Levon Shant and Nigol Aghpalian: Anecdotes (No. 4/5)

In this forth segment of the abridged translation of the first chapter of Antranig Zarougian’s book titled “The Greats and the Others” (ՄԵԾԵՐԸ ԵՒ ՄԻՒՍՆԵՐԸ», Zarougian reminisces anecdotes about Nigol Aghpalian. Translated by Vahe H. Apelian.

We had earnestly implored Mrs. Shnorhik, our cook, so she had prepared for us, outside our customary food, a delicious dish of cheekufta, a row meatball dish delicatessen, and had it placed on the table. 

When seating at the table, Shant noticed the reddish colored dish and asked.

-   “What is this?”

-   “It’s to increase your appetite, Mr. Shant”.

Shant

-   “A healthy person has always an increased appetite and does not need to emulate wild beasts!”

***

Whenever we analyzed the roots of a difficult compound word, Shant would immediately tell us to ask Nigol and in this manner he would acknowledge Aghpalian’s authority. Truly, Nigol Aphpalian was an authority in such matters along with his literary critiquing. Father Vartan Hatsouni (Հայր Վարդան Հացունի) a Mkhitarist monk from Venice was a reputable scholar. He always wrote to Aghpalian asking him for articles  for the journal – Hantes Amsorya – the  Mkhetarian order published. (Hantes Amsorya is an academic journal that publishes research papers and articles on Armenian studies, especially history, art, social sciences, linguistics, and philology. It was established in 1887 by the Mechitarian order in Vienna.) 

Aghpalian regularly contributed to the journal without receiving a honorarium and much like a duteous subscriber, regularly sent his subscription fee.

One day he gave me the money to mail to the Vienna. Shant saw it and intruded a little bit furious.

-  “Nigol, what kind of a person are you? Is it not enough that you contribute articles without being paid and also feel obligated to pay subscription fee?”

Aghpalian

_  “This is a journal whose only readers are its contributors and if they also do not send subscription fee, the journal will not see the light of day…”

***

One day I asked Aghpalian

-  “Why don’t you also write literary reviews much like Hagop Oshagan. In Caucasus you were known as a literary critic.

-  “Let me explain to you about my literary critic fame. All in all, I have done one literary review about Avedik Isahagian (Isahakyan) (a prominent Armenian lyric poet). And another  about Yeghishe Charents (Nigol Aghpalian is credited to have discovered and nurtured the eminent poet). That is all. It’s like a snowball that rolls down from a mountain top and by the time it reaches the foot of the mountain it becomes a huge ball. That is how my fame as a literary critic  has come about.”

He stopped for a brief moment and then said as if he was making a confession.

- “My world in the 5th century writers. I live with them. A little bit also with the Armenian language, words and letters.” 

***

It was on the same day that I asked his opinion about Hagop Oshagan’s

“Mnatsortats” (Remnants -Մնացորդաց) that was being published in “Housaper” Daily.

- “Are you following “Mnatsortats” Mr. Aghpalian?”

- “Of course, I read every day.”

- “Have you formulated an opinion?”

-  “He is a great talent, but he tires the reader.  First his language is hard and does not lend to novel. A novel is the creation of complex characters with simple language.” Nigol elaborated his point citing famous novelists Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, Balzac. 

We were to come down the stairs as Aghpalian elaborated on his thoughts. He held my arm and said:

-  “Listen, a novel has a beginning, a course and an ending. At this moment, say we were writing a novel, our writing is to reach down from this point. Let us start going down. Let us take one step (we did) the novel started its course. But unexpectedly some dust fell upon us. The dust reminded us of desert, and we start talking about desert, the animals that live there, about sandstorms, and so on. But our aim was not that, it was getting down. The course of the novel changed, and we are still on the first stair. Extensive diverging is at the expense of the course’s vigor. People have tamed raging rivers. Oshagan is like a raging river that needs to be dammed.” 

A few times I attempted to have Aghpalian talk about Shant’s literature. He always avoided the subject. I concluded that that he was not that enthused about Shant’s literature. 

***

A bit before Aghpalian’s death, Shant’s jubilee was celebrated. The main speaker of the event was Aghpalian. Finally, we would have his opinion about Shant’s literature.

