The waves of the February revolution only reached Kars 16 days later. At that time the “Gurgen” association was working there; my father and I were working in that theatrical group.
After the February revolution, the “Gurgen” association ended its activities. Hovhannes Abelian, Isahak Alikhanyan, Arshak Harutyunyan, Jasmen, Olga Gulazyan, Lizik Harutyunyan and other left Kars for their homes.
A couple of beginner actors stayed in Kars and we began to perform under the leadership and direction of Aram Vruyr and filled vacancies by inviting actors and actresses from Tbilisi.
Our small theatrical group departed for Kaghzvan in May. From there, on 10 June, I bid farewell to our theatrical group and hurried to Tbilisi, to go on to Ani.
I reached Tbilisi on 12 June. By coincidence, both Professor Marr and I reached Tbilisi on the same day, belatedly. The excavation works in Ani should have started by 1 June. We were already 12 whole days late, and we were still in Tbilisi.
I met the Professor in the “Severnaya” hotel, where he usually stayed. At that moment, the professor was surprised to meet me in Tbilisi and directed me to go to Ani immediately.
“Artashes, all of the workers are already in Ani. Go to Ani immediately. I have to go to Svanet for 15 days and I will go from there to Ani”. He added, “Your salary is low, we must increase it. What do you think, how much should it be?”
“You know better, Professor”, I replied shyly.
“What would you say if we increase it by 25 rubles?”
“Thank you, Professor.”
In 1916 I was receiving 50 rubles a month. This meant that my salary would become 75 rubles in 1917. For the Tbilisi-Ani route I received 25 rubles and the same amount on the way back from Ani to Tbilisi.
That year the Professor had forgotten to bring the relevant certificate for me which was given by the Imperial Academy for each member of the expedition. The Professor used my 1916 certificate and made some amendments on the stamp: he erased the words “Peterburgskaya Imperatorskaya” (Imperial Petersburg) and wrote “Rossiskaya” (Russian). After the February revolution, the academy was called “Rossiskaya academia nauk” (Russian Academy of Sciences).
I departed that same evening and reached Ani station the next day and walked to Ani from there.
None of the expedition employees had arrived.
Ani was becoming deserted.
In 1917, many of the new Anetsis were missing.
Igadzor had significantly lost its hustle and bustle. About ten people had moved to Kars: Ohan with his family of six and Karapet with his family of four. I did not see water carrier Kyasso in Ani any more. In the winter of 1916 his life had ended with a tragic death. Chef Ohanes was also not there. I had met with Ohan and Karapet in Kars. After the February revolution, Ohan’s son Vahrij was working in the Kars police and Karapet was working in a small sausage manufacturing factory – he was now a professional sausage maker.
Findo and Veloks were not there. The absence of these shepherd dogs had delighted the wolves which had managed to kill and feast on two of the abbot’s donkeys. Only little Bochka remained, with his thick tail.
The absence of all of them was palpable. I had been attached to them like relatives for many years, starting from my childhood.
The ringing of the large bell of Ani’s Mother of God temple could not be heard every day. It could only be heard on holidays, its peals calling the new residents or pilgrims of the half deserted capital city to prayer.
FATAL BLACK NIGHT
The winter had suffocated the deserted capital city with its cold breath.
It was already dark when the old water carrier came out of the Abbot’s kitchen with a candle and match in his hand. He directed his steps towards the Mother temple. He entered from the western door of the temple and after lighting the candle, carefully climbed the Bema (elevated part of the church, with two sets of stairs, one on each side, leading to the altar).
Ani’s Mother temple has two-storied altars on the right and left sides of the Bema but the entrance towards the upper levels of the altars were invisible. And so, at some point people had discovered those invisible entrances. A large polished rock had been removed from the left wall of the Bema and from there opened the entrance towards the upper level. The stone steps inside the wall led to the second story depositary.
The water carrier entered that passage with the candle in his hand and stealthily started to climb the stone steps. He was going hunting.
Numerous pigeons had made nests in the upper altar and the old water carrier frequently returned from there with an abundance of birds. However, this time that did not happen.
The old man had just put a foot in the depositary when the reflections of the ominous light alerted the pigeons of the upcoming danger. They fled their nests in terror and the frantic flapping of their wings extinguished the flame of the candle in the old man’s hands.
