Let's leave our living field for a while, Tornik, and go visit the field of the dead. You know that death is edging closer to Papik, little by little, and while I am still alive I want to walk through the sleeping-place of the dead one last time on my own feet, before the day comes when they lay me on the bier and carry me there chanting the psalm for the dead, and set me in my grave, and I rest with our fathers.
The graves are a talking schoolroom for us too. The khachkars1 and the memorials of the dead are still speaking to us. Let's see what kind of people, in the old days and in ours, were born and came into the world, lived and worked, for good or for ill, and then left this world, the sun, life, house and family, and disappeared into this dark world of the dead. Over every Christian's grave a cross-stone is planted, with the dead man's name and life written on it, so that whoever sees it can read it and say a God-have-mercy.
So let's read these memorials, Tornik, the old ones and the new ones, and see what rich householders and other hardworking, remarkable men have come out of the ranks of the village people, men whose lives are lessons in goodness for us. Did you know there are dead who keep talking to us until the end of the world? They talk through books. They talk through memorials that never die. They talk through the stones of the grave.
Look, Tornik. Read this epitaph.
"This is the tomb of Ohanjan the householder, of Archak, who lived eighty years. He never went far from the village or from his house, and he never let go of the gutan's plow-handle until the day he died. He rebuilt our village church when it had fallen in, and left a field to the church for his memorial."
"Say God have mercy on his soul."
Read the cross-stone next to his.
"I am Markhas of the Mirzo house. I started out poor, a hired laborer without a span of soil to my name. I worked, and God gave me success, and with my honest earnings I bought plenty of land, grew rich, and became a householder. In my will I told the children who come after me that every year, on the days of the dead of the five tabernacle-feasts,2 they should make matagh and hand out food to the poor. Say God have mercy on Markhas's soul."
Come, Tornik, read the letters on that big khachkar.
"Here rests the great householder Adam, who owned much land. He yoked the gutan with three relays of animals and kept forty laborers. His was the great patriarchal house of our village, and the number of his family reached seventy. When he gave a soul-meal or made a matagh, he fed men by the thousand and the thousand. He was a deeply virtuous man. He died at a hundred, and the whole village wept for him. In his will he ordered that four fields out of his holdings go to the monasteries of Varag and of Archak, and that the village church receive oil from his oil-press for its lamps, without a break. As you pass by, say God have mercy on the soul of the great householder Adam."
Don't walk past yet. Read the letters on that little cross-stone close by.
"I am Margo the naghara-drummer. I lie at rest under this cross-stone. I spent my whole life in good cheer, in winter at weddings, and in summer setting out my melon patch. Every spring I came to the village of Archak and set out my melon ground, and I raised melons and watermelons in plenty and traded them for wheat, for barley, for butter, cheese and zhazhik, and filled my house with abundance. I worked, and I lived a very happy life. When I saw that I was going to die, I asked in my will not to be buried in the city but to be carried to Archak village and buried there. God keep that village standing, since it kept my house standing. Say God have mercy on the soul of Margo the naghara-drummer."
Read the next headstone beside it, Tornik, the one with a hen carved on it.
"I am Markos the fowl-keeper. I was a villager, but I had no land, and I racked my brains for a way to make a living. Then one night I dreamed of a great many hens and a great many eggs, and I said to myself, this is my fortune. In the morning I got up and went to work interpreting my dream. First I built a little hen-house, put ten hens in it and set them to brood, and within a few years I had three hundred hens. I was always selling fowls and eggs to the village's guests and to the townspeople, and my family and I lived well on chicken and eggs. Foxes and martens are great enemies of hens, so I built traps for them, and every winter I caught enough foxes and martens to make a good profit on the skins. Thanks to the poultry I learned hunting too. At the end, when I was dying, I told my children in my will never to let the hen-house and the hens out of their hands, because that is their only bread and living.
"Say God have mercy on the soul of Markos the fowl-keeper."
A little further off there is a gravestone with its letters grown over with moss, Tornik, and a beehive carved on it. Read it, and let's see who it is.
"I am Peto, the laboring bee-keeper. Apart from my little hut I had nothing at all. I thought and thought, and then I went and borrowed money and bought five hives, and built a small bee-house and put them in it. God made it prosper. My bees multiplied until there were a hundred hives, and they gave honey and wax in great plenty. I carried it to the city and sold it for money, and in the village I traded it for bread and butter, and I kept my family on honey and butter. On the day I died I told my eldest son never to leave the door of the bee-house, and to look after the bees with great care, because they are our hardworking laborers who take no wage. I also asked in my will that every Sunday, and on the days of the Liturgy, a candle be lit on the altar of the village church, and that the priest remember me in his prayers.