The jubilee celebration took place in Beirut’s famed Grand Theatre. But I could not attend it being busy in Aleppo. I wrote to Moushegh to write down Aghpalian’s speech. Moushegh did my request fully and wrote an article summarizing the speech. In spite of the occasion where it becomes understandably permissible to lavish accolades, Aghpalian’s speech lacked the expected enthusiasm and some reservation was palpable. Moushegh’s article was printed  as presented. Had it not been Moushegh, I would have been hesitant to have the article printed. But Moushegh’s unreserved love to both Shant and Aghpalin left me no room to doubt. 

***

Aghpalian had a cold and had been in bed for the past few days when he had sent a word that he wanted to see me. He had rented a room with an Armenian family and lived there, not far from Jemaran. There were two other persons in the room. I did not know them, but they had a solemn look on their faces as if they were mourners. For a short while I thought that Aghpalian’s condition is so bad that they looked so much concerned. But soon  I found out that it was altogether a different matter.

- “You will go to Homs in Syria with these two ungers”, he said to me.

I saw no smile on their bitter faces. On the contrary they seemed to have resigned to their unfortunate luck.

In those days Homs had a sizeable Armenian community and had a church and a school. They had invited Aghpalian a month earlier to be the speaker during the community’ April 24 commemoration.  Aghpalian in turn had accepted their invitation but here he was in bed ill and thus could not go. Instead he had recommended “his best student” to take his place. 

One of the two was a blonde, almost red haired, and a tall young man. One would have mistaken him for a German. His name was Merdinian. The other was short, a bit heavy set, and was a trustee of the Homs Armenian school.  The poor souls looked much like invitees to what they thought would be a lavish meal and now are being offered a suspicious looking soup. 

But they had no choice. Maybe they thought it’s better to accept what is being offered to them instead of remaining hungry. The car was waiting outside with a driver who is soldier in the French army and is Assyrian in origin. On our way I understood that the commander was out of the city and the car was under the soldier’s disposition which he has put in good use to transport a great Armenian. Surely, the soldier was also disappointed seeing a young man instead of the great man.

After he bid the guests goodbye, Aghpalian had me stay with him and he advised me.

- “Don’t be shy and embarrassed. Arrange your thoughts and deliver them without hurry. Do not become emotional. Consider that you are not on the stage but in the classroom and in the presence of your classmates you are delivering your lesson. Toumanian used to speak from the stage as if he was talking to villagers. Speak in a plain language so that you will be understood. Your audience is not made of intellectuals, they are ordinary folks. There is no need to use elegant words. There was a time when there was a fierce competition to be known as an orator. That was before the genocide. It’s a different state now. Those who will listen you are much like you. They are survivors of the genocide. You have nothing else to say other than remind them the days of the life they lived. It is important that you do not become emotional. On your return you will tell me how did your fiery baptismal went.” 

Everything would have been fine had it not been for the kahana (married priest) who was to preside over the ceremony. Mr. Voskerithcian, whom we all knew, had become Der Mashdoz kahana and served the Homs community. The hall was small but was full to capacity. On top of the stage I read Avedis Aharonian famous quote. I had decided to recite that passage in closing my speech to impress my audience but it’s there now and  my reciting it would not have impressed anyone. I decided to quote another passage, but I was not sure who the author was. No problem, I thought, I will say “here, the great poet’s message” and cite the passage.

A boy older than me recited Yeghishe Charents’ “Yes Im Anoush Hayastani” poem. In those days no joyful or sad event would be held without reciting that poem. A girl sang “Tou Lats Me Lenir, Yes Shad Em Latser” song. And finally, Der Mashdots came on stage and began thus.

-  “Now you will hear a young man who has been my student”.

I was taken back. It’s something to be Nigol Aghpalian’s student and it’s altogether something else to have been the student of a married priest. I wished it would have ended with that, there and then. He kept on talking about me at length; that I have been an intelligent and a good student, and that I wrote poems and articles in newspapers, and that he, Der Moushegh, had predicted all that etc. etc. While what he told was true, but it was altogether different than what he said. To begin with, he had not taught me in a class.  He was the superintendent of the Haigazian School and carried a whistle in his hand and was in charge of our class comprised of students raging from ten years old to twenty years old; an amalgam of students filling the classroom, sort of a repository of “superfluous articles”. The person responsible for this class was Mr. Voskeritchian. He also had a black stick, and in the drawer of the teacher’s desk he kept a cloth brush, a comb, a mirror and a jar of water in the corner.  Should he slapped anyone, which happened often, the victim needed to bring water and pour on his hands to have him wash his hands. His black stick, with a silvery handle had been broken upon my back. It was not he who caned me, it was Mr. Mazloumian and Mr. Voskeritchian had sent me home to bring a Medjidiye to make up for the broken stick. A good student I was not, especially that year I had fled the school for a whole month along with other mischiefs….

