by Franz Werfel
This children's brawl only ended what the mukhtars' wives, headed by Madame Kebussyan, had begun. Before sundown the communes knew everything. They "knew everything" with a number of embellishments designed to make them more virtuously indignant. It was the hour at which, for some atmospheric reason, smoke from the mountain fire rose thickest. In black layers it swathed the Town Enclosure, giving forth a sharp, acrid resin, exacerbating throats and mucous membranes. Sneezings, snufflings, hawkings, became an agony. . . . What? Was it really possible? Could these people, just two days clear of death, these people, almost certain, sooner or later, not to escape death's clutches a second time -- could they, in their present desperate plight, be so concerned with a piece of scandal, and one in which the protagonists were foreigners?
There is only one answer. They were foreigners . Gabriel's leadership had changed everything. The queen, the king's consort in a monarchy, is, as a foreigner, doubly blamed and called to account with double severity. Juliette had not sinned merely against her husband, but against the whole of his race.
So that, two days after the fiercest of these battles, which had bereaved over a hundred families, groups of outraged people stood round the altar, as though, for them, huddled on their raft in waves of blood, there could be no more important topic than the shame and scandal of the Bagradians. It was not the very old women who set the tone of this indignation, nor the very young. It was women of the matronly sort, between the ages of thirty-five and fifty-five, who in the East seem far older than they are, and whose sole remaining pleasure in life is the contemplation of others' joys and the acrid discussion of them. The young women kept fairly quiet and listened reflectively to the virtuous scoldings of these elect. These young women were all very pale. It was on them that life on the Damlayik weighed heaviest. Their faces, under caps or head-shawls were drawn and anemic-looking. Armenian women, even of the lowest class, are in their youth frail and delicate-limbed. Grief, anxiety and privations had moulded these youngest women on the Damlayik to an even more fragile, delicate form. They nodded sagely to the matrons' chiding disapprobation, and only now and again put in a word. At the moment they could not feel too indignant at the thought of an adulterous woman, knowing as they did what was in store for them and all their sisters. Not merely death, but death by rape, unless one had the extraordinary good luck to be bought by a rich Turk from the saptiehs, for his harem, where one would have to reckon on being slowly vexed to death, with petty persecutions, by the elder women.
Madame Kebussyan had control of every thread of outraged wrath. Now was her time to pay back the châtelaine of Yoghonoluk (who, to be sure, had shown her unfailing kindness) for all those unpleasant inferiority feelings experienced at evening receptions. And more -- here was the mayoress's chance to re-establish her position as social leader of the district. She was far too wide-awake a lady to restrict her observations to adultery merely. Soon there was an even better, more nutritious subject for virtuous censure. She, the mayor's wife, had seen the inside of that luxurious sheikh-pavilion, to which she had been invited again and again till she was sick of going there. More than once, with amazed, scandalized eyes, had she watched "that woman" display her stores; her cupboards, her trunks, her chests, bursting with supplies. Nobody had any idea! Vast stores of rice, coffee, raisin cakes, tinned meat, smoked herrings, sardines. All the choicest European dainties, heaped up in that tent. No end to the sweets, the jams, the chocolate, the crystallized fruits and -- above all -- the loaves of finest flour, biscuits, and cakes!
It cannot be denied that such graphic descriptions had their effect on the nagging bellies of the males. Otherwise they directed their indignation against Gonzague Maris, rather than Juliette. Against the foreigner , the interloper. It would not have needed very much more to make a few young men get together and agree to shoot the adulterer out of hand.
When Ter Haigasun came into the square, Madame Kebussyan planted herself in front of him. "Priest, you'll have to punish them!"
He tried to thrust her aside. "Mind your own business."
But, more and more shameless, she blocked his way. "This is my business, Priest. Haven't I got two married daughters, and two daughters-in-law? You know that yourself! And aren't men's eyes greedier than the eyes of wild dogs? And women's hearts slyer still? Everyone lives and sleeps in a heap, in the huts. How can mothers be expected to keep order and discipline, with such an example?"
Ter Haigasun gave her a little shove. "I haven't the time to hear your foolishness. Get out of my way!"
But this queen of tongue waggers, usually a most ordinary little woman, with nimble mouse-eyes, drew herself up, red as a peony with Juliette's sin, to her full, solemn height. "And the sin, Priest? Christ the Saviour has kept death away from us so far. He's fought on our side -- He and the Holy Mother of God. But now they've been insulted, by mortal sin. Won't they deliver us over to the Turks, unless there's penance done?"
Madame Kebussyan felt she had played her trump card. She glanced round victoriously. Her husband, Thomas, kept close beside the priest; his little squinting eyes saw all and nobody. He seemed anxious not to be drawn into all the fuss. Ter Haigasun did not answer the malicious woman directly, but the crowd, which was pressing in on all sides:
"Yes, it's true. Christ Saviour has preserved us, so far. And do you know how? By working the miracle, when we needed one, of sending us Gabriel Bagradian, a gallant officer, who knows and understands war. Otherwise we'd have been finished long ago. Those still alive have his brain and courage to thank. You'd better think of that, and of nothing else."