"Say God have mercy on the soul of Peto the bee-keeper."
Next to him there is an unhewn khachkar. Read it, and let's see whose grave it is.
"I am Nazar the herdsman. Thirty years I kept the herd. Long life to the village of Archak. My herd was two thousand head of cattle. Every week's end I gathered the herdsman's bread, back-load after back-load, and the larder of my house was full of loaves. Our mistress of the house never learned to knead dough or bake bread. Our villagers think herding is nothing at all. It is not. Herding is village work like any other. I have no complaint to make. To the day I died I never went hungry for bread.
"Say God have mercy on the soul of Nazar the herdsman."
Tornik, you have heard how the villagers are forever complaining that the village gzirs are foul-mouthed men, full of curses. But I have heard that our village once had a good gzir, a very kind and sensible man. He never wronged anyone, he kept the rota for quartering guests fair, and he always tried to spare the poor. To this day the villagers remember that good gzir's name. And here is his grave. What a surprise, Tornik. Even the gzir of Archak has a khachkar over him and a memorial. Read it.
"I am Kazo, the gzir of the thriving village of Archak. Ah, how comfortably I lie here under the soil. My ears are at peace now from the villagers' abuse and their pointless, unjust curses. And the things I put up with from those harsh, impatient, demanding guests. I was beaten, I was tormented, I was carded like a wad of cotton. That is why they named me gzir, because they thought I was the one doing the carding.3 God took my soul. I died and got free of it all. I lived poor and I died poor, and I have nothing to leave anyone. All I have for you is this advice, poor men of the village. Do not become a village gzir. Go and work the soil instead. A laborer of the soil is a thousand times better off than a village gzir, because the gzir's trade is a wicked kind of farming.
"Say God have mercy on the soul of Kazo the gzir."
But enough of these little men and their little cross-stones, though even the ones counted little have their meaning, each in his own measure. Let's walk on, Tornik, and find the great khachkars, and the souls under them who were the glory and the honor of our village. The people do not forget. They remember their good works, and they keep their memory.
A good way from the village you can see a hillock. Do you see it, Tornik? On its crown stands a great khachkar, and that is the grave of Hako the shepherd, the master of great flocks. A spring rises out of that same hillock, and Hako's milking ewes used to be brought to that spring for their midday milking.
Hako the shepherd was not a landholding householder in our village, but as a shepherd, a master of flocks, he counted as a great householder, because he had four ktir of sheep, a ktir being a flock, and every ktir a thousand head. They said he kept forty hired shepherds and lamb-herds and had married off every one of them. How many daughters he had I do not know, but his house was full of his grandchildren. He was a deeply compassionate, open-handed man, and his blessed house was a refuge for the poor. At shearing time he handed out wool to the poor, and Hako the shepherd could say, as Job did, the bare backs of the poor were warmed with my wool.4 In the same way he set aside a share of milk from his milk, of cheese from his cheese, of butter from his butter, for the village families in need. And Hako handed it out to everyone alike. He made no difference for the needy of the other races settled around him. Whoever came to him, whoever asked him, he gave, and he did not sort people into kinds. That is why his name and his fame stood so high even with the neighboring Kurdish chieftains of good family. Once, hostile Kurds from the Persian side raided and drove off half of Hako's sheep. Our Hako, like the patriarch Abraham, took his brave lads and the strong men of the village, went after them, fought them, and brought back what they had taken.5
The shepherd's plain life gave our patriarch Hako a very long one. He lived to a hundred and twenty, and in all that time he was never sick until the very end. He knew in himself that he was going to die. He called his children, his grandchildren and the whole household to gather around his bed, and blessed them all with a patriarch's mouth. He kissed his shepherd's staff and his horn-pipe, which he had laid beside him, and with a trembling hand he took them and gave them to Aprsam, his eldest son. "I hand over to you, my son," he said, "my rights as shepherd and as householder. Govern as I governed. Keep our house and the flocks of sheep. Do not forget pity and compassion. Always set aside a share of what the sheep yield for the poor and destitute of the village who are in need. And I lay this on you as a testament that must never be broken, my son. On the days of the dead of the year's five tabernacle-feasts you must make a matagh of twenty sheep and give the poor bread and food until they have had enough, and in his Liturgy the village priest must remember the soul of Hako the shepherd along with the souls of all the dead. My son Aprsam, I bless you, and I charge you. Love your brothers, love the family, love the flocks of sheep, because they are the treasure of our wealth. Work so that the great patriarchal name of shepherd is never taken away from the house of Hako the shepherd. I cannot talk any longer. The angel has come. I have to give up my soul." He said it, and gave up his soul. The whole village wept and mourned for him, and, as he had wanted, they carried his body out and buried it in the bosom of this hillock.
