Forty Days of Musa Dagh (26 page)

 

 

One evening Juliette asked her to put on one of her "grandes toilettes,"
a very low-necked frock without sleeves. Iskuhi flushed. "But it's
impossible. I can't -- with my arm. . . ."

 

 

Juliette looked immeasurably concerned. "It's true. . . . But how much
longer will all this business last? Two -- three months. Then we shall
all be back in Europe. And I'll take you with me, Iskuhi. I give you
my word. In Paris and Switzerland there are clinics that will soon put
you right."

 

 

Almost at the same hour in which Gabriel Bagradian's wife was expressing
so audacious a hope the remnants of the first convoy reached their journey's
end at Deir ez Zor, on the edge of Mesopotamian sands.

 

 

Juliette was again full of a theme which had caused her husband many
bitter hours. Strangely enough, Iskuhi, in Gabriel's absence, seemed
particularly to inspire her to dwell on it. It took the form of a series
of depreciatory remarks on the Armenians, viewed in that brilliant light
of Gallic culture, which Juliette turned on their obscurity.

 

 

"You may be an ancient people," she kept insisting, "c'est bien. A civilized
people. No doubt. But in what precisely do you prove it? Oh, of course,
I've been told all the names -- again and again. Abovian, Raffi, Siamanto.
But who's ever heard of them? No one in the world except Armenians. No
European can ever really understand or speak your language. You've never
had a Racine or a Voltaire. And you have no Catulle Mendčs, no Pierre Loti.
Have
you
read anything of Pierre Loti's, ma petite?"

 

 

Iskuhi, hit by these shafts, looked up intently. "No, Mad -- No.
I've never read anything."

 

 

"Well, they're all about distant countries." Juliette seemed scornfully
to suppose that this in itself was a good enough recommendation for Iskuhi.
It was not precisely magnanimous of Juliette to work with such overwhelming
comparisons. But she was now in the position of having to defend her own
against the superior forces of her environment, so it was not unnatural.

 

 

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
Avetis 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."