After speaking for a quarter of an hour, he finally invited “his student” to the podium. I came on the podium as if I just woke up from a dream. I do not remember what I said because I am not there, I was in the third grade of Haigazian school…..

I do not remember what I said. I know that the audience applauded once and the presiding kahana  Der Mousheg intervened letting the audience know that in a solemn occasion such as this one, the audience should not clap. But as I was coming down the stage, he took upon himself  to applaud.

I spent the night there. In the morning they escorted me to the bus departing to Beirut. I put the ten pounds Mr. Merdinian gave in my pocket and carried a large box of sweets  to Mr. Aghpalian.

On Tuesday morning, Mr. Aghpalian, having recuperated, came to school. But the opportunity to talk to him did not come about. The following day he asked me.

-  “Eh, tell me, how did your expedition to Homs go?”

- “I do not know, Mr. Aghpalian.”

- “How is that you do not know. Were you not the speaker?”

-  “Don’t you think that question should be asked to the listeners?”

-  “You are wrong. Should you have come down the stage content with yourself, it would mean that it was a successful and that the listeners were content. In such matters the judge is always the person, yourself, and no other….”

We talked at length in the school yard. He added.

-  “I’s not only to the oratory I am referring to. It is true in general for all the arts, especially in literature. If you wrote something and if you liked what you wrote, that means its good, publish it. If you are not all content, then tear it and toss it away.”

And because he would not end without a witty remark, he added.

-  “It seems to me that for now, you have more tossing to do,  than publishing.”

He was right. During the past fifty years, more of my writings in journals are for tossing than those I published in books. But that does not mean all my books are equally meritable.

My consolation is that, those printed in journals remain in the journals and are forgotten and hence they are less of a concern to be ashamed of. In literature, the press is much like the obituary of the unknown soldier. Respectfully we bow to their memory without having known who they actually were.

 

 

***

During our first year in Jemaran, the dormitory was in a separate building. Aghpalian used to come there and would tell us

-  “Join me, let us walk, otherwise you will get overweight like me.”

And soon after,

-  “When I was young, I was a slender man and the girls would look at me favorably.”

And as a group we used to go on a promenade along the shore, in Ein El Mreish. People would be sitting on chairs in front of the building along the narrow streets. Aghpalian would be leading while talking to Moushegh and I on both sides of him. The rest, younger than us, would be following us.

A man smoking hookah, suddenly stood up in reverence at the sight of this with a  goatee who had so many children who were all boys. He shouted:

-       “Mashallah, mashallah!”

I explained to Aghpalian what the man meant. He smiled;

-  “Why not?. Had I been in the fatherland, I might have had more children. After all,  I have not been a fruitless tree.” (He had left behind in Soviet Armenia a daughter and two sons.)

***

Between this “unlikely twins”, Shant is stiff, self-contained, and aloof, while Aghpalian is communicative, conciliatory, almost humble. One would be left with the impression that it would be difficult to be understood by the first and the latter would be more prone to yield. The truth of the matter is that it was not necessarily so, but to the contrary. Shant looked stiff but upon hearing a logical suggestion, even though it would be against his viewpoint, he would take the suggestion into consideration and agree. During the classroom discussion he would take into consideration and would say, “yes, my son, you have a point, I will make a note of it” and taking a small notebook from his pocket would make a note.

Aghpalian, on the outside looked pliant, but deep down he was obstinate and insistent. Speaking about Bedros Tourian, he gave his biographical information and then said.

-  “He was a clever student, but he did poorly in his studies as usually poets are poor in attention span and wandering”.

After the class I brought to his attention that it was not the case. That he was a good and did well in his studies. I gave him the name of the book where I had read it. I also gave him an example cited in the book. He listened to me and moved on. During my midterm examination I wrote the same. He had marked it with a red pen and noted on the margin “wrong”, although he knew about it because I had given him the book that substantiated it. 

Lest We Forget: Anahid Tootikian Meymarian

By Vahe H. Apelian

Anahid Tootikian Meymarian was born on November 10, 1937 in Ekizolukh, one of the villages that make up greater Kessab. She was the daughter of George and Julia Tootikian. She had two brothers, Hagop and Levon who and a sister Nvart (deceased).