They say that on the day of Hako's burial the whole village poured out onto this hillock, and the shepherds brought Hako's two thousand milking ewes to the peratekh, the midday milking-ground. Aprsam, the eldest son, gives the order that the whole of that day's milk from the sheep be given to the people and to the poor. Vanetsis bring wine and hand it out to the poor over a grave, but over Hako's grave it was milk instead of wine. The whole village drank new-milked, foaming milk out of wooden kot bowls, and the poor filled their vessels too, and said their God-have-mercy and blessed the dead man's grave. And do you know what the shepherds did, Tornik? They say each shepherd brought a great vessel of milk and poured it out over Hako's grave. What a sweet thing that is, and how full of meaning. Hako the shepherd, the great householder, fed on milk, and when he died, his grave sucked milk too.
Aprsam his son set a great khachkar over his father's grave, with his good memorial written on it. Read it, Tornik.
"This is the tomb of the great householder Hako the shepherd, who was buried on this hillock, as he had wished. Blessed be his memory.
"Say God have mercy on the soul of the great householder Hako the shepherd."
Now let's turn back, Tornik, and go to our ruined monastery of the Holy Mother of God, where only the church is left standing. Under the church's outer wall, where a spring comes up from beneath the foundation, a thick-trunked willow grows near the spring, and tradition says there is a grave there, with no memorial and no khachkar, and that it is Ashugh Musho's.6 In this world the ashughs are counted as nobodies, poor men. Who is going to look after their souls, or honor their memory, or set a cross-stone over their grave? But Ashugh Musho is a lucky man, because his gravestone is the little church of the Holy Mother of God itself, and Musho's honest soul rests in its shadow.
Let me tell you Musho's life and his death, Tornik, the way I heard it from the old men of our village. Listen closely, because it is a strange and curious story.
Ashugh Musho was born a son of this village of ours, and he was apprenticed to Ashugh Chichak, whose grave they still point out on the slope above the church of Surb Toros in the village of Kharakonis.7
You should know, Tornik, that ashughs are men who love a free life, and they are not house-builders. For all their many love songs, they are not much for marrying themselves. There are also ashughs whose songs lean toward moral counsel, and who make beautiful poems in praise of the saints. Our Ashugh Musho was that kind. Jesus told his apostles to take no staff and no bag on the road,8 and the ashughs keep that instruction to the letter, houseless, propertyless, wandering men. All they have is a saz. They sling it over the shoulder and go from village to village. Wherever there is a wedding or a soul-meal, they walk in freely, without an invitation, and they know how to strike up songs and tunes to fit the occasion, cheerful or mournful. Winter is their best season. When the villagers stop their work in the fields, they crowd into the warm stables, and the moment they hear that an ashugh has come to the village, they come in from everywhere and gather round. The song-making ashugh starts his song and his story. You should see, Tornik, how our unlettered, simple people listen to him, spellbound. For them the ashugh stands far above the church clerk, and a story is sweeter than a vardapet's sermon.
They tell a funny story about our Musho. He heard there was a wedding in a nearby village and set off for it at night. It was winter, the snow was coming down hard, and on the road a pack of hungry wolves closed in on him. Musho was quick, and he knew how to fool wolves. In a moment he unwound his sash and let one end of it trail on the ground, and while the wolves played with the trailing end he struck up his keman on the other side. Apparently Musho knew from experience that wild animals have an ear and a taste for the fine art of music too. So, with his heart in his mouth, Ashugh Musho reached a big tree that stood a little way outside the village, scrambled up it in no time, and went on playing the tune the wolves liked, and they arranged themselves in a ring around the tree, and sat, and listened. The wedding party in the village heard the sound of the keman and knew Musho was coming, and out they came to meet him, and the poor wolves' concert was ruined. Musho got away, went into the wedding house, and struck up the same sweet tune there. Ashugh Musho coaxed the wolves and taught them not to eat men. Their share of the food is the sheep and nothing else. It seems to me Musho's idea was that, having schooled the wolves, he would have liked to school the roughness out of the villagers too, so that they would stop eating each other's flesh, not just because they are brothers of one blood, but even more because of the commandment of Jesus, who teaches, "You are all brothers."9
Musho was the village people's ashugh and no one else's. He never liked going to the city. What he loved were villages, fields, mountains, flowers, the babbling water of springs. In a word, he was deeply in love with the picture of nature that the Creator's hand had painted. That is why he would sometimes disappear from the village. His dearest companion was his saz. He would sling it over his shoulder and wander off through the fields and the mountain country, and everywhere he went he found bread enough to fill his stomach.
