Obscure in their origin, and for the most part having at first had no such auxiliary as written record to aid their preservation, the single fact of the existence of folk-songs may in general suffice to proclaim them the true articulate voice of some sentiment or feeling, common to the large bulk of the people whence they emanate. It is plain that the fittest only can survive—only such as are truly germane to those who say or sing them. A herdsman or tiller of the soil strings together a few verses embodying some simple thought which came into his head whilst he looked at the green fields or the blue skies, or it may be as he acted in a humble way as village poet-laureate. One or two friends get them by heart, and possibly sing them at the fair in the next hamlet: if they hit, others catch them up, and so the song travels for miles and miles, and may live out generations. If not, the effusion of our poetical cowherd dies away quite silently—not much to his distress, for had its fate been more propitious its author would probably have been very little the wiser. One celebrated poet, and I think but one, has in our own times begun his career in like manner with the unknown folk-singer. The songs of Sandor Petöfi were popular over the breadth of the Hungarian Puszta before ever they appeared in print; and those who know him, know how faithfully he breathesforth the soul of the Magyar race. In a certain sense it is true that every real poet is the spokesman of his people. No two works, for instance, are so characteristic of their respective countries as theDivina CommediaandFaust. Still, the hands of genius idealise what they touch; the great poet personifies rather than reflects his people, and if he serves them as representative, it is in an august, imperial fashion within the Senate House of Fame, outside whose doors the multitude hustles and seethes. When we want to see this multitude as in a mirror, to judge its common instincts and impulses that go very far to cast the nation in the type which makes it what it is, it is a safer and surer plan to search out its own spontaneous and untutored songs than to consult the master work attached to immortal names.
How far the individuality of a race is decided or modified by the natural phenomena in which it is placed is a nice point for discussion, and one not to be disposed of by off-hand generalities. In what consists the sympathetic link, sometimes weak and scarcely perceptible, at others visibly strong, between man and nature? Why does the emigrated mountaineer, settled in comfort, ease, and prosperity in some great metropolis, wake up one day with the knowledge that he must begone to the wooden chalet with the threat of the avalanche above and the menace of the flood below—or he must die? Is it force of early association, habit, or fancy? Why is the wearied town-tied brain-worker sensible of a nostalgia hardly less poignant when he calls to mind how the fires of day kindled across some scene of snow or sea with which his eyes were once familiar? Is itnothing more than the return of a long ago experienced admiration? I think that neither physicist nor psychologist—and both have a right to be heard in the matter—would answer that the cause of these sensations was to be thus shortly defined. Again ask the artist what the Athenian owed to the purity and proportion of the lines of Grecian landscape, what the Italian stole from the glow and glory of meridional light and colour—what the Teuton learnt from the ascending spires of Alpine ice? Was it that they saw and copied? Or rather, that Nature's spirit, vibrating through the pulses of their being, moulded into form the half-divine visions of master-sculptor, painter, architect?
It does not, however, require to go deeper than the surface of things in order to understand that a peoples' songs must be largely influenced by the accidents of natural phenomena, and especially where climate and physical conformation are such as must perforce stir and stimulate the imaginative faculties of the masses. We have an instance to the point in the ballads of the "mountainous island" bounded by seas and plains, which the natives call Hayasdan and we Armenia. The wondering emotion aroused by a first descent from the Alps into Italy is well known; to not a few of the mightiest of northern poets this journey has acted like a charm, a revelation, an awakening to fuller consciousness. In Armenia, the incantation of a like natural antithesis is worked by the advent of its every returning spring: a sluggard of a season that sleeps on soundly till near midsummer, but comes forth at last fully clothed in the gorgeous raiment of a king. In days gone by the Armenian spring wasdedicated to the goddess Anahid, and as it broke over the land the whole people joined in joyful celebration of the feast of Varthavar or "Rose-blossoms," which since Christian times has been transformed into the three days' festival of the Transfiguration. Beautiful is the face of the country when the tardy sun begins to make up for lost time, as though his very life depended on it; shooting down his beams with fiery force through the rarefied ether, melting away the snows, and ripening all at once the grain and grapes, the wild fig, apricot and olive, mulberry and pomegranate. What wonder that the Armenian loves the revivifying lamp of day, that he turns the dying man towards it, and will not willingly commit his dead to the earth if some bright rays do not fall into the open grave! At the sun's reveille there is a general resurrection of all the buried winter population—women and children, cows and sheep, pink-eyed lemmings, black-eyed caraguz, and little kangaroo-shaped jerboas. Out, too, from their winter lairs come wolf and bear, hyena and tiger, leopard and wild boar. The stork returns to his nest on the broad chimney-pot, and this is what the peasant tells him of all that has happened in his absence:
Welcome, Stork!Thou Stork, welcome;Thou hast brought us the sign of spring,Thou hast made our heart gay.Descend, O Stork!Descend, O Stork, upon our roof,Make thy nest upon our ash-tree.I will tell thee my thousand sorrows,The sorrows of my heart, the thousand sorrows,Stork, when thou didst go away,When thou didst go away from our tree,Withering winds did blow,They dried up our smiling flowers.The brilliant sky was obscured,That brilliant sky was cloudy:From above they were breaking the snow in pieces:Winter approached, the destroyer of flowers.Beginning from the rock of Varac,Beginning from that rock of Varac,The snow descended and covered all;In our green meadow it was cold.Stork, our little garden,Our little garden was surrounded with snow;Our green rose treesWithered with the snow and the cold.
Welcome, Stork!Thou Stork, welcome;Thou hast brought us the sign of spring,Thou hast made our heart gay.Descend, O Stork!Descend, O Stork, upon our roof,Make thy nest upon our ash-tree.I will tell thee my thousand sorrows,The sorrows of my heart, the thousand sorrows,Stork, when thou didst go away,When thou didst go away from our tree,Withering winds did blow,They dried up our smiling flowers.The brilliant sky was obscured,That brilliant sky was cloudy:From above they were breaking the snow in pieces:Winter approached, the destroyer of flowers.Beginning from the rock of Varac,Beginning from that rock of Varac,The snow descended and covered all;In our green meadow it was cold.Stork, our little garden,Our little garden was surrounded with snow;Our green rose treesWithered with the snow and the cold.
