The Fool - Chapters 16-20

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Chapter 16

Chapter XVI

Troubles never come singly. When once they begin to cloud the prosperity of a peace-loving family, they thicken fast. Now from every direction misfortunes began to fall upon the house of Khacho. Vartan's quarrel with the Effendi was variously looked upon by the members of the family. Some ridiculed the Effendi's timidity, and admired Vartan's bravery, while others blamed Vartan, and called him a fool, for not being able to hold his tongue. Ohan and Haggo were particularly incensed against him, and said, "How can anyone speak so scandalously to an official?" An official had an importance in their eyes, not only in his official capacity, but in his private character as well, and it was a crime to oppose him.

The old man was not a little uneasy. Although be did not blame Vartan, but even though he was in the right, his behavior toward the Effendi was unfitting, be thought. Goodman Khacho understood the Effendi's mind perfectly; the old rascal would try to injure Vartan, and if he did not succeed in that he would pour his vengeance upon the old man's family. The tax collector had legal grounds for delivering the old man to the government, in that he had harbored such a well known contrabandist as Vartan. On the other hand Goodman Khacho had to give up a great hope. He was in a state of great perturbation. From the moment he had heard from Vartan that Thomas Effendi had been married again and again, and had left wives in a number of places, those hopes were battered. But how could he be sure that Vartan had spoken the truth? Every truth that comes out in a quarrel is regarded with suspicion. But what was there about this hateful and shameless tax collector that attracted Goodman Khacho, and made him wish to link the fate of his daughter with such a rascal?

The old man knew that he was a merciless, conscienceless, low oppressor, that nothing was sacred in his eyes; that he was ready to sacrifice everything for his personal gains, but in spite of all this, the old man forgot everything when he considered the attainment of power.

He had a superstitious reverence for the Mudir --the representative of the Government. In his eyes the ignoble traits in the Imperial tax collector, this petty official representative, were condoned or neutralized by his office. The office excused infamy.

For this reason, having a man like the Effendi for a son-in-law was very attractive to Goodman Khacho; a son-in-law who was above the common crowd, before whom all must bow. Simple and upright as was the old man, he was somewhat vain. It was hard for him to condescend to give his daughter to a common villager, especially as he had had her grow up disguised as a boy. In choosing Thomas Effendi he had another practical purpose. For a landlord who had many dealings with the local government, the Effendi might be of considerable assistance should difficulties arise. But now his hopes were shattered. But if he had known what fate threatened his beloved Lila through the Kurdish chief, Fattah Bey, probably only the grave could have put an end to the old man's grief. But as yet, his sons had told him nothing. The agony of that secret gnawed and consumed them, especially Hairabed and Abo, who, since the unsuccessful consultation with their brothers, did not know what to do to save their sister. What would be the condition of Lila if the Kurdish Bey should carry her away from her father's house? Could she become the wife of a Mohammedan, or in the bitterness of her sorrow would she put an end to her life as her sister Sona had done?

All this anxiety, all this grief was on Lila's account, but she alone in her ignorance thought of herself as happy and free. After receiving her lover's gift, her disguise seemed to burn her body. She was a girl; she wished to dress as one--to become a wife. She could still feel Vartan's warm kisses upon her lips, and his sweet words still rang in her ears,. But beginning at the moment when she saw with her own eyes Vartan's victory over the Effendi-- a man before whom the whole province trembled--Vartan's stature grew greater in the young woman's eyes. Vartan won Lila's devotion when he annihilated the supremacy of the proud tax collector whom she hated. Lila had often been obliged to endure the insolence of that shameless creature, and every time he came to her father's house she would try to escape and hide from him, but her father would send for her to fill the Effendi's pipe. because it would taste sweeter when filled by her hand. Lila went to her oldest brother, Hairabed, and told him all she had seen and heard in the oda and how Vartan had treated the Effendi.

"He did just right," said he. "He ought to kill the beast. He has learned how to torture the poor villagers, and he thinks we are like them."

Lila felt like embracing her brother, and wished to open her heart to him; to tell him that Vartan loved her and that she had loved him for a long time, but Hairabed hastily withdrew as though he had some very important work to do.

His wife Sara had had an appointment that day with Koorsit, the wife of Fattah Bey. The morning before, Chavo had come to her and told her that her mistress, on the pretext of fulfilling a vow, was coming to a shrine near the village of 0... to offer a lamb in sacrifice to cure her child's cough, and she requested that Sara meet her there. Both Kurds and Armenians worshipped at the shrine.

Sara had rejoiced when she heard that Koorsit had planned this, for she had requested a meeting between them through Chavo.