Our village's Ashugh Musho had a very great name. Besides his saz and his keman he had a voice that was very sweet and moving, and by nature he was a cheerful, good-humored man. And more than that, he had a burning faith in the Saints. Every year he went on pilgrimage to Surb Karapet of Mush.10 He would lay his saz on the grave and pray, "Surb Karapet, granter of wishes, you who stood godfather to Christ, give your servant Musho the gift of song." The ashughs believe that the silent hermit of that wilderness is their pir, their patron. And the strange thing is that the rope-dancer, with the same faith, asks the same grace for his own nimble art.
On his way back from Surb Karapet, Musho had made a habit of coming to Ashtishat, going into the chapel of Surb Sahak, laying his head on the grave and weeping his fill.11 How, I do not know. The man had no letters and no history. Where had he learned the greatness and the meaning of Sahak Partev? It seems these song-making ashughs know who the singers of our church's sharakans were.
From Ashtishat he would go on to the monastery of the Apostles, and when he had made his pilgrimage he would walk around to the east side of the church, where the Holy Translators lie buried.12 He would kiss their graves, and then, tired, sit down there for a while, take up the saz, and go on with the laments of the old man of Khoren.13 He did his own singing and his own weeping. The only echo his lament ever had was his own feeling heart.
When Musho had comforted himself with weeping, he would come down from Tsovasar to a place at the mouth of a gorge, where a mill had stood from the old days, and the miller was a friend of Musho's, because ashughs travel so much that they have acquaintances everywhere. Musho said good day and then asked, Brother Mkho, have you got a miller's loaf? I am very hungry. Oh, what a thing to ask me, friend Musho. Can't you see? The water came and carried the mill away, and it took the flour and the tonir along with it. Where am I supposed to find you a miller's loaf? Musho saw that the miller was hunting for something in the wreck of the mill, and asked him, what are you looking for in this flooded-out mill? I am looking for the mill's jakhjakh, the miller answers, the jakhjakh!14
Musho takes the saz down from his shoulder at once, sits down on a broken bank, and starts up his mourning song.
You sing well and you talk well, friend Musho, but you are no miller, to know a mill's business. Do you think millers are ignorant men who cannot read or write? I studied at the school of the monastery of Surb Karapet once, but fortune made a miller of me. Well, what of it? I have read somewhere that Movses of Khoren, coming home from Athens, ended up a miller himself, when he went about our country as a stranger with his hard-won philosophy in his bag and nobody would buy his wares.15 Who knows? Maybe this very flooded-out mill is where he did his milling.
Now listen, Musho, while I tell you the great meaning of this jakhjakh I am hunting for. Blessed be that scrap of wood, the jakhjakh, because it saved me. Otherwise I would have gone down the flood along with the mill. You know the jakhjakh is the mill's rooster. But ours is a strange rooster. While he crows and chatters away, I sleep sweetly and without a care, and the moment his voice stops I wake on the instant, and I see that the mill has come to a stop. Ah, but this time it was the flood. It broke up the mill's water-house, the jakhjakh's voice stopped, I got out of the mill, and God saved me.
That rooster of your mill, that jakhjakh, is a truly wonderful thing, said Musho. The world wakes up when a voice is raised, but millers only wake up when the jakhjakh's voice is cut off. I admit it, the meaning of that jakhjakh is very great. That jakhjakh is worth a lot. Hunt for it until you find it.
Musho, my dear, have you read the book of Scripture? In the old nation of Israel there were jakhjakh prophets who gave voice, and the mill of Jacob's house kept turning. And when those God-speaking jakhjakhs had their voices cut off, the water carried away the mill of Jacob's house, and it lies in ruins to this day. We had our vardapet jakhjakhs once too, and when their voice fell silent, we knew that the water had come and carried our mill away as well. Eh, friend Musho, do you understand the meaning of the jakhjakh now? I beg you, make a song about this jakhjakh, and go around singing it always. Because aren't the ashugh's song and his saz our jakhjakhs?