Welcome, Stork!
Thou Stork, welcome;
Thou hast brought us the sign of spring,
Thou hast made our heart gay.
Descend, O Stork!
Descend, O Stork, upon our roof,
Make thy nest upon our ash-tree.
I will tell thee my thousand sorrows,
The sorrows of my heart, the thousand sorrows,
Stork, when thou didst go away,
When thou didst go away from our tree,
Withering winds did blow,
They dried up our smiling flowers.
The brilliant sky was obscured,
That brilliant sky was cloudy:
From above they were breaking the snow in pieces:
Winter approached, the destroyer of flowers.
Beginning from the rock of Varac,
Beginning from that rock of Varac,
The snow descended and covered all;
In our green meadow it was cold.
Stork, our little garden,
Our little garden was surrounded with snow;
Our green rose trees
Withered with the snow and the cold.
But now the rose trees in the garden are green again, and out abroad wild flowers enamel the earth. Down pour the torrents of melted snow off Mount Ararat, down crash the avalanches of ice and stones let loose by the sun's might; wherever an inch of soil or rock is uncovered it becomes a carpet of blossom. High up, even to 13,000 feet above the sea-level, the deep violet aster, the saxifrage, and crocus, and ranunculus, and all our old Alpine acquaintances, form a dainty morsel for the teeth, or a carpet for the foot, of swift capricorn or not less agile wild sheep. A little lower, amidst patches of yet frozen snow, hyacinths scent the air, yellow squills and blue anemones peep out, clumps of golden iris cluster between the rocks. There, too, is the "Fountain's Blood," or "Blood of the Seven Brothers," as the Turk would say, with its crimson, leafless stalk and lily-like bloom, the reddest of all red flowers. Upon the trees comes the sweet whitekasbé, a kind ofmanna much relished by the inhabitants. Amongst the grass grow the Stars of Bethlehem, to remind us, as tradition has it, that hard by on Ararat—beyond question the great centre of Chaldean Star-worship—the wise men were appointed to watch for the appearance of a sign in the heavens, and that thence they started in quest of the place "where the young child lay." Tulips also abound; if we may credit the legend, they had their origin in the Armenian town of Erzeroom, springing from the life-blood of Ferdad when he threw himself from the rocks in despair at a false alarm of the death of his beloved Shireen.
Erzeroom is by common consent in these parts the very site of the Garden of Eden. For many centuries, affirms the Moslem, the flowers of Paradise might yet be seen blossoming round the source of the Euphrates not far from the town. But, alas! when the great Persian King Khosref Purveez, the rival of the above-mentioned Ferdad, was encamped in that neighbourhood, he was rash enough to spurn a message from the young Prophet Mohammed, offering him protection if he would embrace the faith of Islâm. What booted the protection of an insignificant sectary to him? thought the Shah-in-Shah, and tossed the letter into the Euphrates. But Nature, horrified at the sacrilegious deed, dried up her flowers and fruits, and even parched the sources of the river itself; the last relic of Eden became a waste. There is a plaintive Armenian elegy composed in the person of Adam sitting at the gate of Paradise, and beholding Cherubim and Seraphim entering the Garden of which he once was king, "yea, like unto a powerful king!" The poet puts into Adam's mouth a new line ofdefence; he did not eat of the fruit, he says, until after he had witnessed its fatal effects upon Eve, when, seeing her despoiled of all her glory, he was touched with pity, and tasted the immortal fruit in the hope that the Creator contemplating them both in the same wretched plight might with paternal love take compassion on both. But vain was the hope; "the Lord cursed the serpent and Eve, and I was enslaved between them." "O Seraphim!" cries the exiled father of mankind:
When ye enter Eden, shut not the gate of Paradise; place mestanding at the gate; I will look in a moment, and thenbring me back.Ah! I remember ye, O flowers and sweet-swelling fountains.Ah! I remember ye O birds, sweet-singing—and ye, Obeasts:Ye who enjoy Paradise, come and weep over your king; ye whoare in Paradise planted by God, elected from the earth ofevery kind and sort.
When ye enter Eden, shut not the gate of Paradise; place mestanding at the gate; I will look in a moment, and thenbring me back.
When ye enter Eden, shut not the gate of Paradise; place me
standing at the gate; I will look in a moment, and then
bring me back.
Ah! I remember ye, O flowers and sweet-swelling fountains.Ah! I remember ye O birds, sweet-singing—and ye, Obeasts:
Ah! I remember ye, O flowers and sweet-swelling fountains.
Ah! I remember ye O birds, sweet-singing—and ye, O
beasts:
Ye who enjoy Paradise, come and weep over your king; ye whoare in Paradise planted by God, elected from the earth ofevery kind and sort.
Ye who enjoy Paradise, come and weep over your king; ye who
are in Paradise planted by God, elected from the earth of
every kind and sort.
High above the hardiest saxifrage tower the three thousand feet of everlasting snows that crown Mount Ararat. The Armenians call it Massis or "Mother of the World," and old geographers held that it was the centre of the earth, an hypothesis supported by various ingenious calculations. The Persians have their own set of legends about it; they say that Ararat was the cradle of the human race, and that at one time it afforded pasture up to the apex of its dome; but upon man's expulsion from Eden, Ahriman the serpent doomed the whole country to a ten months' winter. As to the semi-scriptural traditions gathered round the mountain, there is no end to them. "And the ark rested in the seventh month, on the seventeenthday of the month, upon the mountains of Ararat," so says the Bible, and it is an article of faith with the Armenian peasant that it is still somewhere up at the top, only not visible. He is extremely loth to believe that anybody has actually attained the summit. Parrot's famous ascent was long regarded as the merest fable. At the foot of Ararat was a village named Argoory, or "he planted the vine," where Noah's vineyard is pointed out to this day, though the village itself was destroyed in 1840, when the mountain woke up from its long slumbers and rolled down its side a stream of boiling lava; but we are told that, owing to the sins of the world, the vines no longer bear fruit. Close at hand is Manard, "the mother lies here," alluding to the burial-place of Noah's wife, and yonder is Eravan or "Visible," the first dry land which Noah perceived as the waters receded. Armenian choniclers relate that when after leaving the ark the descendants of Noah dispersed to different quarters, one amongst them, by name Haig, the great-grandson of Japhet, settled with his family in Mesopotamia, where he probably took part in the building of the Tower of Babel. Later, however, upon Belus acquiring dominion over the land, Haig found his rule so irksome to himself and his clan that they migrated back in a body of 300 persons to Armenia, much to the displeasure of Belus, who summoned them to return, and when they refused, despatched a large army to coerce them into obedience. Haig collected his men on the shores of Van, and thus sagaciously addressed them:
When we meet with the army of Belus, let us attempt to draw near where he lies surrounded by his warriors; either we shall be killed, and our camp equipments and baggage will fall intohis hands, or, making a show of the strength of our arm, we shall defeat his army, and victory will be ours.