The water carrier was left in the dark. He started to hunt the pigeons blindly in the air. He was so deeply absorbed in this that he had completely forgotten that two large slabs had been removed from the floor of the upper altar, leaving a dangerous hole. And so that opening caused the tragedy… The old water carrier fell to the first floor through that opening and hit his head violently on the stone floor below… And there he stayed…
Next day, Kyasso’s absence worried the Abbot and after searching for a long time, they found the lifeless body of the old water carrier in the north-eastern altar of the Mother temple.
The body of the water carrier was laid to rest not far from the northern wall of the Mother temple.
Poor Kyasso, may your remains rest in peace.
The entrance to the south-eastern upper altar of the Mother temple has not been opened. There is a similar narrow passage through the wall leading towards the roof of the Mother temple. Of the new Anetsi’s, only Yuri Marr has climbed to the roof through that narrow passage.
*
The 15 nights before the arrival of the Professor, who came exactly 15 days later, as he had announced, were nightmarishly difficult for me.
Times were complicated, full of a thousand and one incidents and during those difficult days in the deadly silence of the grieving city, there, near the Citadel, I spent 15 difficult and unspeakable nights; a 19-year-old young man, in the solitary building of the expedition on the left edge of Tsaghkotsadzor, where there was not a soul.
I was left all alone.
The days were passing by, one after the other, but the co-workers of the expedition were not arriving.
The trainings from 1916 and the Professor’s reprimands dictated that I act a little independently. I developed a work plan and started working according to it.
The material to be photographed was bountiful. I had a lot of plates remaining from the previous year, in addition to the freshly received material for that year. We ordered and received quality plates and chemicals produced by the British ‘Ilford’ factory, from ‘Joachim and company’.
I began my work by mainly photographing details of monuments and caves.
I was dining with the Abbot. That year the number of visitors had also decreased, as if everyone was forgetting about Ani.
The messenger of Ani walked around with me during the day and went to his home in Igadzor in the evenings.
Noting my situation, the Abbot was suggesting that I stay in his dwelling, but my youthful pride was rejecting the Abbot’s suggestion. “If I stay in Father Mikayel’s dwelling, it will mean that I am showing my cowardice”, I thought.
After dinner, when dusk was drawing in all around, I would go to the expedition’s solitary building. It was about one kilometer away from the Abbot’s house. I had to follow the track towards the Citadel and after walking a short distance take “Marr” street near the depository and after quite a long walk, turn right towards Tsaghkotsadzor, on the left edge of which stood the expedition’s building.
The year was an evil one. You could encounter dangerous adventures every step of the way, especially while walking through the ruins, rock piles and mounds by yourself at night, where every rustle, every whisper froze your body and the ruins and rubble took unidentifiable and horrific shapes in the dark. You imagine that they are moving and changing their shapes and appearances. Some appear as an evil witch in front of your eyes, some as ghosts from the underworld with their skeletal and horrifying images. For 15 difficult nights I walked through those deserted areas with a cold shiver in my heart, under the pressing weight of deadly silence.
When I got home – my 15-day “purgatory” – and got into bed after switching off the light, the difficult, uneasy hours of the night would begin once again.
The messenger had left his long sword for me, which I had placed above my head, near the bed. Besides that, I had a gun without bullets, which could only scare the would-be evil-doers – if, of course, such people should appear. All of those could encourage me, but nothing more.
I was surrounded by silence and darkness, alone in an isolated and distant place and that depressing environment bothered me. Dark images went round and round in my head.
At that time, the Armenians had killed a tsarist official (Turk), who was secretly delivering weapons to shady people in the region. They were becoming armed and preparing to participate in the upcoming disasters.
And so, terrifying images were appearing, one after the other.
I would be trying to get them out of my mind and suddenly either the blast of a rifle from the deep gorge, where a wide road led towards Maghasberd, towards the hostile villages, or the unpleasant whistle of the wind, which would enter the uninhabited building through a random gap in the structure, would started perturbing me again.
Sometimes, deep in the night, it felt as if people were secretly gathering under my window with careful steps and whispering to one another and then leaving; or, I would think that someone was trying to open the lock with a metal tool.
And so, after much torment, when I was drained and exhausted, I would sleep and open my eyes at dawn, feeling weak and shattered.
I did not tell anyone anything about all of this: I was ashamed of myself.
Marr, together with Alexandra Alekseevna and Volodia arrived on the date he had set and, after a couple of days, G. Chubinov also came.
