XXIII. The Field of the Dead and the Memorials of the Graves

Let us leave our living field a while, Tornik; come, let us go and pay a visit to the field of the dead. You know death draws nearer, little by little, to Papik; I wish, while I am yet alive, to go one last time on my own feet and walk about the sleeping-chamber of the dead — until that day when, laid upon the bier, they bear me there chanting the psalm for the dead, and lay me in the grave, and I too take my rest in the bosom of our fathers.

The graves too are a speaking school-room for us: the khachkars¹ and the memorials of the dead still speak with us. Let us see what manner of men, in old time and new, were born and came into the world, lived, wrought — whether good or evil — and left this world again, its sun and its life, house and family, and entered and were hidden in this dark world of the dead. Over every Christian's grave a cross-stone is planted apiece, and on it are written the dead man's name and life, that he who sees may read, and give his God-have-mercy.

Let us read, then, Tornik, these memorials old and new; let us see what rich householders and other laboring and notable men have come out of the village people's order, whose past lives are lessons of virtue for us. Do you know, there are dead who speak with us even to the end of the world? They speak by books, they speak by deathless memorials, they speak by the stones of the grave.

Look, Tornik — read this epitaph:

"This is the tomb of Ohanjan, householder, of Archak, who lived eighty years; he went far neither from village nor from house; never did he let the gutan's plow-handle from his hand until the day of his death. He renewed our village's fallen church, and gave a field to the church for a memorial."

"Say God have mercy on his soul."

Read the cross-stone at his side.

"I am Markhas of the Mirzo house, who at first was poor, a hired laborer, in want of one span of soil; I labored, and God prospered me: by my honest earnings I bought lands enough, grew rich, and became a householder. I left testament to the children who remain after me, that on the five tabernacle-feasts' days of the dead² in the year they make matagh and deal out food to the poor. Say God have mercy on Markhas's soul."

Come, Tornik, read the letters of that great khachkar.

"This is the resting-place of the great householder Adam, who was lord of many lands; he yoked the gutan with three relays of beasts; he had forty laborers; his was the great patriarchal house of our village, and the number of his family reached to seventy. When he gave a soul-meal or made matagh, he fed men by the thousand thousand. He was a most virtuous man; he died at a hundred years old, and all the villagers wept over his death. He left testament that to the monasteries of Varag and of Archak they give four fields of his holdings, and that from his oil-press they give the village church oil for its perpetual lamps. As you pass, say God have mercy on the soul of the great householder Adam."

Do not pass on — read the letters of that little cross-stone close by.

"I am Margo the naghara-drummer. Beneath this cross-stone I lie at rest. All my life I passed in gladness: in winter with weddings, and in summer setting my melon-patch. Every spring I came to Archak village and set my melon-ground; I raised melons and watermelons in plenty, and bartered them for wheat, for barley, for butter, cheese and zhazhik, and filled my house with abundance; by labor I lived most happy. When I saw that I must die, I made testament that they bury me not in the city, but carry me to Archak village and bury me there. God keep that village standing, which kept my house standing. Say God have mercy on the soul of Margo the naghara-drummer."

Read, Tornik, the other tombstone beside it, on which the image of a hen is to be seen.

"I am Markos the fowl-keeper. I was a villager, but I had no land. I bethought me what I should do to live. One night in a dream I saw many hens and many eggs. Said I, this is my fortune. In the morning I rose and fulfilled my dream's interpretation: first I built a little hen-house, set ten hens, and put them to brood; within a few years the number of my hens reached three hundred. I sold always fowl and eggs to the village's guests and to the townsfolk; I and my family lived well on fowl-meat and omelets. The foxes and martens, which are great enemies of hens, for them I built snares, and every year in winter, taking foxes and martens enough, I made a fair profit of their skins. Thanks to fowl-keeping I learned hunting too. At the last, at my dying time, I made testament to my children never to let hen-house and hens from their hand, for it is their only bread and living.

"Say God have mercy on the soul of Markos the fowl-keeper."

A little way off a gravestone shows, whose letters are grown over with moss, Tornik, and on it is the sign of a beehive. Read; let us see who it is.