When we meet with the army of Belus, let us attempt to draw near where he lies surrounded by his warriors; either we shall be killed, and our camp equipments and baggage will fall intohis hands, or, making a show of the strength of our arm, we shall defeat his army, and victory will be ours.
These tactics proved completely successful, and Belus fell mortally wounded by an arrow from Haig's bow. Having in this way disposed of his enemies, the patriarch was able before he died to consolidate Hayasdan into a goodly kingdom, which he left to the authority of his son Armenag.
After the reign of Haig the thread of Armenian annals continues without break or hitch; it must be admitted that no people, not even the Jews, boast a history which "begins with the beginning" in a more thorough way, nor does the work of any chronicler proceed in a more methodical and circumstantial manner than that of Moses of Khoren, the Herodotus of Armenia. As is well known, Moses, writing in the fifth century, founded his chronicle upon a work undertaken about five hundred years before by one Marabas Cattina, a Syrian, at the request of the great Armenian monarch Vagshaishag. Marabas stated that his record was based upon a manuscript he had discovered in the archives of Nineveh which bore the indorsement, "This book, containing the annals of ancient history, was translated from the Chaldean into Greek, by order of Alexander the Great." Whatever may be the precise amount of credence to which the Chronicle of Moses is entitled, all will agree that it narrates the story of a high-spirited and intelligent people whom the alternating domination of Greek and Persian could not cower into relinquishing the substance of their liberties, and whose efforts, in the main successful, on behalf of their cherished independence, were never more vigorous than at timeswhen their triumph seemed farthest off. For nearly a thousand years after the date of Moses of Khoren, his people maintained their autonomy, and whether we look before or after the flight of the last Armenian king before the soldiers of the Crescent, we must acknowledge that few nations have fought more valiantly for their political rights, whilst yet fewer have suffered more severely for their fidelity to their faith. It is the pride of the Armenians that theirs was the first country which adopted the Christian religion; it may well be their pride also, that they kept their Christianity in the teeth of persecutions which can only find a parallel in those undergone by the Hebrew race.
Armenia is naturally rich in early Christian legends, of which the most curious is perhaps that of the correspondence alleged to have occurred between Our Lord and Abgar, king of Hayasdan. The latter, it is said, having sent messengers to transact some business with the Roman generals quartered in Palestine, received on their return such accounts of the miracles performed by Jesus of Nazareth as convinced him either that Christ was God come down upon the earth, or that he was the son of God. Suffering from a grave malady, and hearing, moreover, that the Jews had set their hearts on doing despite to the Prophet who had risen in their midst, Abgar wrote a letter beseeching Christ to come to his capital and cure him of his sickness. "My city is indeed small," this letter naïvely concludes, "but it is sufficient to contain us both." The king also sent a painter to Jerusalem, so that if Our Lord could not come to Edessa he might at least possess hisportrait. The painter was one dayendeavouring to fulfil his mission when he was observed by Christ, who passing a handkerchief over his face, gave it to the Armenian impressed with the likeness of his features. The response to Abgar's letter was written by St Thomas, who said, on behalf of his Divine Master, that his work lay elsewhere than in Armenia, but that after his Ascension he would send an Apostle to enlighten the people of that country. This correspondence, though now not accepted as authentic out of Armenia, was mentioned by some of the earliest Church historians, and it is asserted that one of the letters has been found written on papyrus in an Egyptian tomb.
Christianity seems to have made some way in Armenia in the second century, but to what extent is unknown. What is certain is, that in the third century, St Gregory the Illuminator, after having been tortured in twelve different ways by King Tiridates for refusing to worship the goddess Anahid, and kept at the bottom of a well for fourteen years, was taken out of it in consequence of a vision of the king's sister, and converted that monarch and all his subjects along with him. St Gregory is held in boundless reverence by the Armenians; he is almost looked upon as a divine viceroy, as will be seen from the following canzonette which Armenian children are taught to sing:
The light appears, the light appears!The light is good:The sparrow is on the tree,The hen is on the perch,The sleep of lazy men is a year,Workman, rise and begin thy work!The gates of heaven are opened,The throne of gold is erected,Christ is sitting on it;The Illuminator is standing,He has taken the golden pen,He has written great and small.Sinners are weeping,The just are rejoicing.
The light appears, the light appears!The light is good:The sparrow is on the tree,The hen is on the perch,The sleep of lazy men is a year,Workman, rise and begin thy work!The gates of heaven are opened,The throne of gold is erected,Christ is sitting on it;The Illuminator is standing,He has taken the golden pen,He has written great and small.Sinners are weeping,The just are rejoicing.
The light appears, the light appears!
The light is good:
The sparrow is on the tree,
The hen is on the perch,
The sleep of lazy men is a year,
Workman, rise and begin thy work!
The gates of heaven are opened,
The throne of gold is erected,
Christ is sitting on it;
The Illuminator is standing,
He has taken the golden pen,
He has written great and small.
Sinners are weeping,
The just are rejoicing.