The state tricolor flag waved on top of the expedition building.
The peasants in the surrounding villages saw that tricolor every year but they were surprised that the Government had changed, yet the flag had not. They began to assume that the flag was not a state flag but Marr’s personal flag.
They had the idea that Marr was almighty. They had come to that conclusion a longtime ago, when Yuri was captured by the Maghasberd Kurds and Marr sent a letter to Tekor immediately, that same night, through Ani’s messenger demanding Tekor’s bailiff to present himself immediately.
Without wasting time, the messenger put on his “official” uniform, took his sword and rifle and crossed the hills and gorges on his horse through the night, woke Tekor’s bailiff up at midnight, and conveyed Professor Marr’s letter.
After reading the letter and hearing the details of the unacceptable incident thoroughly from the messenger, the bailiff of Tekor panicked, immediately put on his new military parade uniform, pulled on his white gloves and quickly, that same night, travelled towards Ani, together with the messenger. He was already in Ani at dawn, standing to attention before the Professor.
Marr was reprimanding Tekor’s bailiff passionately and angrily and the pale faced bailiff was listening to his reprimand without uttering a sound.
The villagers used to think that the bailiff was the most powerful man after the king but after witnessing the miserable condition of Tekor’s bailiff and Marr’s angry and loud reprimands addressed to the bailiff, who was shaking and not daring to utter even a single word, they were convinced that the “agha” (master) was indeed almighty.
That year light excavations were conducted in Ani.
The building housing the expedition already had residents. I could sleep easy at night. But as a result of those 15 days of torture and sleepless nights, I was completely exhausted and could not get enough sleep. Sometime Alexandra Alekseevna had to wake me up.
I felt very ashamed and tried very hard to wake up early in the mornings.
One day, when I was busy in the studio, a laborer came from the excavation site with a letter in his hand.
I am reading it.
“Mister Artashes, if possible, please pass by the excavation site, there is something urgent to photograph. Marr.”
I felt very bad, as if they had poured a bucket of cold water on my head. The color of my face changed. I have been carrying out my responsibilities poorly, because I was should have also been at the excavation site then. That modest letter felt like a moral slap to my face which I will never, ever forget. Every time I recall that letter, an angry shock courses through my body. How did I allow the honorable professor to write “if possible” and “please”, to a nineteen-year-old youth? It would have been better to subject me to a strict reprimand than remind me of my responsibilities with such a gentle but unforgettable letter.
That letter was a burning, disciplining stamp, which I have never forgotten throughout my life.
One day we went to the Mother temple with the professor. He instructed me to photograph the damaged foundations, particularly on the southern side of the temple, as well as the north-western corner of the temple, which had been demolished, as a result of the collapse of the dome. It appears that on collapsing, the fragments of the dome of the Mother temple had fallen on the north-western corner of the building and damaged it.
According to the professor’s plan, the renovation works of that large building were supposed to start in 1918.
The monuments were gradually being renovated in Ani. By saying renovation, one should not imagine the thorough renovation of a monument, but several activities being undertaken to stabilize the current condition of the monument.
To date, the 6th century palace church of the Citadel; the exo-narthex of Arakelots church; the mosque and building (museum) of Manuche; the dragon tower looking towards Glidzor; one side of the entrance of the Paron palace, the Prkich church had been renovated. In 1918, the Mother temple was supposed to undergo thorough renovation and the northern wall of the Paron palace was supposed to be reinforced. That was a two and a half story high wall, which had been separated from its right and left southwestern and northeastern corners. During strong winds the wall would move and groan; the tip of the wall would fluctuate by 6-7 centimeters.
That huge wall could collapse any moment and the debris would fall into the Igadzor gorge. They had come up with the following plan to reinforce it: open a hole on top of the wall (in the center) and attach a metal bar to it and attach another metal bar to the southern, stable and strong wall in front of it and connect those two bars, the tips of which were supposed to have screw holes, with a screw.
Bring that massive wall to a vertical position by twisting an entire circle once every two days and leaving it reinforced like that with a metal bar. Then the strong winds would be powerless to move the massive northern wall of Paron’s palace, which stood over Igadzor.
Renowned contractor White Hamo from Gyumri was carrying out the renovation works of the monuments. He brought master masons from Gyumri and carried out the renovation works, with instructions from the architect of Ani’s expedition.