A few leaders had collected in Ter Haigasun's hut. This was a private and very difficult case. Half-conscious delicacy had caused them to assemble here, instead of in the government barrack. Since this was a purely moral difficulty, and Ter Haigasun was invested with supreme authority in such matters, they entrusted to him without further discussion the business of deciding what to do. He named two messengers, Krikor and Bedros Altouni. The one was to go to Gonzague Maris, who had lived in his house, and whom he had, so to speak, brought to Yoghonoluk, the other -- the doctor -- to Gabriel, as his oldest friend, and the protégé of his family.
Knikor was still crippled with rheumatism. But his brief excitement at the christening had done him more good than any of the drugs he still possessed. In the last few days he had managed to move about more freely, though with very slow, hobbling steps. Ter Haigasun had him routed out of his kennel, and curtly explained to him his errand. He was to find this foreign guest of his at once. Two orderlies of the cohort of youth would do their best to help him discover the Greek. When he was found, Krikor must inform him plainly that it would be as much as his life was worth to come near the camp. He was to disappear as fast as possible. Krikor raised vehement objections. He was, he insisted, a chemist by earthly occupation, and not the porter of an inn -- not a bouncer. Ter Haigasun gave only the laconic answer: "You brought him; now you must rid us of him."
So there was nothing else for it. Krikor, after many protests, set forth on his unpleasant errand. As he hobbled, bent over his stick, he rehearsed, in a series of tragic soliloquies, the most tactful words in which to discharge it. Bedros Hekim's task was a much easier one. He was to warn Gabriel of the over-excited state of the public mind, adding an elaborate request that Juliette Hanum should keep her tent for the present.
Whereas the others had listened silently to Ter Haigasun's instructions to Krikor and Bedros, one of the Council, as a rule obstinately taciturn, raised his voice in an excited speech. So far, the somber Hrand Oskanian had been generally thought of as ridiculous. His malicious vanity had been tolerated because he was known as a competent schoolteacher. He revealed himself now as a fiery fanatic. Such a wild strength was in his words that they all stared at him in amazement. Oskanian urged dire vengeance on Gonzague. They must first take away the blackguard's American passport and teskeré, and then strip him. They must tie his hands and feet and get some plucky fellows to carry hi
m down to the valley, that night, so that the Turks might mistake him for an Armenian and kill him by inches!
This crazy outburst was received in uncomfortable silence. But the teacher was not so easily put off. He began, in all seriousness, to give reasons why the punishment he suggested was strictly necessary.
Ter Haigastm heard his prolix utterances, not, as he usually did, with half-shut eyes, but with eyes fast closed. His hands took frosty refuge in his sleeves, always a clear sign of his displeasure. "Well, Teacher, is that all?"
"No, it isn't. And I'm not going to stop till you see the truth as plainly as I do."
Ter Haigasun jerked his head uneasily, as though to scare away a humming gnat. "I think we've said all we need say in the matter."
Oskanian foamed. "Does the Council of Leaders intend to let this blackguard go with its blessing? So that tomorrow he may betray us to the Turks?"
Ter Haigasun stared up wearily at the leafy roof of the hut, which the wind rustled. "Even if he wants to betray us, what can he tell them?"
"What can he tell them? Everything! The position of the Town Enclosure. The pasture grounds. The trenches. The bad state of our supplies. The infection -- "
Ter Haigasun cut him short, wearily: "None of that will be any use to the Turks. Do you really imagine they're so stupid that they don't know all that by this time? . . . And besides, that young man isn't a traitor."
The others all agreed with the priest. But Hrand Oskanian shot out his fist, as though to hold an escaping victim. "I've made a suggestion," he cackled, "and I demand that you put it to the vote, in the usual way."
The priest's waxen face took on some color. "Any gossiping fool can make suggestions. But it rests simply and solely with me to have them put to the vote. I don't put unnecessary suggestions to the vote. Remember that, Teacher! And there's nobody here who wouldn't consider this mad and debased. Let anyone who doesn't hold up his hand."
Not a hand moved. The priest nodded his dismissal. "So that's enough, once and for all. Do you understand me?"
The defeated teacher stood up in all the dwarfish pride of his inches. He pointed in the direction of the camp. "Our people out there take a different view of it."
If Oskanian's behavior had so far merely disgusted the priest, this demagogic remark made him suddenly furious. His eyes glinted to sudden flame. But he controlled himself. "The Council's duty is to guide popular feeling, not be led by it."
Hrand Oskanian nodded with all the resignation of a Cassandra. "You'll live to remember what I say."
Ter Haigasun's lids dropped over his eyes again. His voice was very quiet indeed. "I most urgently recommend you, Teacher Oskanian, not to warn us, but to warn yourself."