Hairabeds haste to leave Lila was in order that he might learn the result of that visit. He went outside the village and waited impatiently for Sara. He went nearly half-way to meet her and waited in the shadow of a great rock overhanging the pathway. That spot afforded an interesting view of the mountain. He was at its foot and the slope above him was covered with broken rocks fallen from the crags above. He was surrounded by a thicket of bushes, with here and there a tree rising above them. His attention was attracted to an apple tree on which a parasite had grown, twisting itself around the trunk and branches even higher. It seemed to wish to press the tree down with its weight, to choke and strangle it, and devour the poor tree whose upper branches were already dry and leafless. There are moments when even the least learned turn philosophers. "Behold a good example," thought Hairabed. "Here is a wild plant, it toils not and labors not, neither has it roots in the soil, but seizing in its clutches a more cultivated plant feeds on it; greedily sucks its juice, and exhausting its life-giving powers, finally kills it. Is not that what the Kurd does to us? Is he not the parasite which lives off the Armenian?"

Hairabed was sensitive and had a good mind. How did he obtain that degree of intelligence? If he had not set his foot beyond the confines of his native land he would certainly have grown up with only the limited understanding and the superstitions of his fellow countrymen. While young he had had some disagreement with his father, and as often occurs in the provinces, he left home, to wander over the face of the earth. Fate led him to the chaos of Constantinople, where men of every country of Europe and Asia are gathered together. There, he gathered many ideas which are unknown to the ordinary villager.

The sun was setting and its last beams shed a beautiful glow over the tops of the surrounding mountains as he sat waiting for his wife. At last she appeared. He could see a bright look on her face from afar. "Is it a boy or a girl?" he called. "It is a boy," she replied and came and took a seat beside him. In village parlance, "a boy" signifies good tidings and a "girl" the opposite. So the question meant, "Is it good news or bad?"

As soon as she could recover her breath she proceeded to tell him all that she had learned that day. Koorsit had told her that the Bey was not thinking so much about Stephanie now as he was giving all his attention to some important affair which put her out of his thoughts for the present. The Vali of Erzeroum had ordered him to take a census of his tribe, and distribute arms and money, but what it was for she did not know. But Koorsit advised having Stephanie sent away or married quite soon, for she was sure that eventually the Bey would carry out his intention regarding the poor girl. "Although," she added, "I have spoken to my father about this, and he has assured me he will hold the Bey in check, but I don't believe in the Bey's promises, and I may be obliged to leave my husband and separate from him."

Hairabed listened to Sara's story with close attention, and when she had concluded he said, "For all that, the danger cannot be considered past. There is one cause for rejoicing in all this. The affair is delayed and we gain time to plan for Lila's safety."

"That is what I think," replied Sara. "There is no alternative. Lila must be married to some one."

"That will not solve the difficulty," Hairabed retorted. "The Bey is able to drag a married woman from the arms of her husband, and carry her off."

"She must marry some one who does not live here but will take her to some other part of the country," Sara replied.

"That is a very good idea, Sara," replied Hairabed, "but where will you find such a man? You know very well that not one of the men of our village would venture to marry her under such circumstances; for if one of them should carry Lila out of the country, the Bey would take his revenge by burning his house and slaying all his relatives. What man would make such a sacrifice?"

"The man is found," replied Sara, joyously.

"Who is he?"

"Vartan!"

Hairabed's troubled countenance brightened when Sara related what she had seen through the bushes the day before; how Vartan and Lila had embraced and kissed each other and sworn everlasting love.

"That's good," said Hairabed. "Vartan can save Lila."

The sun had set by the time the couple returned to the village. On the way home Hairabed was puzzling as to what the preparations of the Bey could mean. Was not this to prepare for some terrible project?

Chapter 17

Chapter XVII

When Hairabed and Sara reached home they learned that after the quarrel with Vartan, Thomas Effendi had left in great displeasure, and old Khacho was very uneasy lest the tax collector should set some evil afoot against them.

But Vartan, notwithstanding his irritable and inflamed nature, was not so thoughtless as to malign a person without grounds for it. He considered the Effendi a despicable person, a tool in the hands of the representatives of the Turkish Government, who oppressed his fellow countrymen. Besides that, he knew the tax collector's past history. That scoundrel had been through a large part of Armenia in his office as tax collector, and had actually married and then deserted several wives in some places and had ruined innocent girls in others. Now he had the same shameless intention regarding Lila, and taking advantage of her father's simple-mindedness, was planning to trick them. Naturally Vartan could not endure this, especially as it concerned the girl with whom he himself was in love.

But the quarrel with Vartan, and his disinclination to see his face again were not only the reasons why the Effendi left old Khacho's house so abruptly. The Effendi could bear his wounds patiently. He had learned of old to bear in silence worse revilings than these. But today he had received orders by special messenger to collect the Imperial tithes of wheat and barley in certain storehouses and not to sell any, as the Government had need of all of it. There must be some secret collection of grain afoot here and of weapons in Fattah Bey's camp.