The poet of the people nowhere occupies himself with casting about for a fine subject; he writes of what he feels and of what he sees. The Armenian peasant sees the snow in winter; in summer he sees the flowers and the birds—only birds and flowers are to him the pleasanter sight, so he sings more about them. He rarely composes any verse without a flower or a bird being mentioned in it; all his similes are ornithological or botanical, and by them he expresses the tenderest emotions of his heart. There is a pathos, a simplicity really exquisite in the conception of some of these little bird-and-flower pieces, as, for example, in the subjoined "Lament of a Mother" over her dead babe:
I gaze and weep, mother of my boy,I say alas and woe is me wretched!What will become of wretched me,I have seen my golden son dead!They seized that fragrant roseOf my breast, and my soul fainted away;They let my beautiful golden doveFly away, and my heart was wounded.That falcon Death seizedMy dear and sweet-voiced turtle dove and wounded me.They took my sweet-toned little larkAnd flew away through the skies!Before my eyes they sent the hailOn my flowering green pomegranate,My rosy apple on the tree,Which gave fragrance among the leaves.They shook my flourishing beautiful almond tree,And left me without fruit;Beating it they threw it on the groundAnd trod it under foot into the earth of the grave.What will become of wretched me!Many sorrows surrounded me.O, my God, receive the soul of my little oneAnd place him at rest in the bright heaven!
I gaze and weep, mother of my boy,I say alas and woe is me wretched!What will become of wretched me,I have seen my golden son dead!They seized that fragrant roseOf my breast, and my soul fainted away;They let my beautiful golden doveFly away, and my heart was wounded.That falcon Death seizedMy dear and sweet-voiced turtle dove and wounded me.They took my sweet-toned little larkAnd flew away through the skies!Before my eyes they sent the hailOn my flowering green pomegranate,My rosy apple on the tree,Which gave fragrance among the leaves.They shook my flourishing beautiful almond tree,And left me without fruit;Beating it they threw it on the groundAnd trod it under foot into the earth of the grave.What will become of wretched me!Many sorrows surrounded me.O, my God, receive the soul of my little oneAnd place him at rest in the bright heaven!
I gaze and weep, mother of my boy,
I say alas and woe is me wretched!
What will become of wretched me,
I have seen my golden son dead!
They seized that fragrant rose
Of my breast, and my soul fainted away;
They let my beautiful golden dove
Fly away, and my heart was wounded.
That falcon Death seized
My dear and sweet-voiced turtle dove and wounded me.
They took my sweet-toned little lark
And flew away through the skies!
Before my eyes they sent the hail
On my flowering green pomegranate,
My rosy apple on the tree,
Which gave fragrance among the leaves.
They shook my flourishing beautiful almond tree,
And left me without fruit;
Beating it they threw it on the ground
And trod it under foot into the earth of the grave.
What will become of wretched me!
Many sorrows surrounded me.
O, my God, receive the soul of my little one
And place him at rest in the bright heaven!
The birds of Armenia are countless in their number and variety, from vulture to wren; there are so many of them that a man (it is said poetically) may ride for miles and miles and never see the ground, which they entirely cover, except over the small space from which they fly up with a deafening whizz to make a passage for his horse. At times the plains have the appearance of being dyed rose-colour through the swarms of the gorgeous red goose which congregate upon them, whilst here and there a whitish spot is formed by a troop of his grey-coated relatives. It seems that the Armenian has found out why it was the wild goose and the tame one separated from each other. Once upon a time, when all were wild and free, one goose said to another on the eve of a journey, "Mind you are ready, my friend, for, Inshallah (please God), I set out to-morrow morning." "And so will I," he profanely replied, "whether it pleases God or not." Sure enough next morning both geese were up betimes, and the religious one spread out his wings and sailed off lightly towards the distant land. But, lo! when the impious goose tried to do likewise, heflapped and flapped and could not stir from the ground. So a countryman caught him, and he and his children for ever fell into slavery.
The partridge is a great favourite of the Armenian, who does not tire of inventing lyrics in its honour. Here is a specimen:
The sun beats from the mountain's top,Pretty, pretty:The partridge comes from her nest;She was saluted by the flowers,She flew and came from the mountain's top.Ah! pretty, pretty,Ah! dear little partridge!When I hear the voice of the partridgeI break my fast on the house-top:The partridge comes chirpingAnd swinging from the mountain's side.Ah! pretty, pretty,Ah! dear little partridge!Thy nest is enamelled with flowers,With basilico, narcissus, and water-lily:Thy place is full of dew,Thou delightest in the fragrant odour.Ah! pretty, pretty,Ah! dear little partridge!Thy feathers are soft,Thy neck is long, thy beak little,The colour of thy wing is variegated:Thou art sweeter than the dove.Ah! pretty, pretty,Ah! dear little partridge!When the little partridge descends from the tree,And with his sweet voice chirps,He cheers all the world,He draws the heart from the sea of blood.Ah! pretty, pretty,Ah! dear little partridge.All the birds call thee blessed,They come with thee in flocks,They come around thee chirping:In truth there is not one like thee.Ah! pretty, pretty,Ah! beautiful little partridge!
The sun beats from the mountain's top,Pretty, pretty:The partridge comes from her nest;She was saluted by the flowers,She flew and came from the mountain's top.Ah! pretty, pretty,Ah! dear little partridge!
The sun beats from the mountain's top,
Pretty, pretty:
The partridge comes from her nest;
She was saluted by the flowers,
She flew and came from the mountain's top.
Ah! pretty, pretty,
Ah! dear little partridge!
When I hear the voice of the partridgeI break my fast on the house-top:The partridge comes chirpingAnd swinging from the mountain's side.Ah! pretty, pretty,Ah! dear little partridge!
When I hear the voice of the partridge
I break my fast on the house-top:
The partridge comes chirping
And swinging from the mountain's side.
Ah! pretty, pretty,
Ah! dear little partridge!
Thy nest is enamelled with flowers,With basilico, narcissus, and water-lily:Thy place is full of dew,Thou delightest in the fragrant odour.Ah! pretty, pretty,Ah! dear little partridge!
Thy nest is enamelled with flowers,
With basilico, narcissus, and water-lily:
Thy place is full of dew,
Thou delightest in the fragrant odour.
Ah! pretty, pretty,
Ah! dear little partridge!
Thy feathers are soft,Thy neck is long, thy beak little,The colour of thy wing is variegated:Thou art sweeter than the dove.Ah! pretty, pretty,Ah! dear little partridge!
Thy feathers are soft,
Thy neck is long, thy beak little,
The colour of thy wing is variegated:
Thou art sweeter than the dove.
