or two people hanging round. Deserters, I think."