When there were guests, old Khacho always used the oda; but Vartan was not considered a guest, he was one of the family. But after Thomas Effendi took his departure, another guest appeared. He was a pale, thin young man who looked like one who had spent many years in a schoolroom. What his profession or occupation was no one asked, but since he was from Constantinople and an Armenian, old Khacho thought it devolved upon him to show him hospitality. Except for his saddle bags, he had no other luggage, and his well-worn European clothing showed that he was poor. The muleteer who had brought him left him at the village and he was looking for a lodging place when he met Vartan. They say there is a secret road between hearts. After a brief conversation the two young men seemed to become intimate friends, and like members of some secret organization, gave each other a brotherly handclasp, a though meeting now for the first time. Then Vartan led him to old Khacho's house

The new guest called himself Michael Tiutiukjian. As nearly all the surnames of Turkish subjects are taken from the trade of the father or grandfather, the father of this one was a maker of whistles such as children love. Certainly neither the name of the guest, which was hard to pronounce, nor his pale or sickly face, nor his restless eyes with their feverish brilliancy, nor his moody looks were agreeable to old Khacho. But Vartan whispered to the old man, "He's a good fellow. You will like him when you know him."

On entering the house, the guest asked Vartan: "Can you trust these people?"

"You can," replied Vartan.

When the lamp was lighted in the oda, the evening meal was served. This time all six of the sons were seated at table with their father, for Thomas Effendi was gone, so there was no guest of higher rank than they. Vartan was considered one of the family, and they regarded the new guest as one who ought to be thankful that he could eat a square meal.

The supper was eaten in silence except for a word or two between Vartan and the guest, or a remark by the father to one of the sons.

The hearts of those present were engrossed in their individual troubles. The old man was thinking of the tax collector's displeasure and his taking his departure in anger. Hairabed's mind was occupied with the affair of the Bey and Lila; he was thinking of all Sara had told him and wondering what should be done. The other sons were thinking of their plowing, and planning work for the morrow. Lila's pretty face danced in Vartan's mind and God only knows what was in the mind of the newcomer.

When the table was removed, Lila brought the basin and ewer and poured the water as they washed their hands, after which they returned thanks to God, as was their custom.

The old man began to smoke his long pipe, but Tiutiukjian drew from his breast pocket a fine cigar holder which was quite at variance with his well-worn clothing. Then taking out an expensive cigar, cut the end with his long fingernail and began to smoke. The room was filled with fragrance of Havana tobacco. The man must at some time have been able to enjoy the luxuries of life, but now was in reduced circumstances.

After supper Thomas Effendi was the subject of conversation. Tiutiukjian had heard about him from Vartan. Old Khacho, in a courteous manner, intimated to Vartan that his behavior toward the Effendi had been rash. "You know," he said "that I regard you as one of my seven sons." He was in the habit of speaking of them as seven, for he included Stephanie but he did not know that Vartan had long been aware that she was a girl.

"Let the sun of my seven sons be my witness if I lie," he said. "You also are my son, my house is your house; you may come and go, and stay as long as you please. My door is always open to you. But you should realize that this is not like other places; here men like Thomas Effendi are great men, very great men; they can do what they please. For this reason we must pay them respect, though unwillingly, and must sometimes keep silent about their words and deeds. What can we do? The proverb says: 'When in the hands of a villain, if you can't kill him, you must kiss him.' Possibly the Effendi will not be able to do you harm for you do not live here, but we shall have to pay for the insult he has received. You have heard the Turkish proverb, haven't you, 'He was afraid of the ass so he began to beat the saddle'?"

These words stirred up the young man's evil genius, and he said, "The Armenians of our region have a good proverb about the Turks. They say, 'Until you beat a Turk, he doesn't become your friend.' I do not consider Thomas Effendi any different from a Turk, and now I am sorry I didn't give him a good beating while I had the chance, although his friendship would not have been particularly welcome to me."

The old man frowned at this. The reply did not please him but Stephanie's face was illuminated with a bright smile which Vartan could not help but observe. She was still standing, for being the youngest she served the others. Vartan looked at her thinking, "She is the only member of the family who is in sympathy with me, for she is the only one who has experienced the man's evil insolence." Then he continued with increased vehemence, "You have allowed a low immoral, unjust man like this to lord it over you and you have closed your eyes to all his wickedness. For centuries the Turks and the Kurds have robbed, oppressed and killed the Armenians. This has become so much their habit that they can hardly live in any other way. But when an Armenian treats his fellow countrymen more barbarously than the Turk or the Kurd it is more than I can endure. I said these things to the Effendi's face and he replied not a word."