"I am Peto, the laborer bee-keeper. Save my little hut I had nothing at all. I thought and I thought; I went and made a debt; I bought five hives, built a small bee-house and set them in it. God prospered it: my bees multiplied until they came to a hundred hives, which gave honey and wax in great plenty; I sold for money, carrying to the city, and in the village I bartered for bread and butter; I kept my family on honey and butter. On my dying day I gave counsel to my firstborn son never to stray from the bee-house door, and to keep the bees with great care, for they are our industrious unwaged laborers. I made testament also, that every Sunday and on the days of the Liturgy they burn a candle on the altar of the village church, and the priest remember me in his prayer.

"Say God have mercy on the soul of Peto the bee-keeper."

Beside him is an unhewn khachkar; read, let us see whose grave it is.

"I am Nazar the herdsman. Thirty years I kept the herd — long stand Archak village! Two thousand head of cattle were my herd; every week's-head I gathered the herdsman's bread, back-load upon back-load, and my house's larder was filled with loaves; our mistress never needed to knead dough nor bake bread. Our villagers think herding is a nothing. No: herding too is a village labor. I have no complaint at all: to the day of my death I never hungered for bread.

"Say God have mercy on the soul of Nazar the herdsman."

Tornik, you have heard how the villagers forever complain and say that the village gzirs are men full of curses and revilings; but I have heard that once upon a time our village had a good gzir — most kindly and prudent; he never did a wrong; he kept the order of guest-quartering justly, and strove always to spare the poor; to this day the villager remembers that good gzir's name. And here is his grave. A wonder, Tornik — even the gzir of Archak has his grave's khachkar and memorial. Read!

"The gzir of the thriving village of Archak am I, Kazo. Okh! how much at rest I lie beneath the soil! My ears are at rest from the villagers' revilings and their vain, unrighteous curses. And at the hands of those harsh, impatient, exacting guests — what did I not suffer! I ate blows, I was tormented, I was carded like cotton: it is for that they set my name gzir, thinking that I card others.³ God took my soul; I died and was delivered. Poor I lived and poor I died; I have nothing to bequeath, only this counsel I give you, poor men of the village: be no village gzir — go, be laborers of the soil; a thousand times better the soil's laborer than the village gzir; for the gzir's trade is an evil husbandry.

"Say God have mercy on the soul of Kazo the gzir."

Let us leave these little men's little cross-stones — though even they that are counted little have their meaning after their measure. Let us go round, Tornik, and find those great khachkars beneath which rest such souls as were the glory and honor of our village. The people does not forget: it remembers their good works and their memory.

A good way from the village a hillock shows — do you see it, Tornik? On that hillock's crown there is a great khachkar: that is the place of the grave of shepherd Hako, master of great flocks of sheep. From that hillock, moreover, a spring gushes out, and to that spring Hako's milch ewes would come to be milked at midday.

Shepherd Hako, though he was not a tilling householder in our village, yet as a shepherd, a master of flocks, he was counted a great householder; for he had four ktir of sheep — a ktir is a flock — and every ktir was a thousand head. They said he kept forty hired shepherds and lamb-herds, and had married off every one of them. The number of his daughters I do not know; his house was filled with his grandchildren. He was a man most pitiful and open-handed; his blessed house was the refuge of the poor. At sheep-shearing time he dealt out wool to the poor; shepherd Hako could say with Job that the naked backs of the poor were warmed with the fleece of my sheep.⁴ Likewise of the milk — milk, of the cheese — cheese, of the butter — butter he portioned out to needy village families. Hako the shepherd ministered without discrimination: he made no distinction of the needy of the alien-tongued races settled round about him; whoever came to him, whoever asked, he gave, and did not sort men out. For this his name and fame were great even before the neighboring Kurdish chieftains of high line. Once hostile Kurds from the Persian side struck and carried off the half of Hako's sheep; our Hako, like the patriarch Abraham, took his brave lads and the stout men of the village, went, gave battle, and turned his plunder home again.⁵