In this highly uneasy atmosphere they awaited the return of their messengers. It was a very long time before they came. The crippled chemist was back earlier than the doctor. He was half dead with pain, and had to lie down on Ter Haigasun's couch. He groaned, and only when the priest had made him take two deep swigs out of his raki flask, had he strength to report. Gonzague Maris had forestalled his mission and intended to leave the mountain that same night. He would only wait till a certain hour, to give his mistress her chance of escaping with him. The chemist had been most impressed by his former guest's gentlemanly attitude. Gonzague had behaved with distinction. He had not only made Krikor a present of every scrap of print he possessed, but assured him that, whenever he got the chance, he would do his best for the persecuted people on Musa Dagh. Ter Haigasun waved aside the sinner's promise, with a little gesture of dismissal. It was already dark by the time the other messenger returned. Bedros Altouni, too, looked exhausted as he came into the presbytery hut. He, too, sank down, and began to rub his crooked little legs. The old man stared and at first said nothing, and Ter Haigasun had some trouble in making him speak. What he said was not reassuring, and he growled so low that his sharp little voice could scarcely be heard: "Poor woman -- "
These words amazed the mukhtar Kebussyan. His bald, shiny head rocked to and fro as he thought of his censorious spouse: "What do you mean, poor woman? She's rich -- "
Bedros Hekim's eyes scorched the mukhtar. "What do I mean? I mean that, for at least three days, she's been in high fever. I mean she's delirious. I mean she'll most probably die. I mean that she's been infected in the hospital hut. I mean I'm sorry for her. . . . Damn it all, I mean -- I mean it wasn't her fault; it was simply her illness. I mean . . ."
Gabriel had half guided, half carried Juliette most of the way back to the hut. There, she fell over the bed, unconscious, with turned-up eyes. He tried to bring her round. All that was left of scent on her little dressing table he sprinkled on her forehead and lips. He shook her, he chafed her temples. Her happy soul hid, far away from him, in the farthest regions of its oblivion. Fever had cooked for days in Juliette's blood. But, in these last hours, it must have shot up like a tropical plant. Her skin looked raw and inflamed. Like parched earth, it sucked in every drop of moisture. Her breath came quicker and quicker. This life seemed to be rushing towards its end.
Since he could not rouse her, Gabriel bent over Juliette and, hoping that, free of her clothes, she would come to herself, began to undress her. He tore her frock and her shift. He sat down on the end of the bed and took her feet upon his knee. They were heavy and swollen, so that he found it hard to free them of shoes and stockings. He never even noticed the absence in him of any of those painful emotions which, it is said, such an experience should engender. No pain of outraged susceptibilities, no distressing thought that these feverish limbs had been another man's pleasure an hour ago. Not even the frigid, hopeless consciousness that the troth of a lifetime had been broken. He felt benumbed, but only with pity for Juliette.
Gabriel felt no surprise. It seemed as though this fate were his own contriving. Incredible as that might sound, it was precisely Juliette's infidelity, followed by her collapse, which brought them together again after they had been so long apart. Only now that this pitiful body had strayed so far in its hostility that it gave itself to another man, did he, wistfully, remember. Full of the most anxious tenderness, his clumsy fingers tugged and nestled among these clothes, which resisted so stubbornly. He stood looking down at the white body while a hundred thoughts and sensibilities sprang up, half formed, to vanish in nothing.
What had happened? In the corner of the tent he noticed the bucket of spring water which always stood there. He dipped in handkerchiefs to lay compresses. It was not easy. Her rigid body was hard to lift. Gabriel thought of calling one of her maids, who now, since their mistress had grown so vague, and had, moreover, almost ceased to reward them, only came on duty now and then. But shame prevented him. He must be alone, now.
When the old doctor came, he found Bagradian staring vaguely at the unconscious Juliette. Bedros, at a first glance, doubted if she really were unconscious, or half pretending. His second showed him how feverish she was. The usual clinical picture of this epidemic. Sudden rise of temperature, and unconsciousness, which usually came at the end of a fairly long period of scarcely noticed ill-health. He lifted the patient upright. She showed immediate signs of vomiting and difficult breathing. It was obvious. But, when he examined the skin of her breast and loins, where usually there were most signs of infection, he found only three or four small red spots.
The doctor would have asked Gabriel to leave the tent and not come back. He said nothing. He had noticed Gabriel's eyes, shadowed and shrunk far back into their sockets. Nor did he deliver himself of his message, or dwell on the moral unrest of the Town Enclosure. On the other hand, he asked to be shown the medicine chest, which Juliette had had prepared before their departure for the East. It was a big chest, but now three-quarters empty. Most of its contents she had sent to the hospital. The old man pressed a tiny flask into Gabriel's hand, who was still quite dazed. This, in case the pulse should begin to get faint. His wife would be in tomorrow and help to nurse. Gabriel wasn't to worry about Juliette's unconsciousness or deliriu
m. It was the natural result of her temperature. And, as things were, it was a blessing. She had an even chance of life or death. The greatest danger would only come when she'd got the poison out of her system. Then the fever dropped with a sudden rush, and, in many cases, took the heart along with it. Bedros dipped a glass in a bucket, looked about for a spoon, and tried, with an expert hand, to force a few drops between Juliette's lips. This one practised gesture was quite enough to confound the lying self-mistrust which made him call himself "a shaky incompetent."