"I would have said worse things than those to him," said Hairabed, joining in the conversation, "but my father has always advised us to keep silence, to be careful, to be patient, for we shall be free some day. I don't know how long we should be patient."

"Until the coming of Jesus Christ," observed Vartan sarcastically, "but alas, by that time there won't be any Armenians left on the face of the earth; they will all have become either Turks or Kurds."

"Patience is life," said the old man in the tones of a preacher. "Our priests and bishops always preach this to us. Some day God will remember His lost sheep. We must have patience, my children, patience is life."

"Patience is death," spoke up Tiutiukjian, who had kept silent up to this time. His pale face was livid and his thin lips trembled. "Patience is death," he repeated. "Only in the tomb can man learn patience. Such Jewish patience as ours leads to everlasting destruction. The Jews were most patient, enduring all manner of persecution, waiting for the appearance of a Messiah who should rebuild the holy city of Jerusalem and restore the glory of Israel, and they wait until this day. I don't know what we are waiting for. Our priests and our bishops preach patience," he continued in a melancholy tone, "as a result our houses are destroyed and we have come to this desperate pass. If there is anything that can save an oppressed and downtrodden people, it is protest. Discontent, complaint, and a desire for a more favorable lot in life-these are the motives which may save us from our slavery; but in exercising patience these lofty motives are destroyed."

The old man made no reply, but Vartan and Hairabed gave him a friendly handclasp. The other sons understood nothing of all this, but said in their hearts, "Behold, another fool."

Then the old man ordered beds prepared for the guests while he and his sons withdrew. One of the daughters-in-law, her face covered, came and spread the bedding on the floor. The light burned for a long time in the oda as the guests lay awake in their beds. Tiutiukjian lighted his half-burned cigar once more and began to smoke. Vartan watched him for some time, and then said, "Friend, your language is not easy to understand. You will find it difficult to start work here. To talk with these people you must know hundreds of proverbs and anecdotes. Christ accomplished more with his parables than with the Sermon on the Mount."

"Yes I haven't learned the language of these people," answered Tiutiukjian, and retired in silent meditation.

Chapter 18

Chapter XVIII

The oil lamp, diffusing a murky light, was still burning in the oda. Vartan lay awake for a long time. That night's talk had excited his brain. He was reflecting upon the coldness of the old man's sons toward the harmless newcomer. He was amazed at the suspicion with which they regarded that impassioned young man. Then, too, his heart was torn between two desires; one, love for the poor, oppressed villagers; the other love for Lila, who was also being persecuted. His companion was sleeping. The murky light of the lamp showed his pale face in whose sharp outlines his strength of character showed plainly. His sleep was restless. Occasionally his lips moved and broken words were heard in French or Armenian. "Peasants - the hour has come, you must purchase it with your blood - your freedom. The present - the future belong to us. Show forth - ye brave ones - that the iron rod - of the Turk - has not entirely killed - the life in you - and the love of freedom. In fire - and in sword - you shall find - your salvation. Forward, ye braves."

"Poor fellow," said Vartan, shaking his head. "He has read too many books. In the oda of a miserable Armenian village he is dreaming and declaiming about the barricades of Paris, poor fellow."

Just then the sound of someone singing softly reached Vartan's ears, and filled the night air with its sweet melancholy. He recognized the singer and went out of the room.

Yes, another individual in old Khacho's house was wakeful that night. She had turned and tossed in her bed. All about her men and women were sunk in deep sleep. The weary, toil-worn limbs of farmers are not roused easily at night. Only Lila was unable to rest. She dressed and stepped quietly out of the room. A cat could not have stepped more noiselessly than did the young girl as she went out of doors. The dog, seeing her from the distance, began to bark. "Hush!" she breathed, scarcely above a whisper. The dog quieted down.

It was a calm spring evening. The air was cool enough to make one shiver, but it seemed only to stimulate the young girl, and to fan her flushed face. She passed through the yard out into the garden and walked under the trees. Here the shadows were deeper; here no one would see her. She sat on the grass and rested her cheek on her hand, looking skyward. "The moon is out of sight, where is it?" thought the girl. "It must be asleep." Deep silence reigned about her. All was still; the wind which so often rocked the branches of the trees; the river, whose noisy roar she had always before heard on quiet nights; all was at rest; she only was restless; only she was awake. She remembered a song she had learned from her grandmother, and unconsciously began to sing a song:

The moon is asleep in the depths of the sky;

The bird is asleep in its soft downy nest;

The wind is asleep, not a leaf does it stir;

The stream is asleep, all its ripples at rest.

But I cannot sleep, tell me why, Mother mine?