After finishing photographing the Mother temple, the professor sent me to Koshavank to photograph the inscriptions.
I immediately departed towards Khoshavank (Horomos), accompanied by Ani’s messenger.
As is well-known, the monument named “Khosher” stands on the Ani-Koshavank road. The monument consists of two square towers, on the tips of which rest small domes. Those two towers used to be connected by an arch. The top part of the northern tower has collapsed, and the arch has also collapsed.
The imagination of the local villagers has woven a tale about the mysterious monument.
Next to several halls on the southern side of the temple of Horoms (Khoshavank) stands a beautiful, columned, large hall, which had a round altar on a pedestal, on its eastern side. They say that the hall had served as a court room and the altar was used by the judicial members and, on certain days, trials took place there headed by the king. On the day of the trial, the King departed from Ani towards Horomos with his entourage, and when the royal procession was visible from Khosher, its tower bells would ring, announcing the King’s approach, and welcoming him.
However, the inscription on the door of the large columned hall refutes the villagers’ imaginary story. The hall was built in the 13th century (1229), when the Bagratuni kingdom no longer existed.
The walls of Khoshavank speak with their numerous inscriptions. It is a beautiful stone manuscript where there is rich information about various areas of life in the past: canal construction, donations, various duties and taxes, building constructions and renovations, names of kings, princes and priests and other information, which are reliable and important sources for our history.
In the gorge, on the bank of the Akhuryan stand two churches: St. Minas and St. Gevorg. The Bagratuni king, Gagik I constructed St. Gevorg church, leaving heartfelt inscriptions on it. One of the inscriptions testifies to the royal resting place of the Bagratunis.
The churches are surrounded by rock piles. There you can only see the foundations of collapsed chapel-mausoleums, and in those ruins and desolation only one small mausoleum with the small chapel that once stood over it, can be seen. Only one word has been inscribed on the mausoleum, “Ashot”. They say that is Ashot Voghormats’s grave.
That mausoleum has been ruined by treasure hunters, as a result of which a large hole has been opened on the side of the mausoleum.
I condensed my time and finished photographing the inscriptions in Khoshavank in a couple of days.
The messenger came on the date set, bringing an extra horse with him.
We placed the photographing device with its accessories in the saddlebag, attached it to the horse’s saddle and after bidding farewell to Khoshavank, travelled towards Ani.
Sunset was approaching.
We pass near the khoshers. Our horses move forward slowly, silently. And here is Hovvi church. The west has turned red.
Ani can be seen lying in front of us at the verge of the fallow fields, with its double walls and numerous towers and gates.
The clear sky is in flames absorbing the clouds gathered in the horizon and the red rays, which wash the abandoned capital city in their last rays and the incandescent ruins appear to stand before us in flames.
The rocky fields are covered in thorny herbs, which is very typical of Ani’s flora.
The colors of the blood-red rays of the west gradually become denser and with them the ruins become darker.
Our horses were trotting together through the “Dvin” gate. The hollow sound of their hooves was echoing in the gloomy towers and walls, which had taken on ghoulish and cruel appearance in the dark.
We entered Ani. The dull mumble of the Akhuryan and sharp chirping of the crickets could be heard.
Three gleams flickered and reflected life and breath in the ruined city that was buried in darkness: the first one was from Father Mikayel’s window which was in front of the Mother of God temple, the second one was from the solitary building standing on the edge of Tsaghkotsadzor and the third one was from the Igadzor caves.
In Ani, after developing the negatives from photographing Khoshavank, the professor instructed me to develop an engraving of the frontal inscription (partially distorted) of the Avag door of the northern fortresses. Even though I did not have any experience in making engravings, I had mastered the work through close observation.
I began my work. The messenger, together with a couple of laborers, placed a large ladder in front of the Avag door and after working on it for three days, I finished developing the engraving. The inscription was about three meters long and there was a gap in the middle from where part of the inscription was missing. The inscription was facing north: the massive tower rising to the west blocked the sun from the inscription (it was the last days of August), and so it took quite some time to dry the engraving that I had prepared and make it possible to remove it.
I finished my work in Ani. As per the Professor’s instructions, I delivered the negatives of the Khoshavank inscriptions to A. H. Orbeli in Tbilisi.
Ani’s 16th expedition concluded.
Once again, the country was in turmoil. The Turks invaded our country…
And so, 1917 became the last year of N. Ya. Marr’s expeditions.