Ah! pretty, pretty,
Ah! dear little partridge!
When the little partridge descends from the tree,And with his sweet voice chirps,He cheers all the world,He draws the heart from the sea of blood.Ah! pretty, pretty,Ah! dear little partridge.
When the little partridge descends from the tree,
And with his sweet voice chirps,
He cheers all the world,
He draws the heart from the sea of blood.
Ah! pretty, pretty,
Ah! dear little partridge.
All the birds call thee blessed,They come with thee in flocks,They come around thee chirping:In truth there is not one like thee.Ah! pretty, pretty,Ah! beautiful little partridge!
All the birds call thee blessed,
They come with thee in flocks,
They come around thee chirping:
In truth there is not one like thee.
Ah! pretty, pretty,
Ah! beautiful little partridge!
Another song gives the piteous plaint of an unhappy partridge who was snared and eaten. "Like St Gregory, they let me down into a deep well; then they took me up and sat round a table, and they cut me into little pieces, like St James the Intercised." The crane, who, with the stork, brings the promise of summer on his wing, receives a warm welcome, and when the Armenian sees a crane in some foreign country he will say to him:—
Crane, whence dost thou come? I am the servant of thy voice. Crane, hast thou not news from our country? Hasten not to thy flock; thou wilt arrive soon enough! Crane, hast thou not news from our country?I have left my possessions and vineyard and come hither. How often do I sigh; it seems that my soul is taken from me. Crane, stay a little, thy voice is in my soul. Crane, hast thou not news from our country? My God, I ask of thee grace and favour, the heart of the pilgrim is wounded, his lungs are consumed; the bread he eats is bitter, the water he drinks is tasteless. Crane, hast thou not news from our country?Thou comest from Bagdad, and goest to the frontiers. I will write a little letter and give it to thee. God will be the witness over thee; thou wilt carry it and give it to my dear ones.I have put in my letter that I am here, that I have never even for a single day been happy. O, my dear ones, I am always anxious for you! Crane, hast thou not news from our country?The autumn is near, and thou art ready to go: thou hast joined a large flock: thou hast not answered me, and thou art flown! Crane, go from our country and fly far away!
Crane, whence dost thou come? I am the servant of thy voice. Crane, hast thou not news from our country? Hasten not to thy flock; thou wilt arrive soon enough! Crane, hast thou not news from our country?
I have left my possessions and vineyard and come hither. How often do I sigh; it seems that my soul is taken from me. Crane, stay a little, thy voice is in my soul. Crane, hast thou not news from our country? My God, I ask of thee grace and favour, the heart of the pilgrim is wounded, his lungs are consumed; the bread he eats is bitter, the water he drinks is tasteless. Crane, hast thou not news from our country?
Thou comest from Bagdad, and goest to the frontiers. I will write a little letter and give it to thee. God will be the witness over thee; thou wilt carry it and give it to my dear ones.
I have put in my letter that I am here, that I have never even for a single day been happy. O, my dear ones, I am always anxious for you! Crane, hast thou not news from our country?
The autumn is near, and thou art ready to go: thou hast joined a large flock: thou hast not answered me, and thou art flown! Crane, go from our country and fly far away!
The nameless author of these lines has had Dante's thought:
Tu proverai sì come sa di saleLo pane altrui. . .
Tu proverai sì come sa di saleLo pane altrui. . .
Tu proverai sì come sa di sale
Lo pane altrui. . .
It is strange that the Armenians should be at once one of the most scattered peoples on the face of the earth, and one of the most passionately devoted to their fatherland.
It should not be forgotten, when reading these Armenian bird-lays, that an old belief yet survives in that country that the souls of the blessed dead fly down from heaven, in the shape of beautiful birds, and perching in the branches of the trees, look fondly at their dear ones on earth as they pass beneath. When the peasant sees the birds fluttering above overhead in the wood he will on no account molest them, but says to his boy, "That is your dear mother, your little brother, your sister—be a good child, or it will fly away and never look at you again with its sweet little eyes."
The clear cool streams and vast treacherous salt lakes of Armenia are not without their laureates. Thus sings the bard of a mountain rivulet:
"Down from yon distant mountainThe water flows through the village, Ha!A dark boy comes forth,And washing his hands and face,Washing, yes washing,And turning to the water, asked, Ha!Water, from what mountain dost thou come?O my cool and sweet water! Ha!I came from that mountain,Where the old and new snow lie one on the other.Water, to what river dost thou go?O my cool and sweet water! Ha!I go to that riverWhere the bunches of violets abound. Ha!Water, to what vineyard dost thou go?O my cool and sweet water! Ha!I go to that vineyardWhere the vine-dresser is within! Ha!Water, what plant dost thou water?O my cool and sweet water! Ha!I water that plantWhose roots give food to the lamb,The roots give food to the lamb,Where there are the apple tree and the anemone.Water, to what garden dost thou go?O my cool and sweet water! Ha!I go into that gardenWhere there is the sweet song of the nightingale! Ha!Water, into what fountain dost thou go?O my cool and sweet little water!I go to that fountainWhere thy love comes and drinks.I go to meet her and kiss her chin,And satiate myself with her love.
"Down from yon distant mountainThe water flows through the village, Ha!A dark boy comes forth,And washing his hands and face,Washing, yes washing,And turning to the water, asked, Ha!Water, from what mountain dost thou come?O my cool and sweet water! Ha!I came from that mountain,Where the old and new snow lie one on the other.Water, to what river dost thou go?O my cool and sweet water! Ha!I go to that riverWhere the bunches of violets abound. Ha!Water, to what vineyard dost thou go?O my cool and sweet water! Ha!I go to that vineyardWhere the vine-dresser is within! Ha!Water, what plant dost thou water?O my cool and sweet water! Ha!I water that plantWhose roots give food to the lamb,The roots give food to the lamb,Where there are the apple tree and the anemone.Water, to what garden dost thou go?O my cool and sweet water! Ha!I go into that gardenWhere there is the sweet song of the nightingale! Ha!Water, into what fountain dost thou go?O my cool and sweet little water!I go to that fountainWhere thy love comes and drinks.I go to meet her and kiss her chin,And satiate myself with her love.