The shepherd's simple life gave our patriarch Hako very long life: he lived to a hundred and twenty years, and in all his life he fell sick only that last time. He felt of himself, and knew, that he was to die; he called and gathered about his bed all his children, his grandchildren and the household of his house; with a patriarch's mouth he blessed them all; he kissed his shepherd's staff and horn-pipe, which he had laid at his side, and with a trembling hand took and gave them to Aprsam his firstborn son. "To you I commit, my son," he said, "my shepherd's and my householder's right. Govern as I have governed; keep our house and the flocks of sheep; forget not pity and compassion; deal out always a portion of the sheep's increase to the poor and destitute needy of the village. As a testament never to be blotted out I bequeath it to you, my son: on the days of the dead of the year's five tabernacle-feasts you must make matagh of twenty sheep, give the poor bread and food in fullness; and the village priest in his Liturgy, with all the souls of the dead, remember also the soul of shepherd Hako. My son Aprsam, blessing you I lay this charge upon you: love your brothers, love the family, love the flocks of sheep, for they are the treasures of our wealth; strive that the great patriarchal name of shepherd be not lifted from the house of shepherd Hako. — I can speak no more; the angel is come; I must give my soul." He said it, and gave up his soul. All the villagers wept and mourned over his death; and as he himself had willed, they brought the departed one's body and buried it in this hillock's bosom.

They tell that on the day of Hako's burial the whole people of the village had poured out upon this hillock, and the shepherds had brought Hako's two thousand milch ewes to the milking-ground. Aprsam the firstborn son gives command that all that day's milk of the sheep be given to the people and to the poor. The Vanetsis carry wine and deal it out to the poor over the grave; but on Hako's grave, in the wine's stead, it was milk: all the people drank new-milked foaming milk from wooden kot-bowls, and the poor filled their vessels too, and giving their God-have-mercy they blessed the departed one's grave. And the shepherds — do you know what they did, Tornik? It is told that the shepherds too brought milk, each one a great vesselful, and poured it out over Hako's grave. How sweet and how mystery-laden is this thing: the great householder, shepherd Hako, ate milk his life long, and when he died, his very grave drank milk.

Aprsam the son planted a great khachkar over his father's grave, whereon his good memorial is written. Read, Tornik.

"This is the tomb of the great householder, shepherd Hako, who, as he had willed, was buried upon this hillock. Blessed be his memory.

"Say God have mercy on the soul of the great householder, shepherd Hako."

Let us turn from here, Tornik, and go to our ruined monastery of the Holy Mother of God, whose temple alone is left whole. Under the temple's outer wall, where a spring gushes from beneath the temple's foundation, and near the spring a thick-boled willow tree is planted — there, they say by tradition, is a memorial-less grave without khachkar; and that grave is Ashugh Musho's.⁶ The ashughs are counted men of no mark upon this earth, poor men; who is to care for their souls, or honor their memory, or plant a cross-stone over their grave? But happy is Ashugh Musho, for his gravestone is the little temple of the Holy Mother of God, beneath whose shadow rests the righteous soul of Musho.

As I have heard it from the tales of our village's old men, let me tell you, Tornik, Musho's life and his end; and give good heed — see how mystery-laden and how curious it is.

Ashugh Musho was a born son of our own village, and was prentice to Ashugh Chichak, whose grave they show to this day on the brow above the church of Surb Toros in the village of Kharakonis.⁷

You must know, Tornik, the ashughs are men that love the free life; they are no house-builders. True, they have many love-songs; but themselves, they have no great love of marrying. There are also ashughs who have rather moral counsels, and make fair poetic praises upon the saints. Our Ashugh Musho was of this order. Jesus charged His apostles to take neither staff nor scrip for the journey;⁸ the ashughs keep this charge exactly: houseless, possessionless, wandering men. They have only a saz; they sling it from their shoulder and go about from village to village. Wherever there is a wedding or a soul-meal, they go unbidden, freely; they know how to strike up songs and airs to fit the occasion, joyful or mournful. The winter season is most favorable to them: when the villagers rest from the field's labor, they draw into the warm stables; and above all when they hear an ashugh is come to the village, they come gathering from every quarter. The song-making ashugh begins his play and his tale. You should see, Tornik, how our unlettered, simple-hearted people listens ravished. For them the ashugh far excels the church clerk, and sweeter than the vardapet's sermon is the tale.

