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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Archag, the
Little Armenian
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Title: Archag, the Little Armenian
Author: Charles H. Schnapps
Translator: Margaret Payson Waterman
Release date: July 24, 2016 [eBook #52638]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online
Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARCHAG, THE
LITTLE ARMENIAN ***
ARCHAG
The
LITTLE ARMENIAN
OTHER VOLUMES IN THE
“LITTLE
SCHOOLMATES” SERIES
Edited by FLORENCE CONVERSE
IN SUNNY SPAIN Katherine Lee Bates
UNDER GREEK SKIES Julia D. Dragoumis
A BOY IN EIRINN Padraic Colum
THE LAIRD OF GLENTYRE Emma M. Green
ELSBETH Margarethe Müller
GENEVIÈVE Laura Spencer Portor
KATRINKA: The Story of a Russian Child Helen
E. Haskell
TREASURE FLOWER: A Child of Japan Ruth
Gaines
THE VILLAGE SHIELD: A Story of Mexico Ruth
Gaines and Georgia Willis Read
A BOY OF BRUGES: A Story of Belgian Child
Life Emile and Tita Cammaerts
THE CART OF MANY COLORS: A Story of
Italy Nannine La Villa Meiklejohn
Archag Rides Towards Mount Ararat
ARCHAG
The
LITTLE ARMENIAN
Translated from the French of
CHARLES H. SCHNAPPS
BY
MARGARET P. WATERMAN
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 Fifth Avenue
Copyright 1920, by
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A Day at School 1
II. An Interesting Journey 12
III. The Highland Farm 23
IV. Nizam’s Wedding 46
V. Central Turkey College 54
VI. A Visit to the Turkish Bath 76
VII. Archag’s First Trousers 87
VIII. An Accident 100
IX. Friends in Need 114
X. The Armenian Nation 123
XI. On the Mountain 134
XII. An Expulsion from College 146
XIII. The Holidays 155
XIV. The Story of Rupen 176
XV. The Death of Samouīl 186
XVI. The Students Present a Tragedy 205
XVII. At Aleppo 214
XVIII. Archag in Society 223
XIX. Long Live the Constitution! 231
XX. The Valley of the Shadow of Death 243
XXI. The Martyrdom of the Armenians 254
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Archag Rides Towards Mount Ararat Frontispiece
PAGE
Happy Armenia 7
Kurds 35
Beneath the Castle at Aintab 61
The Araba 93
A Mother and Her Children 127
Little Armenians 163
The Hospital Courtyard 201
A Student and His Teacher 237
The frontispiece is from a drawing in colors by Margaret Ely Webb.
The black and white drawings are by B. F. Williamson from photographs
taken in Armenia by Charlotte F. Grant.
A Letter to the One Who Reads This Book
Dear Schoolmate:
This new story in our series is about a people whose name you heard often
during the Great War; perhaps you even sent some of your own pennies
across the ocean to help them; for no one, not gallant little Belgium itself,
suffered more in the war than did the Armenians. We sometimes think of
them as the Belgians of the East, for their resistance delayed the advance of
Turkish battalions, just as Belgium’s brave stand prevented the first onrush
of the Germans; and the Turkish revenge has been more horrible than the
German.
The bulletins of the Near East Relief Committee, which raised money for
food and clothing and medicine and helpers in Western Asia, tell us how the
Turks tried to annihilate the Armenians, and how, among the four million
Armenians, Syrians, Jews, Greeks, and Persians who survived, four
hundred thousand were orphans. In those first four months after the
armistice, they were still dying every day, by hundreds, of starvation and
disease, they were homeless and naked. Miss B. S. Papazian, an Armenian,
has written a little book about her people, “The Tragedy of Armenia,” in
which she says: “The Armenians of Turkey to the number of about a
million, old and young, rich and poor, and of both sexes, had been
collectively drowned, burned, bayoneted, starved, bastinadoed, or otherwise
tortured to death, or else deported on foot, penniless and without food, to
the burning Arabian deserts.” The whole story of their sufferings is too
terrible for children to read; yet, American children are not willing to shut
their eyes and ears to the sorrows of their brothers and sisters, whether in
France or Belgium, or close at home in our American city slums, or far over
seas in Asia Minor. I wonder how many boys and girls who read this letter,
adopted a French orphan, or gave a little refugee a merry Christmas? And
how many had a share in feeding and clothing and educating some little
forlorn Armenian child?