She received her primary and secondary education in the Armenian Evangelical College of Beirut. For a brief period, she attended the Near East School of Theology , Haigazian College and Beirut College for Women.

She emigrated to the United States of America in 1962. In 1964 she graduated from Fairleigh Dickinson University in New Jersey with a Bachelor of Arts degree (B.A.) in literature and psychology. In 1967 she received her Master of Arts (M.A.) degree from California State University of Northridge, CSUN, majoring in pedagogy and educational psychology and received her teaching credentials.

In 1968 she married Puzant Meymarian, who along with his trade is an accomplished sculpture. They are blessed with three children Garine, Talin and Vicken and six grandchildren.

Holy Martyrs Ferrahian Armenian School, first Armenian day school in the U.S, was founded in 1964.  Anahid started teaching there from 1965 and on for the next 25 years, until 1989. She was thus one of the first full time teachers of the school. She taught Armenian language, history and literature from 3^rd to 12^th grades. She is the author of five notebooks of Armenian calligraphy and became its resident historian having affiliated with it since get go.  She wrote a brief history of the school celebrating the 40^th anniversary of its foundation. She instilled in her students an Armenian patriotic fervor and remained liked by them.  

From 1965 and onward Anahid Meymarian remained an active member and supporter of the Kessab Educational Association of Los Angeles. From 1971 to 1988 she taught Armenian history and literature to the young campers in Camp Kessab which was run by the Kessab Educational Association of  Los Angeles.

In 1973 Anahid joined the ranks of the Armenian Relief  Society. For the next 47 years she became an active member of the organization serving both in local chapter committee as well as in the  regional central committee. In 2010,  she researched and posted in Armenian journals a brief history of Armenian Relief Society’s activities during the past 100 years marking the centennial of the Society.

From 1987 and on she contributed  articles to the “Asbarez” Daily. 

In 2005 she published an anthology of her articles in a book titled “My Holy Fatherland” (Im Sourp Hayrenik - Իմ Սուրբ Հայրենիք).

In 2008 she published her impressions of her visit of the Armenian Cilicia and Western Armenia in a book titled “The Stones Cry Out” (Karereh Gaghagagen-Քարերը Կաղակակեն).

In 2010 Catholicos Aram I pinned upon her the Saint Mesrob Mashdots medal accompanied by an ecclesiastical decree.

Her love of the Armenian language and culture was unbound. She devoted most of her productive adult life educating succeeding generations. 

She succumbed to her lingering illness on April 14, 2019 in her house while under care of her family members and serendipitously on the very same day her long time colleague and the founding principal of the Ferrahian Armenian School, Gabriel Injejikian, passed away as well, marking the closure of an remarkable era in life of the Armenian American Community that was marked by a spree of founding Armenian day schools.

Anahid was a family friend and a fellow Kessabtsi. My mother and she shared common values as lifelong teachers of Armenian language, history and literature. Both were bestowed with St. Mesrob Mashdots ecclesiastical decree. Both were authors. Anahid had a vast collection of Armenian books which graced their house along with her husband Puzant’s masterful artistry making their house, on a hilltop in Tarzana, a cultural place to be I visited with my mother whenever I was in Los Angeles visiting my parents. 

In 2015 I translated her depiction of the last months of Aurora Mardigian-Mardiganian. Keghart.com published it on March 7, 2015. Subsequently I also posted it in my blog.  We owe to her and to her husband’s vigilance the story of the demise of Aurora, the orphaned genocide survivor who brought the horror of the genocide on the silver screen for countless to view. 

I would like to close this obituary with one of my mother’s favorite quote, as Anahid Tootikian Meymarian also fought the good fight, finished the race, and kept the faith (2 Timothy 4:7). 

May she rest in peace.

Source: Kessabtis Yearbook 2020, 60^th Edition, pages: 234-236

Levon Shant and Nigol Aghpalian (No. 3/5)

Levant Shant as an Educator

In this third segment of the abridged translation of the first chapter of Antranig Zarougian’s book titled “The Greats and the Others” (ՄԵԾԵՐԸ ԵՒ ՄԻՒՍՆԵՐԸ», Zarougian reminisces about Levon Shan as an educator. Translated by Vahe H. Apelian.

“A few episodes as a testament about the Shant’s pedagogical methods.