Of our Musho they tell a merry thing. Hearing that in a near village there was a wedding, he sets off there by night. The season is winter, and a heavy snow falling; on the road a number of hungry wolves beset him. Musho was quick-witted; he well knew the way to beguile wolves. In a trice he unbinds his waist-band and drags one end trailing on the ground; the wolves fall to playing with the end of it, while from the other side he strikes up his keman. It would seem Musho knew by trial that the wild beasts too have an ear and a taste for the fine art of music. So, heart a-tremble, Ashugh Musho comes and reaches a great tree that stood a little off from the village; in a wink Musho is up the tree, and goes on playing the air the wolves loved; and they, ranging themselves round the tree, sit and listen. The village wedding-folk, catching the keman's voice, understand that it is Musho coming; they come out to meet him — and the poor wolves' concert is spoiled. Musho, delivered, enters the wedding-house and strikes up that same sweet air. Ashugh Musho by his coaxing schooled the wolves not to eat men — their portion of food is the sheep alone. It seems to me Musho's thought was this: that after schooling the wolves he would school the villagers' roughness too, that they eat not one another's flesh — not merely because they are brothers of one blood, but far more for Jesus' commandment, who teaches: ye are all brethren.

Musho was the ashugh of the village people only. He never loved to go to the city; he loved rather the villages, the fields, the mountains, the flowers, the purling waters of the springs. In a word, he was deep in love with the picture of nature painted by the Creator's hand. For this he would sometimes vanish out of the village. His beloved companion was his saz: he would sling it on his shoulder and go wandering through field and mountain country; and everywhere he found bread to fill his belly.

Our village's Ashugh Musho had a very great name. With his saz and his keman, his voice too was very sweet and moving; and in his nature he was a glad, merry-minded man. And more than this: he had a most fervent faith toward the Saints. Every year he went on pilgrimage to Surb Karapet of Mush;⁹ laying his saz upon the grave he would pray: "O wish-granting Surb Karapet, who stood godfather to Christ, give your servant Musho the grace of song." The ashughs so believe, that the silence-keeping hermit of that wilderness is their pir — their patron. And the wonder is that the rope-dancer, with the same faith, asks that same grace for his nimble art.

Returning from Surb Karapet, Musho had made it his custom to come to Ashtishat, enter the chapel of Surb Sahak, lay his head upon the grave, and weep his fill.¹⁰ I know not — that man knew neither letters nor history; from whence had he learned the greatness and meaning of Sahak Partev? It would seem those song-speaking ashughs know well the singers of our church's sharakans.

From Ashtishat he would go up to the monastery of the Apostles; his vows performed, he would pass to the temple's eastern side, where the Holy Translators lie buried;¹¹ he would kiss their graves, and being weary, sit there a while, and taking up the saz, continue the laments of the old man of Khoren.¹² He sang himself, he wept himself; the only echo of his lament was his own feeling heart.

When Musho had comforted himself with weeping, he would come down from Tsovasar and reach a place at a gorge's mouth, where from old time a mill stood built; and the miller was Musho's known friend — for the ashughs, being great wanderers, have acquaintance everywhere. Musho, giving his good-day, asked: Brother Mkho, have you a miller's loaf? I am very hungry. — Ou! what a thing to ask, friend Musho! Do you not see? The water came and carried off the mill; flour, tonir and all it took with it. From where should I give you a miller's loaf? Musho saw that the miller was searching for something in the mill's ruin, and asked: What are you looking for in this flood-swept mill? — I am looking for the mill's jakhjakh!¹³ the jakhjakh! answers the miller.

Straightway Musho takes the saz down from his shoulder, sits himself on a ruined bank, and begins his mourning-voiced song:

You sing well and speak well, friend Musho; but you are no miller, to know a mill's business. Do you suppose millers are unlearned men, who know no letters nor reading? Time was I studied at the school of the monastery of Surb Karapet — but fortune has made me a miller. Eh, what of it? I have read somewhere that Movses of Khoren, coming back from Athens, was at the last a miller himself: when he went about our land unknown, his hard-won philosophy laid up in his scrip, and no man would buy his wares.¹⁴ Who can tell? — perhaps it was in this flood-swept mill he did his milling.