***
Many springs passed in my life, but the longing in my heart remained: I never saw Ani again.
The summer months of my childhood and youth are connected to that sacred city. I had become so assimilated to it that my absence from Ani opened a chain of dreams and suffering in my restless soul.
My unstable life full of misfortune and vagrancy began after Ani. I do not even know how to explain what was happening in my inner world. I could not settle down – wandering and migration.
And in that emotionally drenched period the most horrifying thing happened to me: it shocked my entire being. I witnessed and lamented a genocide, which the human imagination cannot even imagine. Those were the blood- drenched, horrifying events in Izmir at the end of August 1922. From one side the all-consuming massive fire that had ignited through the entire length of the city was moving towards the beach with deadly blasts, consuming everything in its way and turning everything into flame and ash, from the other side the kidnaping, torture and extermination of the ill-fated Armenian nation. And all of that was taking place right in front of the eyes of “civilized” Europeans. The British, American and French military ships and those of other states anchored in Izmir’s bay were merely there in the role of audiences.
At that time, the “Abelyan-Surabyan” theatrical group was in Izmir, one of the members of which was the writer of these words.
I spent thirteen nightmarish and bleak days, and sleepless and torturous nights in the land of blood and horrors. My soul was groaning in painful sorrow and suffering.
Finally, we escaped that hellish slaughterhouse and entered Greece.
I did not stay in Greece for long. After bidding farewell to my artist friends, I travelled to Bulgaria.
For almost three years I wandered around the cities and settlements of Bulgaria, organizing performances with actor Khachik Palian, an Armenian from Constantinople.
One day, in the city of Plovdiv, I read in an Armenian newspaper published in Paris, “In the coming days Professor Marr will give a lecture to Armenian students on the … subject.”
Ani appeared before my eyes in its entirety.
I wrote a letter to Professor Marr. I did not know his address. I wrote the following: Paris, Armenian Church, to Professor Marr.
This is how all wanderers in the diaspora write addresses, when they do not know the exact address of their relatives, acquaintances and friends.
After a certain time, I received a heartfelt and warm letter from the Professor.
Below I present Professor Marr’s letter.
“Dear Artashes (it is alright if you are Ara).
I received your letter. Sweet memories from the past concerning Ani awoke in me.
You are writing about Volodya and Yuri. Volodya is no longer with us, Yuri is a professor. He will travel to Iran this summer; maybe we will go together.
I had travelled to Spain to study the Basque language. In a couple of days I will return to Leningrad.
I was very surprised by the word before your signature.
Please forgive me if I add further grief to your grief with my question.
Why grieving? You do not write about the health of your parents.
With respect, N. Marr.”
I felt a lot of sincerity and warmth in the lines of that precious letter. Ani stood before me: silent and grieving…
During the time I was wandering, I had added a word to my signature, “Grieving Vruyr Junior” and I had decided not to remove that “grieving” title until I laid down my wanderer’s stick. And in my letter to Marr I had automatically signed that way – grieving Vruyr Junior, and in his letter the honorable professor was asking with surprise, “Why grieving?”
Yes, dear Professor, “grieving”, as after that much bitter suffering and treatment only “grieving” will suffice. I will get rid of it once I stand on the soil of my fatherland, it does not matter if I live in a small hovel there. Then I will lay down my wanderer’s stick once and for all.
And so at the end of 1925, the Greek “Charalambos” ship was bringing our homesick brothers and sisters to their fatherland, Soviet Armenia. I too repatriated.
In May of 1926, I threw my wanderer’s stick away and, weakened and exhausted, travelled to the fatherland. And when the train moved from Aghin station towards Ani station, I was clinging to the wagon’s window, anxiously waiting for my dear Ani, without blinking.
The locomotive was slowly moving forward and suddenly there was a gap between the hills and under the gentle rays of dusk Ani could be seen in the distance…
I got goosebumps, my head spun: for a moment I lost my vision and then, like a desert daydream in misty, blurred colors, like a sweet daydream, images appeared, under the enchanting sound of the large bell in Ani’s Mother of God temple, ringing in my ear like a waking trumpet….