I long to sleep now, but mine eyes will not close.

What keeps me awake? Tell me this, Mother mine.

My heart is on fire. Tell me whence this arose.

When she had ended the song, she dropped her head upon her knees, and, burying her burning face in her hands, began to weep bitterly. Why did she weep? She did not know why, herself. Was it because she thought of her mother, whom she had never seen, from whose lips she had never heard a word of love? What was it that had disturbed her innocent virgin heart?

Her tears eased her somewhat. She raised her head and looked about, and her eyes fell upon the grave beneath the four poplar trees, not far from where she sat. It was the grave of her sister Sona whom she had never seen, but she had heard the sad story of her death many a time. People around about considered her a martyr, and the sick were often brought to this grave. By her father's command an oil lamp was lighted and placed there every Saturday night. And tonight it was burning and lighted the white headstone. Lila looked at it in terror. Her sister's sad story became a reality to her as never before. Now she could see the black tent of a Kurd, and there sat Sona with a look of terrible despair. She was holding the cup of poison in her hand, raised it to her lips, and then drew back. For a long time she debated between life and death. See now! the Kurdish chief, Sona's abductor approaches the tent; now she makes the sign of the Cross and drinks. The scene changes. She sees Thomas Effendi with his sly, repulsive looks, and another, Fattah Bey, with his savage, cruel face. She trembles from head to foot. Does she know, does she realize the pit these two have dug for her? She knows nothing, but she feels that there is something sinister afoot.

She felt afraid of the grave. At that moment a hand was laid upon her shoulder, and a voice spoke her name. "Lila." She scarcely heard it.

"Lila," the voice repeated, "I will not let you go near Sona. I will save you." She turned, and there stood Vartan.

"Oh, yes, save me," she cried. "Take me to some other land. It is bad here, very bad."

The young man seated himself beside her. They were silent for a few minutes, finding no words to utter. Lila was still under the spell of the frightful vision that had passed before her eyes. Vartan wondered why the innocent young girl begged to be taken away from her fatherland, where she was so greatly loved by her family, why did she wish to leave it? So he asked:

"Why is this country bad?"

"It is very bad," she replied sadly. "Do you see that grave?" She pointed toward Sona's grave. "Do you know who lies buried there?"

"I know," he replied.

"I don't want to die like Sona, Vartan. I am afraid of poison. I am afraid of graves," and her eyes filled with tears.

"Why do you think you are going to suffer a fate like Sona's, Lila?" he asked, grasping her hand. "That was a sad thing, but it doesn't happen to every young girl. Why do you imagine you are going to suffer it?"

"I have always thought it. I have always expected it ever since I discovered why they dressed me as a boy. To be born a girl is a punishment from God, especially if one is a pretty girl. Listen, Vartan, I had a friend whom I loved dearly. She was a good girl and was a near neighbor. Every day her mother beat her because she was beautiful, and for growing lovelier every day. 'You will bring misfortune upon us,' she would say, and Narkiss, that was her name, used to cry every day. Her mother would not let her wash her face or comb her hair, and she always dressed in rags. But finally the Kurds carried her off. A few days ago I saw her. Oh! how ugly she had grown! and she said to me, 'Stephanie, being the wife of a Kurd is a very bad thing,' and she wept as she spoke."

Lila began to weep herself. When she became more tranquil, she asked, Vartan, won't you take me away from here?"

"I will," he answered. "Be assured of that."

"Take me quickly. Take me now! I will go with you wherever you wish."

"Wait a few days, Lila, till I talk with your father," he replied. They sat there talking in the darkness until the feeling of sadness was changed into the joy of loving.

Chapter 19

Chapter XIX

The next morning Vartan awoke very late for he, had passed the greater part of the night without sleep. A secret joy shone in his pale face, however. Tiutiukjian was not in the oda, but his saddle-bags stood in a corner of the room. Where had the man gone? Vartan knew that the man lacked experience and should be well looked after. All the members of the family were busy about their daily tasks. Some had gone to the fields to plow, and their father was watching their work. The daughters-in-law were occupied with their housework. Only Hairabed was at home. He thought it would be a good time to have a talk with Vartan about Lila. All the other brothers, except Abo, thought no more about her, and had probably forgotten the danger that threatened her from the Kurdish Bey. They had left Lila to her fate, repeating the fatalistic saying, "Whatever God wills, will be." He thought he should make some investigation into Thomas Effendi's past before letting him have Lila.

When Hairabed entered the oda, Vartan asked, "Where has my new friend gone?" Hairabed replied. "You mean Mr. Tiutiukjian? He is an odd fellow. He rose before sunrise and drawing on his boots, without washing or combing or eating breakfast, he went out of the house. We asked him where he was going, but he shook his head and made no reply."