Now give ear, Musho, while I tell you the great meaning of the jakhjakh I am searching for. Blessed be that scrap of wood, the jakhjakh, for it saved me; else I too had gone down the flood with my mill. You know the jakhjakh is the mill's rooster; but a wondrous rooster is ours: while he gives voice and speaks, I sleep sweet without care; but the moment his voice stops, I wake on the instant, and I see the mill has stood still. Oh — this time it was the flood struck: it broke up the mill's water-house; the jakhjakh's voice stopped; I got out of the mill; God delivered me.

That rooster of your mill, that jakhjakh, is in truth a marvelous thing, said Musho. The world wakes when a voice is given; but millers wake only when the jakhjakh's voice is cut off. I confess that jakhjakh's meaning is very great; that jakhjakh is worth much. Search until you find it.

Musho, my dear — have you read the book of Scripture? In the old nation of Israel there were voice-giving jakhjakh prophets; the mill of Jacob's house was running; and when those God-speaking jakhjakhs' voices were cut off, the water carried off the mill of Jacob's house, and to this day it lies in ruin still. We too had once our vardapet jakhjakhs; when their voice fell silent, we knew the water had come and carried our mill away too. Eh, friend Musho, have you understood now the jakhjakh's meaning? I beg you, compose a song upon this jakhjakh, and go about always and cry that song — for are not the ashugh's song and saz our jakhjakhs?

Let us leave the jakhjakh; you have given me yet another counsel, Musho — to leave the ruined mill of the gorge-mouth and build my mill in another place. But where shall I build it, friend Musho? Do you not know that every place has its owner? This mill is left me an inheritance from my father and my father's fathers; I will not suffer that mill to lie waste and unbuilt, and my great forefathers' memorial perish. I must once more make debt, find means, and build my mill, which is my family's only hope and stay: field I have none, plow-beast I have none; by the mill alone I live.

Then, said Musho, when God prospers it and you build your mill, here is my counsel now: on the side of the gorge-mouth torrent draw a thick, strong wall of stone and lime; then your mill will be made safe.

Ou, friend Musho, you do not know a miller's case — you crumble your bread too large! Whence should I find so great an expense? My old forefathers never thought of that thing — shall I think of it? As I found my mill, so must I build it. That counsel of yours 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 show mercy on a poor wretch, and this once keep my mill from the face of the torrents.

When Musho heard this he stood silent, thought a while, and then said: You are much in the right, friend. The works of this our world must be carried forward with prudence; it is well that every man work after his own measure — the miller after his measure, and Musho with his saz.

Eh, miller, fare you well; I am going. Build you your mill. The mill's jakhjakh has a great meaning: now I have understood that Musho with his saz is also a mill's jakhjakh.

Musho turned back from Mush to Archak village, very heavy-hearted. The day was a Sunday. Musho went to the church, entered the sacristy, called the priest, confessed, and that same day received the holy Communion. Toward evening he took incense and candle and went to the monastery of the Holy Mother of God; he entered the holy temple, burned his incense and lit his candle, knelt before the altar, murmured one long prayer, then kissed the cross and the Gospel. He came out of the temple and came here, beneath this tree, at the spring's head. He had with him a little unleavened cake and roasted meal — that, you must know, was his last supper, which he ate with great relish, and in the wine's stead drank the spring's cold water. Then he took the saz in hand and began to sing; and this song of his was most piercing and mournful. At other times Musho sang glad and merry; but this last time, you would say that like the swan he was setting the dirge of his own death to music; from his clouded eyes the drops were falling upon the trembling strings of his chongur. It seems to me Musho was singing the Lament of Khorenatsi, which he had by heart; for the flood-swept mill and the jakhjakh had wrought deep upon this son of his. Musho finished the order of his death and his "reckoning," laid the saz at his head, lay down beneath the cool tree, and fell asleep so sweetly that he rose no more. The angel was waiting: Musho gave up his soul.