And as fast as the film of a movie, sweet and pleasant phenomena rapidly followed one another, awakening in my memory the breathing new Ani from the recent past …
The senior Anetsi, the multitalented scientist, was steadily walking through the ruins and rubble of the city, submerged in deep thoughts. He was wearing boots, had a white English hat on his head and a long cane in his hand…
And here, another Anetsi is sitting on the rock piles near the Mother temple, staring deeply at the temple from under his thick eyebrows and is scrutinizing something with his searching eyes. Karapet is standing next to him with the long metrological tool in his hand.
And here is the old Anetsi of new Ani, the enthusiastic artist: he is standing next to the mysterious dragon tower with the photographing device in his hand…
The young scientist, Hovsep Orbeli is walking with enthusiasm along the path stretching towards Arakelots. He is holding a manuscript in his hand: it is the “stone manuscript” of the city of Ani…
Father Mikayel is walking towards the Mother temple with his cane in his hand…
There, through the mounds of rock piles, on the path leading towards Igadzor, stretches a small caravan comprised of several donkeys, with barrels attached to the backs of the donkeys. Little “Bochka” is happily walking in front of them with his tail high. The old water carrier is walking behind the caravan with his pipe in his mouth and behind him a senile shepherd dog is plodding along. That “squad” has to go to Tsaghkotsadzor through Igadzor to being water for the Anetsis.
Next to the Avag door of the northern fortifications stands a young man wearing school uniform and a brush in his hand. That is Mikayel, the art pilgrim of Ani. He is staring in the direction of the symbol of Ani city…
A man riding a red horse, covered in clouds of dust, is speeding along the path through the desolate fields of thorny bushes leading towards the capital city. Under the morning rays of the sun the metal barrel of his blazing weapon is shining on his back: I recognize him, he is Ani’s messenger…
There is movement there, on the height of the Citadel, amongst the ruins. Numerous laborers equipped with spades and pickaxes are working…
I saw many Anetsis: my brother Ara, Vahrij, Volodya, friends from my childhood and adolescence in Ani. I saw Taragos, N. Buniatian, Ashkharbek Kalantar, Tokarski, Ago, Ohan, Aram, baby Aytsemnik, Heghine, Aregnaz, Araksi, Tsaghik and many others…
I wish those sweet visions could last forever. I wish I could be with the new Anetsis. I longed to breathe with the creative breath of the sacred ruins…
The locomotive was moving forward, gasping heavily along its route. The gap passed, and the gray mounds appeared like thick curtains and covered everything…
The locomotive whistled: I awoke. Ani had disappeared from my sight.
***
In 1932, the “Workers’ Theater” was on tour, performing in Ani-Pemza. One day the theater brigade held an open-air performance in Kharkov village.
After the performance, accompanied by border guards, we approached the edge of the Akhuryan gorge, opposite Ani.
I was speechless and was staring like a statue. The city of Ruins was in front of me. After many, long years I was once again seeing the object of my dreams. The grieving city, buried under weighty mysteries, lay in front of me with its standing and partly-standing glorious structures. My days spent in Ani with its new residents and new breath were spinning in my head… With the sweet days of my childhood and youth…
Emotions were suffocating me.
On my way back, I met Ago in Kharkov: that made both of us immensely happy. Our meeting was warm. Just like the meeting between two wanderers who accidentally meet each other after many years and satisfy the longing for their country through one another, that is how our meeting was, but it was more than heartfelt after I entered Ago’s shack.
Ago, that masculine Alashkertsi, had grown old sooner than his time. His spouse Zmon was also broken. When the latter learned about my arrival, she threw away the patriarchal modesty of an Armenian villager, ran towards me and threw herself around my neck, as if a mother had found her lost child.
“My son, Artashes”, she exclaimed and happy emotions choked her, she fell silent. But she expressed more, silently, than she could have through words.
And tears of joy and bitterness were falling down from Zmo’s kind eyes, as if through me she was satisfying her sweet yearning for Ani’s former life.
Ago was standing frozen in place, leaning on his cane and silently looking at us: the same warm feelings that had overcome Zmo were storming in his heart. The three of us were crying.
Ago and Zmo, these are sacred names which once again symbolize sacred Ani with its surroundings and its sweet daily life, in my memory.
Fallen into history’s whirlpool, the waves had carried and thrown out other exiles as well as these two peasants, far from the valleys of Alashkert.