"Down from yon distant mountain
The water flows through the village, Ha!
A dark boy comes forth,
And washing his hands and face,
Washing, yes washing,
And turning to the water, asked, Ha!
Water, from what mountain dost thou come?
O my cool and sweet water! Ha!
I came from that mountain,
Where the old and new snow lie one on the other.
Water, to what river dost thou go?
O my cool and sweet water! Ha!
I go to that river
Where the bunches of violets abound. Ha!
Water, to what vineyard dost thou go?
O my cool and sweet water! Ha!
I go to that vineyard
Where the vine-dresser is within! Ha!
Water, what plant dost thou water?
O my cool and sweet water! Ha!
I water that plant
Whose roots give food to the lamb,
The roots give food to the lamb,
Where there are the apple tree and the anemone.
Water, to what garden dost thou go?
O my cool and sweet water! Ha!
I go into that garden
Where there is the sweet song of the nightingale! Ha!
Water, into what fountain dost thou go?
O my cool and sweet little water!
I go to that fountain
Where thy love comes and drinks.
I go to meet her and kiss her chin,
And satiate myself with her love.
The dwellers on the shores of Van—the largest lake in Armenia, which is situated between 5000 and 6000 feet above the sea, and covers more than 400 square miles—are celebrated for possessing the poetic gift in a pre-eminent degree. Their district is fertile and picturesque, so picturesque that when Semiramis passed that way she employed 12,000 workmen and 600 architects to build her a city on the banks of the lake, which was named Aghthamar, and which she thereafter made her summer residence. The business that brought Semiramis into Armenia was a strange romance. Ara, eighth patriarch of Hayasdan, wasfamed through all the East for his surpassing beauty, and the Assyrian queen hearing that he was the fairest to look upon of all mortal men, sent him a proposal of marriage; but he, staunch to the faith in the one true God, which he believed had been transmitted to him from Noah, would have nothing to say to the offer of the idolatrous ruler. Semiramis, greatly incensed, advanced with her army into the heart of Armenia, and defeated the forces of the Patriarch; but bitter were the fruits of the victory, for Ara, instead of being taken alive, as she had commanded, was struck down at the head of his men, and his beautiful form, stiffened by death, was laid at the queen's feet. Semiramis was plunged in the wildest despair; she endeavoured to bring him to life by magic; that failing, she had his body embalmed and placed in a golden coffin, which was set in her chamber; no one was allowed to call him dead, and she spoke of him as her beloved consort. A spot is pointed out to the traveller bearing the name of Ara Seni, "Ara is sacrificed."
The favourite theme of the men of Van is, of course, the treacherous element on which the lot of most of them is cast. One of their songs gives the legend of the "Old Man and the Ship." Our Lord, as an old man with a white beard, cried sweetly to the sailors to take him into the ship. The sailors answer that the ship is freighted by a merchant, and the passage-money is great. "Go away, white-bearded old man," they say. But our Lord pays the money and comes into the ship. Presently a gale blows up and the sailors are exceeding wroth, for they imagine the strange passenger has brought them ill-luck. Theyask, "Whence didst them come, O sinful man? Thou art lost, and thou hast lost us!" "I a sinner!" replies the Lord, "give me the ship, and go you to sweet sleep." He made the sign of the cross with his right hand, with his left he steered the helm. It was not yet mid-day when the ship safely reached the shore.
Brothers, arise from your sweet sleep, from your sweet sleepand your sad dreams. Fall at the feet of Jesus; here is ourLord, here is our ship.
"Sweet sleep and sad dreams"—he must have been a true poet who thus crystallised the sense of poor humanity's unrest, even in its profoundest repose. The whole little story strikes one as full of delicate suggestiveness.
One more sample of the style of the Armenian "Lake-school."
We sailed in the ship from Aghthamar,We directed our ship towards Avan;When we arrived before VosdanWe saw the dark sun of the dark day.Dull clouds covered the sky,Obscuring at once stars and moon;The winds blew fiercely,And took from my eyes land and shore.Thundered the heaven, thundered the earth,The waters of the blue sea arose;On every side the heavens shot forth fire;Black terror invaded my heart.There is the sky, but the earth is not seen,There is the earth, but the sun is not seen;The waves come like mountainsAnd open before me a deep abyss.O sea, if thou lovest thy God,Have pity on me, forlorn and wretched;Take not from me my sweet sun,And betray me not to flinty-hearted Death.Pity, O sea, O terrible sea!Give me not up to the cold winds;My tears implore theeAnd the thousand sorrows of my heart....The savage sea has no pity!It hears not the plaintive voice of my broken heart;The blood freezes in my veins,Black night descends upon my eyes....Go tell to my motherTo sit and weep for her darkened son;That John was the prey of the sea,The sun of the young man is set!
We sailed in the ship from Aghthamar,We directed our ship towards Avan;When we arrived before VosdanWe saw the dark sun of the dark day.
We sailed in the ship from Aghthamar,
We directed our ship towards Avan;
When we arrived before Vosdan
We saw the dark sun of the dark day.
Dull clouds covered the sky,Obscuring at once stars and moon;The winds blew fiercely,And took from my eyes land and shore.
Dull clouds covered the sky,
Obscuring at once stars and moon;
The winds blew fiercely,
And took from my eyes land and shore.
Thundered the heaven, thundered the earth,The waters of the blue sea arose;On every side the heavens shot forth fire;Black terror invaded my heart.
Thundered the heaven, thundered the earth,
The waters of the blue sea arose;
On every side the heavens shot forth fire;
Black terror invaded my heart.
There is the sky, but the earth is not seen,There is the earth, but the sun is not seen;The waves come like mountainsAnd open before me a deep abyss.
There is the sky, but the earth is not seen,
There is the earth, but the sun is not seen;
The waves come like mountains
And open before me a deep abyss.
O sea, if thou lovest thy God,Have pity on me, forlorn and wretched;Take not from me my sweet sun,And betray me not to flinty-hearted Death.
O sea, if thou lovest thy God,
Have pity on me, forlorn and wretched;
Take not from me my sweet sun,
And betray me not to flinty-hearted Death.
Pity, O sea, O terrible sea!Give me not up to the cold winds;My tears implore theeAnd the thousand sorrows of my heart....