But this story of Archag, and his life at the missionary school, is not in our
Schoolmate Series merely because Armenians are a persecuted people
whom American children ought to love and to succor; it is here also because
there are a good many Armenians in America, and more are coming, whose
children will be American citizens in another twenty years. The Armenians,
like our own Puritan forefathers, came here to escape religious persecution;
so those of us who happen to be descended from the early settlers in New
England ought to have a strong fellow-feeling for this other race of
Christians who have suffered for the sake of their religion and have hoped
to find religious freedom here with us.
The Armenian Church, for which Armenians suffer martyrdom in our
enlightened twentieth century, is one of the most ancient of the Churches of
Christendom. Its founder was St. Gregory, called the Illuminator, who
received a heavenly vision and built a little chapel, in A. D. 303, on the spot
on which the vision came to him. It was this Gregory who converted King
Tiridates of Armenia to Christianity, and it was King Tiridates who
proclaimed Christianity the State religion of Armenia, some years before
the Emperor Constantine made it the state religion of Rome. The Armenian
Church is a democratic church, for the clergy in the villages are appointed
and paid by their own congregations, and often in poor places the priest and
his wife work in the fields with the peasants. The Armenian’s Church is the
true home of his spirit. He has no country of his own, for the region which
we think of as Armenia was, before the Great War, divided among three
nations, Russia, Turkey, and Persia, and arbitrarily ruled by them. The
Armenians were a subject people; but in their religion they were free, and
they have endured torture and death for the sake of this dear freedom.
According to one of their own writers, Aram Raffi, the name “Armenia”
first appears in the fifth century before Christ, but the Armenians
themselves have a name of their own, which they like. They call themselves
“Hai,” and their country “Hayastan,” because they have a tradition that they
are descended from “Haik,” the son of Torgom, great-grandson of Japheth,
Noah’s son. If you will look at your map of Asia Minor, you will find that
Mount Ararat, on which Noah’s Ark rested after the flood went down, is at
the meeting place of the three divisions of Armenia, the Russian division,
the Persian, and the Turkish; and it is not strange that with this beautiful
snow mountain soaring over their enslaved country, the Armenians should
trace their ancestry back so directly to Noah.
It was during the latter part of the last century that the Turkish Government
set the Kurds on to massacre the Armenians. The massacres of 1895–96, the
massacre at Van in 1908, and those at Adana and in Cilicia, in 1909, were
all carried out by the consent of the Turkish authorities. And because of
these persecutions the Armenians began to leave Asia Minor for America.
The Kurds, who committed the atrocities under the instigation of the Turks,
are a semi-nomad race, living part of the year in tents; a picturesque, wild,
ungovernable people, practicing a sort of highway robbery as a trade, and a
sort of Mohammedanism as a religion. The Armenians, on the other hand,
are farmers and merchants, thrifty, intelligent, peaceful, eager for education,
and, as you have read, devoted Christians. It is not strange that two peoples
so different in habits and temperament should find it difficult to live
together, as neighbors; and the Turks, who are jealous of the intelligence
and industry and ability of the Armenians, and hate them also for their
Christianity, have not scrupled to stir up the Kurds against them. What is
still worse, they have compelled the Armenians to live unarmed among
their armed and fierce Kurdish enemies. We sometimes hear the Armenians
called cowardly, but if we had to live unarmed among a hostile race who
carried good modern rifles, we, too, might be called cowards.
No; we need not think of Armenians simply as a down-trodden and feeble
folk, who have run away helplessly from danger, and to whom Americans
must be compassionate and charitable. They have something to give us, as
well. Their diligence is a good gift; they work hard, and they are intelligent
in their work. Their faithfulness to God is the best of gifts. And they have a
great love of education. This gift, if there were no other, would win for
them a place in the Schoolmate Series. In a book called “Travel and Politics
in Armenia,” by Noel and Harold Buxton, published in 1914, which you
may like to read some day, we get a vivid idea of the love of the Armenians
for their schools. The authors say:
“There is a remarkable contrast between the villages of Armenians and the
villages of Kurds. We had traveled for days in a Kurdish district, a waste of
bare, sandy hills, with never a tree or any sign of cultivation. Our halting-
place for lunch proved to be an Armenian village, and luscious melons were
put before us, which the arid soil produces in abundance as soon as a little
irrigation is applied to it. While we sat in the Khan (inn), the local
schoolmaster appeared—a wonder still more remarkable than the melons,
for whoever heard of a school in a Kurdish village? We seemed to be
suddenly transported to a center of civilization. This educational activity is
beyond all praise. Here was a man of some ability, prepared to live a lonely
life in an isolated village, for the sake of his nation and the younger
generation.”