Like a compassionate mother, the ruined city of similar fate had taken those outcasts who had lost their homes into her arms: they had perched in the caves of Ani’s Igadzor, as their last resort. However, their seemingly final nest was also destroyed. And once again, with the wanderer’s cane in their hands, terror-stricken and in misery they abandoned the caves of Igadzor and nested in Kharkov village. Suffering and grief had furrowed their faces and left irreversible marks on Ago and Zmo’s tormented faces. Life had put its cruel stamp on the lives of the ill-fated peasants.
Mixed bitter and sweet tears of longing, happiness and sadness were falling from our stormy hearts. Those were indefinable, indescribable seconds, rare in this life, when the unquenched longing for the city of ruins, and its beautiful – with our short life, with its warm breath, like magnetic flows, were coming, passing through our bodies and imbuing our whole essence with a pleasant sensation. In that desert, we relived everything in its entirety and sweetness.
As inseparable and pleasant as those seconds were; nevertheless, I was forced to bid farewell to my Anetsi relatives.
Zmo, who was busy baking lavash, had left her work after seeing me and she gave me some of the lavashes she had baked, for the road ahead; I did not refuse them.
Our departure was as heavy and bitter as our meeting was warm and sweet.
My fellow artist friends had long since departed and I had to catch up with them.
Standing at the threshold of the door, Zmo was seeing me off with her hands folded on her chest and with wet eyes, as if I were the child of that family and was being forced to wander, while his mother was seeing him off with a heavy heart.
Ago walked a long distance, chatting with me.
I did not manage to see the seasoned workers of Ani’s expedition: Tigran, Gabriel, Mikayel and others. Some were absent, and some were no longer alive. I heard that Tigran’s son was the Chief of the Ani-Pemza Communication Division.
***
Ani – an enchanting world surrounded by four gorges, the product of the brilliant Armenian mind.
Ani – a teacher that teach.
Ani – an art master that instructs.
Along the paths of the development of historic Armenian art, Ani with its prosperous and unprecedented art, comes to educate, to instruct its future generations.
Ani’s fruitful womb gives birth, vigor and enthusiasm to many.
Subsequent generations began to study it, learn from it, become inspired by it, taking what was good and exemplary to act as a foundation for the style and construction methods of new Armenian architecture and gave a contemporary breath to a unique and beautiful art.
And the “New-Ani” began to rise in the territory of the young capital city, causing admiration in people who have visited our country from different parts of the world.
Scientist Architect Toros Toramanian laid the foundations of the study of the art of historic Armenian architecture. He was an Anetsi. He breathed with the breath of the magical city; Ani had captivated him with its enchanting harmony.
However, no matter how attached Toramanian was to the difficult work he had begun, nevertheless he knew very well that his efforts and hardships would never finalize the sacred task to which he had dedicated his life and spirit; that was the work of generations. That thought was gnawing at the scientist’s soul.
In the deserted territory, isolated by gorges, sits the magical city with its enchanting appearance, and gives birth to generations of Armenian children from its fruitful womb, instilling the seeds of grace, talent and genius in them.
And the enchanting city once again gave birth to a restless youth – Mikayel Mazmanyan.
From an early age he was attached to the city of Ani with an indestructible love which placed the first seeds of beautify, sublime taste and understanding of high art in his soul.
Years passed, and we see architect Mikayel, borne of Ani, all grown up, equipped with the knowledge of the art of architecture.
Mikayel comprehended the magnitude and importance of the sacred task of a scientist-architect. With deep respect towards the great Armenian Toramanian from an early age, he got close to his older fellow artist and tried his best to support him.
Together with architect Mikayel, we frequently visited our historic monuments. He would measure and study them, and I would photograph them – Yereruk, Avan, Aramus, Ptghni and others; approximately two dozen monuments. I was destined to quench my longing for Ani through the historic monuments in the territory of newborn Armenia.
One day, in the summer of 1932, Mikayel and I went to visit Toramanian. He was happy to see us. He felt content after seeing young Mikayel’s close connection to Armenian historic architecture and art. The conversations between Toramanian and Mazmanian were always about historic monuments and other issues regarding them.
The former imparts knowledge on to the successor – this is the constancy of life.
During a warm conversation, Toramanian’s pleasant face lit up and he expressed the thought that had been in his heart for a long time and was bothering him; he was searching for the person who would continue the work he had begun…
“You will be the person who will continue my work”, he told architect Mikayel. It was as if a heavy weight had fallen off the shoulders of the senior scientist – he had found his follower.
And again and again the womb of the enchanting city is becoming fertile with the breath of the brilliant Armenian nation.