That same evening a devout old woman, whose custom it was to bring oil and incense to the temple of the Holy Mother of God, saw Musho lying beneath the tree. Said she, Let me go give him a call — he must not stay the night here. She called: Musho! Musho! Musho gave no voice. She went near and shook him with her hand, and saw that Musho was turned to wood. Vay! she said — Musho is dead! The old woman went to the village and gave the priest word; in a trice Musho's death spread through the village; priest, sexton and all the people poured out to the monastery of the Holy Mother of God. The priest made announcement and declared Musho's testament. He said: Musho of the radiant soul had felt of himself that he was to die; this morning he came to church, confessed, received the Sacrament. And now let me declare to you Musho's testament. He besought me with an oath, saying: "Der Hayr, I am a houseless, homeless wandering man; I beg you, wheresoever I die, there bury me; and do not forget — bury my beloved saz with me." And I so hope and believe, that when on the day of judgment Gabriel blows his trumpet,¹⁵ Musho with his saz will go up to the kingdom, and with the angels glorify God. In that free world, for the free souls, are not singing ashughs needed too?

The people heard this announcement and lovingly received Musho's testament; straightway they dug a grave under the temple's wall and buried Musho; and the people, saying God have mercy on Musho's soul, turned back to the village.

Thus died, Tornik, the people's beloved Ashugh Musho. Let us too give the same God-have-mercy and turn back. Near our village church's temple there is another grave, where lies at rest — now wellnigh thirty years — Mahtesi Agrippas,¹⁶ Hayrik's close and self-devoted friend.

See, Tornik: an unhewn stone is thrown over the grave, letterless, memorial-less. Now let me tell you, Tornik, who Agrippas Tpazian was — a born Vanetsi, and neighbor to Hayrik's house.

This departed good soul I have known from that time when Hayrik first went out as a pandukht to Bolis — when he was not yet a vardapet, but Mkrtich the schoolmaster. As countryman and close friend, that kind-hearted, merry-minded soul was ever host to Hayrik; in every strait of his he came to him and gave him ease. In his rank I will not forget to mention Mister Grigor Jrbashkhian, a man that loved book and reading: without school or grammar he understood the language without fault, and by much reading had grown practiced in the right ordering of literary words. When the Hravirak Araratian was first being printed, many a time he pointed out to Hayrik the faulty places.¹⁷ He is living still, and now dwells as an uncowled vardapet in the monastery of Varag, busied with that same love of reading. He too, known to Hayrik from boyhood, was his close friend, who always received him in his lodging-place of exile.

And when Hayrik returned to Van with a printing-press, and settled in the monastery of Varag, and began his undertakings, the said M. Agrippas was helper and right hand to Hayrik with a self-devoted soul. He was no encourager with mere words only: when he saw the straits of the monastery of Varag, he lent the needed money without interest, and at times, too, stood surety for its notes of debt with entire trust.

The departed soul was a benefactor of our village too, Tornik. Though by his craft he was a tanner, he loved the village life and the laborer's toil; for this he kept dealings with our villagers and came and went continually. He was the first cause of the founding of the school in our village. He undertook to build up again the broken dam of the lake of Archak, within the bounds of the village of Ermants, whose abundant water, coming down upon the fields of our plain, makes the yield of the sowings manifold.

Some thirty years since, one day in the first watch of the evening, ill-omened brigands, dragging him into a small ravine of the plain of Aghtagh — or Artagh — slew with cruel blows that innocent soul, Mahtesi Agrippas. At that time Hayrik was gone to the monastery of Surb Karapet of Mush. Manuel the schoolmaster, teacher of the school of Varag, wrote a lamentation upon the death of that peerless friend, which the singing children of Van sing to this day to a most piercing air. And Hayrik too wrote long ago a lamentation upon his close friend; I have it by heart — that heart-piercing elegy — and I will speak it to you.

Let us too remember, Tornik, the departed one of radiant soul; let us say God have mercy on his soul. And now it is enough: let us end here the graves' memorials of the dead. Even now I feel it, Tornik — my death is near; my memorial too shall be mingled with these.