They go on to tell us of the school system, which is voluntary and without
Government aid. There is—or perhaps since the War, one should say was—
a National Committee for Education which sat at Constantinople; the
teachers were paid by the Committee, and there were School inspectors for
each district, in Turkish Armenia. Pupils who could afford it paid for their
schooling, but those who were poor were not kept out by their poverty.
Does not this sound very modern, and American, and democratic? Surely,
these are people who will make good Americans.
And going to school in Armenia was an exciting adventure, before the War.
Listen to the story which the Buxtons tell of a Secondary Boys’ School
founded more than fifty years ago at Varag, by an Armenian Bishop, a
pioneer in modern education in Armenia:
“At the time of the massacres (1909) masters and boys had to fly to the
mountains, and while they were absent, the buildings were completely
destroyed by fire. Nevertheless, an entire reconstruction was undertaken.
The Church, which happily was not destroyed, occupies one side of the
courtyard and the new buildings occupy the other three; a second courtyard
is now nearing completion (1914). A second attempt was made less than
three years ago to despoil this institution. The attacking party, about a
hundred strong, was repelled by five Armenian revolutionaries, aided no
doubt by the ‘young blood’ of the college. Now (1914) there are seventy
boys and seven teachers, all laymen. The system is pre-eminently practical.
The pupils are destined for teaching, and since it is considered part of a
village schoolmaster’s duty in Armenia to be able to assist peasants in
agricultural matters, thorough instruction is given in fruit, vegetable, and
poultry culture, dairy work, and general gardening. The school grounds
form a delightful oasis of irrigated lands in the midst of surrounding desert.
The school printing press was stolen by the Government and the compositor
abducted; but a more modern machine has taken its place. Every boy takes
his share, out of school hours, in carpentry and house-work. The court-yard
forms a fine play-ground, and here, having mentioned Boy Scouts, I found
myself surrounded by an ardent crowd, thirsting for scout lore, and begging
to be enrolled at once as ‘tenderfeet.’”
What may have been the fate of this boys’ school at Varag, since 1914, I
dread to imagine. As it was a native school, there is no mention of it, so far
as I know, in the reports of American Missionary Schools. We can only
hope that some of those seventy boys and their seven masters still live, and
will one day take heart to build up the old school again.
Besides the native schools, there are the schools and colleges established in
Asia Minor by American Missionaries, and to these also the Armenians
flock. The author of “Archag” has laid some of the scenes of his story in
one of these famous missionary schools, the Central Turkey College at
Aintab, and has given us a lively picture of the ardent young Armenians at
their games and their studies. Ever since “Tom Brown at Rugby,” school
stories have been the fashion, and it is reassuring to see how curiously akin
schoolboys are, all the world over, whether they be English lads at Rugby,
or Oriental youngsters at Aintab. Beneath their fezzes and zoubouns, our
Armenian hero and his friends are genuine boys at heart, with a boy’s sense
of honor and love of good sport. The picture of the school, too, is one for
Americans to be proud of, with its devoted teachers, its high intellectual
standards, and its Christian atmosphere. And its record during the War has
been very fine. In the Report of the American Board of Missions, 1918, I
read that the four missionaries who were able to stay there “have all been
carrying a heavy burden for, unlike many of our stations to the north which
were practically depopulated, Aintab has had an ever-increasing number of
refugees to care for. At times the attitude of the local officials was distinctly
hostile and the danger of further massacre was great, but the opportune
arrival of a British force on December 15, 1918, saved the day and already
there are signs of recovery. Christian services are being attended by great
crowds. The Mission paper, Rahnuma, is being published by the College
press, and has practically become the official organ of the British
Commander. Schools will doubtless open soon.”