But enough of the jakhjakh. You have given me one more piece of advice, Musho, to abandon the ruined mill at the gorge-mouth and build my mill somewhere else. But where am I supposed to build it, friend Musho? Don't you know that every place has an owner? This mill came down to me as an inheritance from my father and my father's fathers. I will not let it lie there a ruin and let my great forefathers' memorial die with it. I will have to borrow again, find the means somehow, and build my mill, which is my family's only hope and support. I have no field, I have no plow-animal. I live by the mill and nothing else.
Then, said Musho, when God gives you success and you build your mill, here is my advice for you now. On the side of the gorge-mouth where the torrent runs, put up a thick, strong wall of stone and lime, and then your mill will be safe.
Oh, friend Musho, you do not know a miller's situation. You break your bread in pieces too big. Where would I find that kind of money? My old forefathers never thought of doing it, so am I supposed to think of it? I have to build my mill the way I found it. What you are talking about is no business for a hungry, poor man. Do you know, Musho, this is the fourth time this mill has gone down the flood. Who knows? Maybe God will take pity on a poor wretch and keep my mill safe from the torrents this once.
When Musho heard that, he was quiet and thought for a while, and then he said, you are quite right, friend. The business of this world of ours has to be run with good sense. It is best that every man works to his own measure, the miller to his measure, and Musho with his saz.
Well, miller, goodbye. I am off. You build your mill. The mill's jakhjakh has a great meaning, and I understand it now. Musho with his saz is a mill's jakhjakh too.
Musho came back from Mush to the village of Archak very heavy-hearted. It was a Sunday. He went to the church, went into the sacristy, called the priest, made his confession, and received holy Communion that same day. Toward evening he took incense and a candle and went to the monastery of the Holy Mother of God. He went into the church, burned his incense and lit his candle, knelt before the altar, murmured one long prayer, and then kissed the cross and the Gospel. He came out of the church and came here, under this tree, at the head of the spring. He had a little unleavened cake with him, and some roasted meal. That, you understand, was his last supper, and he ate it with great appetite, and instead of wine he drank the cold water of the spring. Then he took the saz in his hands and began to sing, and this song of his was piercing and full of grief. At other times Musho sang cheerfully and merrily, but this last time, you would have said he was setting the dirge of his own death to music, like a swan, and the tears fell from his clouded eyes onto the trembling strings of his chongur. I think Musho was singing the Lament of Khorenatsi, which he knew by heart, because the flooded-out mill and the jakhjakh had gone deep into this son of his. Musho finished the order of his own death and his "reckoning," laid the saz at his head, lay down under the cool tree, and fell asleep so sweetly that he never got up again. The angel was waiting, and Musho gave up his soul.
That same evening a devout old woman, who used to bring oil and incense to the church of the Holy Mother of God, saw Musho lying under the tree. She said to herself, let me go and give him a call, he must not spend the night out here. She called, Musho! Musho! Musho gave no answer. She went closer and shook him with her hand, and found that Musho had gone stiff as wood. God help us, she said, Musho is dead. The old woman went to the village and told the priest, and in no time the news of Musho's death was through the whole village. Priest, sexton and all the people poured out to the monastery of the Holy Mother of God. The priest made the announcement and declared Musho's will. He said, Musho, may his soul be in light, had known in himself that he was going to die. He came to church this morning, confessed, and received the Sacrament. And now let me tell you Musho's will. He begged me, and put me under oath, and said, "Der Hayr, I am a houseless, homeless wandering man. I beg you, bury me wherever I happen to die. And do not forget, bury my beloved saz with me." And I hope and believe that when Gabriel blows his trumpet on the day of judgment,16 Musho will go up to the kingdom with his saz and glorify God along with the angels. In that free world, for free souls, won't singing ashughs be needed too?
The people heard the announcement and gladly agreed to Musho's will, and they dug a grave under the church wall then and there and buried Musho in it. And the people said God have mercy on Musho's soul, and went back to the village.
That is how the people's beloved Ashugh Musho died, Tornik. Let's say the same God-have-mercy for him, and turn back. Near the church of our village there is another grave, where Mahtesi17 Agrippas has lain at rest for nearly thirty years now, Hayrik's close and devoted friend.
Look, Tornik. An unhewn stone has been thrown over the grave, with no letters and no memorial. Now let me tell you who Agrippas Tpazian was. He was a Vanetsi born, and a neighbor of Hayrik's house.