"Where did he go?" asked Vartan, with increasing uneasiness.

"I don't know, but I saw him speak to a ragged barefoot girl who was bringing a pail of water from the river. He asked 'Why do you go about like that? It is a shame for a girl your age to dress like this.' The girl told him that they were very poor. Then he gave her a gold piece, which was very foolish of him. I believe it was the last piece he had."

"Very likely," said Vartan. "Where did he go next?"

"Then he approached a group of villagers standing by the church door. They were discussing their taxes. He joined in the conversation and told them they had already paid more than they should. Then he told them they ought to have a school in the village for the boys and girls to attend. And he told them they should form a society for improving the condition of the people of these villages; and about a public loan; and about a savings bank from which they might borrow money at a low rate of interest when they needed money - Who knows what he didn't talk about?"

"What did the villagers say to him?" Vartan asked.

"They laughed and nudged one another, but answered nothing. One of them said to another, 'The fellow is a fool'.,,

"Praise the Lord! Then I am not the only fool," said Vartan laughing. "I thought they considered me the only fool hereabouts. Well, what next?"

"Next, one of the villagers invited him to come and have a drink at the cafe. He accepted. in there he found many who were drunk. He drank little himself but paid for the crowd. There, again, he began to talk about village improvement, and to explain why they were so wretched. He spoke in great excitement. I began to feel his power, but the others heard him with derision. One man asked him 'What office or rank do you occupy?' He replied that he was not employed by anyone. The villager then asked, insolently, 'Well, what else have you to give forth?"'

"Yes, to influence this community, one must be a mudir, a kaimakam, or a tax collector like Thomas Effendi," said Vartan, sadly. "Tell me, Hairabed, what next?"

Hairabed replied, "I took him by the hand and drew him out of the cafe by force. I was afraid that a disturbance might arise.

"Outside, he said to me, 'It is easier to understand people in such places. When they drink they speak their minds.' We continued our way through the village. He had a leather pouch hanging from his shoulder full of pamphlets. These he would pass out to whomever he met. Some refused them, saying they couldn't read, but some who were equally ignorant accepted them. I asked one man what he was going to do with it. He said, 'It's paper. I'll take it home where it will come in handy for wrapping up snuff for my mother."'

Vartan was greatly troubled. "Have you one of those pamphlets?" he inquired. "Yes. I took a couple," Hairabed replied, and handed them to Vartan. Vartan glanced through them, and said, "Scattering such pamphlets among ignorant people is supreme folly. Where did he go next?"

"I went with him as far as the edge of the village, where he asked me to leave him alone . I did so, but saw him setting off toward another village. He walked so fast, you would think he had an appointment there."

'Hairabed was beginning to lose interest in the stranger, and wished rather to speak with Vartan about his sister. But Vartan seemed to have forgotten about her. He started to leave the room.

"Where are you going?" asked Hairabed.

"I am going to follow Mr. Tiutiukjian," he replied. "You should not have let him go alone. He will get into trouble." They went to the stable. On the way they passed by Lila who was washing her face beside the stream; she, also, had slept late. Vartan called, "Good morning, Stephanie," and she replied with a meaningful smile.

His three horses were cared for by his attendants, Sado and Yegho. Ordering one of the horses saddled, he again in asked Hairabed in which direction Tiutiukjian had gone and set off in pursuit. His attendants had been told to see that everything was ready for a long, hard trip. This perplexed Hairabed greatly. Was he going away without doing anything about Lila, without settling her fate? Why was he so much concerned about Tiutiukjian? After Vartan had gone, he was returning to the house when he met his wife, who was bringing a pailful of milk from the sheepfold.

"Didn't Vartan say anything to you?" she asked.

"No, he didn't," Hairabed answered sadly. "He is very reserved."

"I know all about it," said Sara, happily. "Sit down and let me tell you." Husband and wife sat down on a log which lay in the yard.

Then Sara told him that Lila had confessed all to her; how, while the family slept, she and Vartan had met secretly in the garden. Lila gave her a full account of their conversation and that Vartan had said he would speak to her father, and that with or without her, father's permission he would take her away with him.

"That is why he ordered his horses made ready for a journey," said Hairabed.

"Why worry?" said Sara. "Let them elope. So much the better. If be doesn't carry her off, the Kurd will."

"I do not oppose it," replied Hairabed. "but..."

Poor people! Under other circumstances they would have been ready to kill her, having learned that she bad met a young man secretly, but now they were humbled by bitter circumstances.

Chapter 20

Chapter XX

Vartan rode his horse all day and passed through several villages following Tiutiukjian's trail. In reply to his questioning, he was told that a young man had been seen who wore European dress, high boots, and a black, broad-brimmed hat, carrying a sackful of pamphlets slung over his shoulder. Everyone expressed the idea that the man was crazy.