But if schools and schoolboys are much alike, the world over, vacations in
Armenia are very different from American holidays. No boys’ camps for
Archag and his friends! Their adventures are much more thrilling than your
summer hikes and canoeings. There are no patriot-outlaws in our
mountains. But I must stop, or I shall be telling you Archag’s story, and that
would not be fair. Only this, let me say: our author, like all good story-
tellers, uses his imagination to make his story come alive; he embroiders, as
the French say, upon his facts; but if you will read in the “New York
Evening Post,” for Saturday, November 29, 1919, the account of Antranik,
the Armenian patriot who came to this country to ask help for his
countrymen, you will find that fiction is no more romantic than fact, in Asia
Minor; and you will find Antranik,—this very same hero, I think,—
mentioned in our story.
Read the story, dear Schoolmate, and make friends with these Armenian
boys, who suffer so steadfastly for their country and their God.
Affectionately yours,
Florence Converse.
ARCHAG
The
LITTLE ARMENIAN
CHAPTER I
A DAY AT SCHOOL
The boys had just finished a grammar lesson, and as a reward for paying
attention their master was reading them a bit of history. Jousif hodja
(schoolmaster) was a tall young man of twenty, very slight, and frail in
appearance, with dreamy black eyes. Perfect silence reigned in the smoky
old schoolroom while he read in a strong, clear voice:
“The day of battle had come at last!1 Our men, commanded by Vartan the
Mamigonian, had pitched their tents that night on the plain of Avaraīr. The
snowy peak of Ararat was just becoming visible in the early light of dawn,
when a sentinel burst into Vartan’s tent, crying: ‘The Persians! The
Persians! they are coming!’ The chief went out from his tent and climbed a
hill around which we had made our camp. His piercing eye quickly
distinguished a black mass moving slowly, like surging waves, along the
Tabriz road. From time to time the silence of the plain was broken by a dull
threatening sound like the distant rumbling of thunder.... Vartan was
fighting in the thick of the fray; he seemed all unconscious of his wounds
and of the blood streaming from them; in despair he saw his soldiers,
overpowered by numbers, fast giving way. The ground was strewn with the
dead bodies of Armenians; the cries of the wounded were drowned by the
yells of the Persians. Vartan, with several brave followers, had made his
way almost up to Khan Mustapha, general of the hostile forces, when a
Kurd rushed upon him and dealt him a violent blow with his scimitar,
striking the back of his neck. Stunned by the shock, the Mamigonian sank
to earth, and was immediately surrounded by a dozen devils; one cut off his
legs, another, leaning over him with a grimace, thrust his cutlass into the
breast of the ill-starred hero——”
“But I don’t want him to die,” sobbed a boy of twelve. “Oh, master, why
did God let him?”
Some of the older boys began to laugh, but Jousif hodja sternly silenced
them, and going to the child, said to him:
“Come, Archag, quiet yourself; envy our Vartan, if you will, admire him,
but don’t give him pity. His martyr’s death has sustained and fortified
thousands of Armenians; even to-day, after so many centuries of oppression
and sorrow, to whom should we lift our eyes if not to our national hero? We
all love him, and in the hour of danger we shall fight and die as worthy sons
of Vartan.”
At these words the child gradually became quiet, dried his tears and said:
“I want to follow his example.”
The master stroked Archag’s black curls; then, the bell having already rung,
he dismissed his pupils with the benediction. In the twinkling of an eye the
boys had put on their pretty red slippers, strapped up their books, and were
running through the streets of Van, shouting, and chattering like a flock of
sparrows. Archag was among the first to scamper out; he ran like a shot as
far as the Cathedral, then turning at the back of the Bishop’s house, he
followed a lane which led to the shore of the lake.
His parents lived outside the city in one of those flat-roofed dwellings so
common in Asia Minor. His father owned a great deal of livestock, herds of
sheep and goats, as well as droves of horses and camels; Archag breathed a
sigh of content as he caught sight of his father’s house at a turn of the road.
A young girl of sixteen was coming to meet him; it was his sister Nizam,
who made a great pet of him. He threw his arms about her neck, and asked
in a wheedling tone:
“Tell me, have you been making something good for my supper?”
“Fie! you greedy boy,” replied the young girl. “You think of nothing but
eating. Tell me instead what you did at school to-day.”