I have known that good departed man since the days when Hayrik first went to Bolis as a pandukht, when he was not yet a vardapet but was still Mkrtich the schoolmaster. As a fellow countryman and a close friend, that kind-hearted, cheerful man was always Hayrik's host, and whenever Hayrik was in trouble he came to him and made things easier. Along with him I must not forget Mister Grigor Jrbashkhian, a man who loved books and reading. Without any schooling or grammar he understood the language without a mistake, and by sheer reading he had become expert in the correct forms of literary words. When the Hravirak Araratian was first being printed, he often pointed out the errors to Hayrik.18 He is still alive, and lives now like a vardapet without a cowl at the monastery of Varag, busy with the same love of reading. He too had known Hayrik from boyhood and was a close friend, and always took him in at his lodging in exile.
And when Hayrik came back to Van with a printing press, settled at the monastery of Varag and started his undertakings, that same M. Agrippas was his devoted helper and right hand. He was not the kind of man to give encouragement in words alone. When he saw the straits the monastery of Varag was in, he lent the money it needed without interest, and sometimes he even stood surety for its notes of debt, and trusted it completely.
He was a benefactor of our village too, Tornik. Although he was a tanner by trade, he loved village life and the work of the fields, so he kept up his dealings with our villagers and was always coming and going. He was the first cause of the founding of our village school. He took on the rebuilding of the broken dam of the lake of Archak, within the bounds of the village of Ermants, and its water comes down in abundance over the fields of our plain and multiplies the yield of the sowings.
About thirty years ago, one day in the first watch of the evening, ill-omened brigands dragged him into a little ravine on the plain of Aghtagh, or Artagh, and beat that innocent man, Mahtesi Agrippas, cruelly to death. Hayrik was away at the monastery of Surb Karapet of Mush at the time. Manuel the schoolmaster, a teacher at the school of Varag, wrote a lamentation on the death of that matchless friend, and the singing children of Van sing it to this day to a most piercing tune. And Hayrik too wrote a lamentation long ago for his close friend, and I know that heart-piercing elegy by heart. I will say it for you.
Let's remember him too, Tornik, the departed man of the shining soul, and say God have mercy on his soul. And now it is enough. Let's end the memorials of the dead in their graves here. Even now I can feel it, Tornik. My death is close, and my own memorial will be mixed in with these.
Notes
- Khachkar, the carved memorial cross-stone. ↩
- The five tagavar (tabernacle) feasts of the Armenian Church. The day after each is a merelots, a day of remembrance of the dead. ↩
- The epitaph's pun. Gzir, the village crier-beadle, against gzel, "to card wool," as though the gzir's office were to card, or claw, his neighbors. ↩
- Job 31:20. ↩
- Cf. Genesis 14:14-16, Abraham's pursuit and recovery of the plunder. ↩
- Ashugh, the folk minstrel of village and road. ↩
- Kharakonis, a village of the Van plain, southeast of the city. ↩
- Matthew 10:9-10. ↩
- Matthew 23:8. ↩
- Surb Karapet, the great pilgrimage monastery of St. John the Forerunner near Mush. Folk faith made the Forerunner the wish-granting patron (pir) of minstrels, players and rope-dancers. ↩
- Ashtishat, the ancient holy place of Taron on the Aratsani. The chapel holds the grave of St. Sahak Partev (d. 439), the catholicos under whom the Scriptures were put into Armenian. ↩
- The monastery of the Holy Apostles (Arakelots) near Mush, where the graves of the Holy Translators, the disciples of Sahak and Mesrop, are venerated. ↩
- The Lament (Voghb) that closes the History of Armenia of Movses Khorenatsi, "the old man of Khoren," mourning the ruin of the nation, the church and the schools. ↩
- Jakhjakh, the mill-clapper, the scrap of wood that rattles against the hopper while the stones turn and falls silent the moment the mill stops. ↩
- The folk legend of Movses Khorenatsi, come home from Athens with his learning and finding no buyer for it. The miller here tells it as book-lore. ↩
- Cf. Matthew 24:31 and 1 Thessalonians 4:16. ↩
- Mahtesi, the title of one who has made the pilgrimage to Jerusalem. ↩
- The Hravirak Araratian ("Summoner of Ararat," 1850), Khrimian's early summons to the homeland, printed in Constantinople before his return to Van with a printing press. ↩
- Genesis 8:7, the raven sent out from the ark that did not come back. ↩
- Luke 10:30-34. ↩
- The Eagle is Khrimian himself, his emblem and epithet, from his journal Artsvi Vaspurakan ("Eagle of Vaspurakan"), printed at Varag. ↩