Pity, O sea, O terrible sea!
Give me not up to the cold winds;
My tears implore thee
And the thousand sorrows of my heart....
The savage sea has no pity!It hears not the plaintive voice of my broken heart;The blood freezes in my veins,Black night descends upon my eyes....
The savage sea has no pity!
It hears not the plaintive voice of my broken heart;
The blood freezes in my veins,
Black night descends upon my eyes....
Go tell to my motherTo sit and weep for her darkened son;That John was the prey of the sea,The sun of the young man is set!
Go tell to my mother
To sit and weep for her darkened son;
That John was the prey of the sea,
The sun of the young man is set!
Summer, with its flowers, and warmth, and wealth, never stays long enough in Armenia for it to become a common ordinary thing. It is a beautiful wonder-time, a brief, splendid nature-fair, which vanishes like a dream before the first astonishment and delight are worn into indifference. The season when "the nightingale sings to the rose at dewy dawn" departs swiftly, and envious winter strangles autumn in its birth.
What a winter, too! a winter which despotically governs the complete economy of the people's system of life. Let us take a peep into an Armenian interior on a December evening. Three months the snow has been in possession of mountain and valley; for more than four months more it will remain. Abroad it is light enough, though night has fallen; for the moon shines down in wonderful brightness upon the ice-boundearth. On the hill-slope various little unevennesses are discernible, jutting out from the snow like mushrooms. In one part the ground is cut away perpendicularly for a few feet; this is the front of the homestead, the body of which lies burrowed in the slope of the hill. When the house was made the floor was dug out some five feet underground, while the ceiling beams rose three or four feet above it; but all the dug-out soil was thrown about the roof and back and side walls, and thus the whole is now embedded in the hillock. The roof was neatly turfed over when the house was finished, so that in summer the lambs and children play upon it, and not unfrequently, in the great heats, the family sleep there—"at the moon's inn." What look like mushrooms are in reality the broad-topped chimneys, on which the summer storks build their nests. The homestead has but one entrance; a large front door which leads through a long dark passage to a second door that swings-to after you, and is hung with a rough red-dyed sheepskin. This door opens upon the entrance-hall, whence you mount half-a-dozen steps to a raised platform, under which the house dogs are located. On two sides the platform is bounded by solid stone walls, from which are suspended saddles, guns, pistols, and one or two pictures representing the deeds of some Persian hero, and bought of Persian hawkers. On the other two sides an open woodwork fence divides it from a vast stable. Nearest the grating are fastened the horses of the clan-chief; next are the donkeys, then the cows; sheep and chickens find places where they can. The breath of these animals materially contributes to the warmth of the house,which is at times almost like an oven, even in the coldest weather. A clear hot fire burns on the hearth; the fuel used is tezek, a preparation of cow-dung pressed into a substance resembling peat turf. By day the habitation is obscurely lighted through a small aperture in the roof glazed with oiled silk, and supplemented by a sort of funnel, the wide opening downwards. Now, in the evening, the oil burning in a simple iron lamp over the hearth, affords a dim illumination.
The platform above described is the salemlik, or hall of reception. It contains no chairs, but divans richly draped with Koordish stuffs; the floor is carpeted with tekeke, a kind of grey felt. To the right of the hearth sits the head of the family, a venerable old man, whose word is incontrovertible law to every member of his house. He is also Al Sakal, or "white beard" of the village, a dignity conferred on him by the unanimous voice of his neighbours, and constituting him intermediary in all transactions with government. When important matters are at stake, he meets the elders of the surrounding hamlets, who, resolved into committee, form the Commune. This ancient usage bears witness to the essentially patriarchal and democratic basis of Armenian society.
Our family party consists of three dozen persons, the representatives of four generations. The young married women come in and out from directing the preparations of the supper. Nothing is to be seen of their faces except their lustrous eyes (Armenian eyes are famous for their brilliancy), a tightly-fitting veil enclosing the rest of their features. Without thiscovering they do not by any chance appear even in the house; it is said they wear it also at night. One of them is a bride; her dress is rich and striking—a close-fitting bodice, fastening at the neck with silver clasps, full trousers of rose-coloured silk gathered in at the ankles by a fillet of silver, the feet bare, a silver girdle of curious workmanship loosely encircling the waist, and a long padded garment open down the front which hangs from the shoulders. Poor little bride! She has not uttered a single word save when alone with her husband since she pronounced the marriage vow. She may not hope to do so till after the birth of her first-born child; then she will talk to her nursling, after a while to her mother-in-law, sometime later she may converse with her own mother, and by-and-by, in a subdued whisper, with the young girls of the house. During the first year of her married life she may not go out of the house except twice to church. Her disciplinary education will not be complete for six years, after which she will enjoy comparative liberty, but never in her life must she open her lips to a person of the stronger sex not related to her. Turn from the silent little bride to that bevy of young girls, merry and playful as the kittens they are fondling—silky-haired snowballs, of a breed peculiar to the neighbourhood of Van, their tails dyed pink with henna like the tail of the Shah's steed. The girls are laughing and chatting together without restraint—most probably about their love affairs, for they are free to dispose of their hands as they choose. And they may walk about unveiled, and show off their pretty faces and long raven plaits to the fullest advantage.