Vartan returned to old Khacho's house without having found the wanderer. One of the shepherds reported having seen the young man in a Turkish village, where he was given a good beating. He recognized the man as his master's guest and was able to rescue him from the villagers.

"I expected that would happen," said Vartan, and turning to the shepherd, he asked, "Why did they do it?"

"I couldn't find out," replied the shepherd. "I offered to let him ride my ass and come back here, but he said he was able to walk."

This news grieved Vartan greatly. He knew Turkish beatings are no light strokes, especially when given to Armenians.

"Where did you last see him?" asked Vartan.

"He had come half way here."

Soon after the lights were lit in the oda, Tiutiukjian put in his appearance. He was weary and bedraggled. Vartan expected he would begin telling of the rough treatment he had received, but he didn't speak, only after throwing himself on a divan he asked for tobacco, saying he had none left. Vartan supplied him, regarding with deep sympathy this young man who seemed to him like a helpless moth, lured by the light of a candle, trying to extinguish its flame by its fluttering wings. He had tried to arouse the villagers only to be repulsed.

Just then old Khacho entered, followed shortly by his sons. They ate in haste as they must start work early next morning.

Tiutiukjian drank more than he ate, and his spirits seemed lifted, for he even sang snatches of an Armenian song. When the table was removed, he asked the old man to have the door locked as he bad something to tell them in private.

Old Khacho was astonished at this request, but had the door locked. They waited silently for him to speak. "Very soon war will be declared between Russia and Turkey," he declared. "Had you heard of it?" Vartan was the only one who had heard such a report.

This news fell like a thunderbolt on the old man. He had seen war between Russia and Turkey before and had not forgotten how the Armenians had suffered at that time.

Now Hairabed understood the meaning of the information given his wife by the Kurdish woman. Fattah Bey was getting his troops ready.

"Yes," said Vartan, "the horse and mule will fight each other, but only the ass, standing by, will be killed."

"That's so," said Hairabed. "The Armenians of this region will be annihilated during such a war.' To which the old man gave sad assent.

"Listen," said Tiutiukjian. "This war is not like any other that has been waged between Turks and Russians. It has a different end in view. You do not read the newspapers so you do not know what is happening in another part of the world, called the Balkan Peninsula. There, there are Christian people who are Turkish subjects like us and who have suffered for centuries from the cruelty of the Turks. But they were not patient like the Armenians; they rebelled, and now, for more than a year they have been fighting to free themselves from the Turkish yoke. They overcame the Turks, but were reconquered; they suffered fearfully; finally Russia intervened, and appeared as the protector of Christianity.

"The representatives of the Great Powers convened at Constantinople and proposed to grant certain rights to those oppressed Christians, but were unable to agree, so the convention decided nothing. Then Russia determined to force Turkey to accept by power of the sword."

Although the story of these events had been spread to the most remote corners of the earth, it had never penetrated these parts. These peasants had heard nothing; therefore they listened to Tiutiukjian with astonishment. They had heard that Turkey was at war, but did not know against whom she was fighting. They only knew that because of the heavier taxes which had been laid upon them, being told "there is a war on." "The present Turko-Russian war," said Tiutiukjian, "is for the purpose of freeing the Christian subjects of Turkey, and you, the most abused and oppressed of all the Christian subjects should know this. You have suffered every barbarity from the Turk, therefore it is time for you to do something on your own account."

"What can we do?" asked Khacho. "You say that Russia is fighting to free the Christians. God grant her success! She will come and save us, also."

"But remember the saying," Vartan interrupted, "'Until the child cries, the mother does not nurse him.' The Armenians by their silence, only waiting hopefully, will obtain nothing. The Armenians must raise their voice in protest against the Turk."

"Yes, they must protest," echoed Tiutiukjian, and that protest must make itself felt in the same manner as was done by the Christians of the Balkan states."

"You mean that the Armenians must fight, also," spoke up the old man.

"Yes, that is what I mean. That is the order of things at present, and it has always been so. He who does not know how to handle weapons, who is not able to kill his enemies has no right to enjoy freedom. Hence, if the Armenians wish to be free, they must show that they do not lack bravery, and that they know how to kill. That time has come."

A bitter smile appeared upon the old man's face, as he replied, "Bless you! How can they show that they have bravery when the Turks haven't left them so much as a knife with which to cut off the head of a hen."

Tiutiukjian found it difficult to reply, but Vartan said, "I will bring you all the weapons you want, if you will only fight. You know my trade. I am a contrabandist. I know all the passes, all the hidden paths through which to smuggle weapons."

