Forty Days of Musa Dagh (71 page)

 

 

But then it needed only a second for him to throw himself straight on
the spy and punch her head, so hard that blood streamed out of her mouth
and nose. He had done her no serious harm; for a while her nose bled. But
Sato, like all primitives, could get far more woefully panicked by blood,
was more terrified of it, than the developed. She let out long, terrific
howls, as though she were at least being massacred. And now the tables
were turned. A cynic would have rejoiced to see it. Sato, the jackal, the
waif on the edge, the "stinker," the pariah cur, had in a trice become
the object of universal sympathy and concern. Hypocritical voices were
being raised: "He's hit a girl." And so a long suppressed dislike of
foreigners, of stuck-up outsiders, could be released. That kingly rank,
silently accorded the Bagradians for a few hours after every repelled
attack, was forgotten. All that remained was the deeper hatred of people
who "don't belong." The boys, with murderous, twisted faces, all set
upon Stephan, and there followed a fight that was half a chase, from the
Town Enclosure to the altar square. Hagop kept pluckily with Stephan. He
hopped in, with wide, angry leaps, again and again, between his friend
and his pursuers. Haik was not there to prove how he really felt towards
the Bagradians. That Aleppo runner was spending his last hours on the
Damlayik, alone with his mother, the widow Shushik. Stephan, though he
fled before the pack, was stronger and bigger than most. When two of them
hung on his arms, he shook them off, as a bear shakes hounds. A terrible
pain seemed about to choke him. . . . "I can never go home again."

 

 

 

 

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 him 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 -- "