Suddenly a knocking is heard outside; the dogs yell from under the platform; the Whitebeard says whoever be the wanderer he shall have bed and board, and he orders fresh tezek to be thrown on the fire; for to-night it is bitter cold out abroad—were a man to stand still five minutes, he would freeze in his shoes. One of the sons descends the steps, pushes aside the sheep-skin, and leads the traveller in. This one says he is the minstrel. What joy in the family! The blind minstrel, who will sing the most exciting ballads and tell the most marvellous tales. He is welcomed by all; only the young bride steals out of the room—she may not remain in a stranger's presence. The lively girls want to hear a story at once; but the Whitebeard says the guest must first have rest and refreshment. But while they are waiting for the meal to be laid out, the blind minstrel relates something of his recent travels, which in itself is almost as good as a fairy tale. He has just arrived from Persia, whither he will soon return; for he has only come back to the snows of Armenia to breathe the air of home for a little. Did he go to Teheran? No; to say the truth, he deemed it wiser to keep at a discreet distance from that capital. Such a thing had been heard of ere now as the Shah putting under requisition any skilful musicians who came in his way to teach their art to the fair ones of the harem; so that occasionally it was unpleasantly difficult to get out of Teheran when once you were in it. Still he was by no means without interesting news. In a certain part of Persia he had met another blind master-singer, with whom he strove for the prize of minstrelsy. Both were entertained by a great Persianprince. When the day came they were led out upon an open grass-plot and seated one facing the other. The prince took up his position, and five thousand people made a circle round the competitors. Then the grand brain-fight began; the rivals contended in song and verse, riddle and repartee. Now one starts an acrostic on the prince's name, in which each side takes alternate letters; then the other versifies some sacred passage, which his opponent must catch up when he breaks off. The ball is kept flying to and fro with unflagging zeal; the crowd is rapturous in its plaudits. But at length our minstrel's adversary pauses, hesitates, fails to seize the drift of his rival's latest sally, and answers at random. A shout proclaims him beaten. The triumphant bard is led to where he stands, and taking his lyre from him breaks it into atoms. The vanquished retires discomfited to the obscurity of his native village, where haply his humble talents will not be despised. The victor is robed in the prince's mantle, and taken to the highest seat in the banqueting-hall.
This is what the minstrel has to tell as he warms his hands over the fire while the young married women serve the supper. A rush-mat is placed upon the low round board, over that the table-cloth; then a large tray is set in the middle, with the viands arranged on it in metal dishes: onion soup, salted salmon-trout from the blue Gokschai, hard-boiled eggs shelled and sliced, oil made from Kunjut seeds, which does instead of butter; pilau, a dish resembling porridge; mutton stewed with quinces, leeks, and various raw and preserved roots, cream cheese, sour milk, dried apricots, and stoned raisins, form the bill of fair. A can ofgolden wine is set out: there is plenty more in the goatskins should it be wanted. The provisions are completed by an item more important in Armenia than with us—bread. The flour-cake orlosh, a yard long and thin as paper, which is placed before each guest, answers for plate, knives, forks, napkin, all of which are absent. The Whitebeard says grace and the Lord's Prayer, everyone crossing himself. The company wipe their mouths with alosh, and proceed to help themselves with it to anything that tempts their fancy on the middle tray. Some make a promiscuous sandwich of fish, mutton, and leeks wrapped up in a piece oflosh; others twist theloshinto the shape of a spoon and ladle out the sour milk, swallowing both together. The members of the family watch the minstrel's least gesture, so as to anticipate his wishes; one after the other they claim the privilege of waiting on him. When the meal is done, a young housewife gently washes the guest's head and feet, and the whole party adjourn to the chimney-corner. The evening flies mirthfully away, listening to the minstrel's tales and ballads, these latter being mostly in Tartar, the Provençal of the eastern troubadour. Finally, the honoured visitor is conducted to his room, the "minstrel's chamber," which, in every well-ordered Armenian household, is always kept ready.
Our little picture may be taken as the faithful reproduction of no very extraordinary scene. Of ballad-singers such as the one here introduced there are numbers in Armenia, where that "sixth sense," music, is the recognised vocation of the blind. Those who are proficient travel within a very wide area, and are everywhere received with the highest consideration.
In the East, the ballad-singer and the story-teller are just where they were centuries ago. At Constantinople, the story-teller sits down on his mat in the public place or at thecafé; listeners gather round; he begins his story in a conversational tone, varying his voice according to the characters; and soon both himself and his hearers are as far away in the wondrous mazes of the "Arabian Nights" as if Europe were still trembling before the sword of the Caliph.
With regard to the unique marriage customs of Armenia, I ought to say that they are asserted to result in the happiest unions. The general idea upon which they rest seems to be derived from a series of conclusions logical enough if you grant the premisses—indeed, curiously more like some pen and paper scheme evolved out of the inner consciousness of a German professor than a working system of actual life. The prevailing custom in the East, as in some European countries, is for the young girl to know nothing whatever of her intended husband; only in the one case this is followed by total seclusion after marriage, and in the other by complete emancipation. In Armenia, on the contrary, the young girl makes her own choice, and love-matches are not uncommon; but the choice once made and ratified by the priest, the order of things is so arranged as to cause her husband to become the woman's absorbing thought, his society her sole solace, his pleasure the whole business of her life. For the rest she is treated with much solicitude; even the peasant will not let his wife do out-door work.
Moses of Khoren gives the history of a wedding that took place about one hundred years after Christ.In those days the tribes of the Alans, in league with the mountaineers of the Caucasus and a part of the people of Georgia, descended upon Armenia in considerable numbers. Ardashes, the Armenian king, assembled his troops and advanced against them. In a battle fought upon the confines of the two nations, the Alans gave way, and having crossed the Cyrus, encamped on the northern bank, the river dividing the contending forces. The son of the King of the Alans had been taken prisoner and was conducted to Ardashes. His father offered to conclude a peace on such conditions as Ardashes might exact and under promise, guaranteed by a solemn oath, that the Alans would attempt no further incursions on Armenian territory. As Ardashes refused to surrender the young prince, the sister of the youth ran to the edge of the river and climbing upon a lofty hillock, caused these words to be addressed to the enemy's camp by the mouth of interpreters: "Hear me, valorous Ardashes, conqueror of the brave Alans; grant unto me the surrender of this young man—unto me, the maiden with beautiful eyes. It is not worthy of a hero in order to satisfy a desire for vengeance, to take the life of the sons of heroes or to hold them in bondage and keep up an endless feud between two nations." Ardashes, having heard these words, approached the river. He saw the beautiful Sathinig, listened to her wise counsels, and fell in love with her. Then, having called Sumpad, an aged warrior who had watched over his childhood, he laid bare the wish of his heart to marry the princess, make a treaty of amity with her nation and send back the prince in peace. Sumpad, having approved of these projects,sent to ask the King of the Alans for the hand of Sathinig. "What!" replied her father, "will the valorous King Ardashes have ever treasure enough to offer me in return for the noble damsel of the Alans?"
A popular song, carefully preserved by Moses, celebrates the marriage of Ardashes and Sathinig:—