"Weapons alone are not sufficient," said the prudent old man. "Are you able to give the Armenians here the spirit and the courage which fill the hearts of the other Christian races who are fighting for their freedom? What can weapons accomplish in the hands of a slavish people?"

"It is unkind to pronounce such a judgment upon a people, landlord Khacho," said Tiutiukjian. "Our people have not entirely lost the spirit and the courage, nor the desire for freedom. They should be aroused, and now is the time. The Russians are going to fight against the Turks, let the Armenians side with them. I believe that Russia will give us every assistance."

The sons of old Khacho had kept silence until now. Then Haggo, the son who had expressed the opinion that by giving their sister to the powerful Kurdish Bey they would benefit by being under his protection, now said to the stranger, "Brother, you smell of blood. We wish you neither good nor evil. Early in the morning pick up your things and leave this house for unless you do you will bring misfortune upon our heads."

Old Khacho reproved his son, telling him to be quiet, and said to Tiutiukjian, "Don't be vexed with my son. He doesn't know what he is saying. Listen to me. I have neither read nor heard what the people of other countries are doing. But as a farmer I know one thing. Until we plow and harrow the ground, we villagers do not sow the seed for we know that the seed will not take root and grow; it will only sprout and dry up. Jesus Christ said this, also, in the Holy Bible. Now, my son, the soil is not prepared. It should have been made ready. I mean the people are not ready. The soil should have been prepared thirty or forty years ago. When these preparatory steps have been taken then your seed will fall upon fruitful soil. It will flourish and ripen and yield fifty or a hundredfold. Nothing is accomplished in a day. We know that several seasons must follow the seed time; some warm, some cold, before harvest time. The seed lies patiently under the various tests brought by each season: sometimes storms beat it, sometimes hail, and sometimes snow chills it; but again the life-giving beams of the sun warm it. In a word, the seed must pass through various experiences before it can crown the hopes of the laborer."

"That is a very beautiful example," replied Tiutiukjian. "I agree with you entirely. But there is another thing we must consider, also. Now I shall speak to you as a farmer and a breeder of cattle, so that you may understand better. If you leave your seed which you have sown without destroying the weeds, you will find the weeds choking the grain until it is destroyed. It is a fight in which the stronger destroys the weaker. That struggle is seen between all plants; the fight in which the one tries to destroy the other in order to preserve its existence, and the one that is not able to fight and strug4gle loses its life. Nature itself, teaches self-preservation. Nature has given all forms of life the ability to fight for their existence; to some more, to some less. Trees, plants, animals and men, all have that ability. Only stones, wood, and lifeless objects remain unmoved and cannot protect themselves, because they have no life. But where there is life, there is also this natural struggle. It is the struggle for life in which every being tries not only to maintain its existence, but tries also to destroy its enemies in order that its growth may continue safely and without obstruction. Now I think you understand my meaning. That which is done by nature in the life of plants and animals is necessary also in the life of man. There is the same struggle here, but a fiercer one and it takes various forms. According to the education and the ability of each nation its weapons vary. In saying weapons I do not mean simply swords and muskets; the arts and sciences are weapons by which people carry on warfare with other people. Among uncivilized and savage people, warfare is carried on simply by physical strength--the sword. The Turks and the Kurds have used those weapons against us. The law of self-preservation demands that we accept the challenge and reply with the same weapon with which he threatens us. It would be folly on my part to demand that for which the people have no training. I do not say that we must take up the sword in order to destroy the Turks and the Kurds in order that we alone may live on the land. But I do say we must learn self-preservation in order that the Turks and the Kurds may not annihilate us. There is a great difference between the two ideas."

Goodman Khacho interrupted the monologue, saying, "I understand, I understand all you say; but I must repeat what I said a few moments. ago; such a great change cannot be accomplished in a day, so that by some miracle we people lose our servility and take up self-preservation. You people in Constantinople should have begun this work long ago. If you had taught us self-preservation years ago, then when other nations began fighting for self-preservation, we could have joined in the fight. You did not give us your preparatory lessons. All this time you have been sitting silently in Constantinople, but today you come and say, 'Protect yourselves; take up your swords against the Turks and the Kurds.' We cannot understand how that can be done."

"You are right in saying that we in Constantinople have been idle and careless," replied Tiutiukjian, in an undisturbed manner. "It is true we did not prepare you; but I am not referring to what the Armenians here have lost, that is, their lofty and noble instincts, qualities which require a certain amount of education and development, and which it was our duty to supply; I speak of self-preservation; for that no great wisdom or learning is needed. The spirt of self-protection is so natural that it is found in all animals and savages. Is the Armenian lower than an animal? Is he as dead as wood or stone and has no feeling?"