We have a teacher who although teaches English, but his main responsibility is to supervise the students in the dormitory where he also lives with his wife. His name was Matheos Papazian. He was a mild mannered and a good-natured person who had graduated either from Oxford or Cambridge University with a master’s degree in theology. He knew the bible by heart. Many a time it has happened that he would hand the bible to us and ask us to read a segment and he would then continue reciting the rest of the passage noting the verse. He stayed in Jemaran for two years and  left for Egypt where he was ordained as a priest. 

Once that mild-mannered person lost his cool in the classroom because of the commotion the girls were making. Unable to confront them, he took his frustration on one of the boys and slapped him but immediately left room in a hurry upset by his very own act

A deafening silence fell on the classroom. Only the sobs of the student could be heard. Garabed was a grownup boy, almost a young man. He was hurt more by the indignity he suffered in front of the girls than from the pain of the slap itself, especially that he was the most obedient, punctual and low-keyed student in the classroom. If there ever was a student recognized for orderly conduct in our class, he would be the one.

The bell rang. We moved slowly and subdued. He continued sobbing moaning: “because we attend school for free, they treat us in this manner….”.

Moshegh and I decided to write a letter of complaint, in fact a warning to the principle. We explained that “we demand an end to such Turkic act, otherwise we will take the matter into our hands.”

We signed the letter. The girls, without exception signed the letter as well. Everyone else in the classroom signed the letter with the exception of three students. We did everything we could to have them sign the letter as well, but they remained adamant and refused to sign. We reasoned that although the letter is not unanimously approved, three students abstaining from the class of twenty is not bad. We put the letter in an envelope, sealed it and took it to the principal’s office.

Half an hour later Shant entered the classroom. I should have said, he rushed into the classroom with the letter from the unsealed envelope in his hand. He thundered waving the letter over his head.

- “What kind of audaciousness is this? Never to be repeated again. How dare you remind my duty to me?…Do not ever attempt that again….otherwise you all will be returned where you came from …”

Even though Shant was irritated but I realized that his words were measured. “Do not remind my duties to me”. He surely meant to say that he was already going to take the matter into his hand. But the class was not grasping the covert message. They were all muted, remained seated with their heads bowed. After chastising us for ten minutes or so, he was prepared to leave. He had already opened the door to exit the classroom when he looked back as if he had forgotten something. No trace of anger was palpable in his demeanor. He asked, looking at the letter.

- “I see that three students have not signed this letter. Who are they?”

The three stood out ready to be complimented.

- “Why have you not signed the letter?”

- “We, Mr. Shant, as you said , we did not agree to the letter….”

Shant interrupted them.

- “If you were not in agreement with them, you had to stop the rest of your classmates from writing this letter. You could not, you also had then to sign the letter….”

He left the classroom.

The faces  of the three students looked like a wrinkled newly washed laundry ready to be squeezed dry.

No, I will not cite their names. But I wonder if Garabed every forgot them.

***

For a long time, the “Who Will Be? – I Will Be” scandal became the talk of the community. But it was forgotten when I resumed writing poems and had them published in Armenian journals. Shant did not mind any more seeing our signatures in journals. I sign A. Tzar (note: tzar is the spelling for tree in Armenian).

Hrant, from our class, liked to joke. He had started to pull my leg. On the blackboard he would draw pictures of three trees and call them A. Tzar, B. Tzar, and C. Tzar. A senseless and a silly joke. The only person who seemed to have fun was him. For a while I put up with him, but it eventually got into my nerves.

- “Hrant, end that nonsense” I said.

He did not pay attention and continued with his whimsical way continuing to draw trees on the blackboard and laughing looking at me, he-he-he.

One day he had drawn his wonder art on the blackboard again and was challenging me. I went to the blackboard, took the eraser and offered it to him. 

- “Hrant, grab it”.

- “I grabbed it, he-he-he”

- “Hrant, I will count to three, and if you do not erase ….”

He remained nonchalant, jovial, smiling, leaning on one foot, then on the other.

- “Hrant, I will count to three, and if you do not erase….”

The same indifference.

_ “Hrant, I will count to three, and if you do not erase, one, two….”

The third was followed by a slap. It was a strong, and a harsh slap, the kind that will leave the mark of the fingers. I realized that it was a little bit stronger than I intended. He dropped the eraser and looked at me with eyes that blazed with fury. He was a fair and a soft skinned boy, my contrast. For a while he contemplated to retaliate, but my eyes and my posture discouraged him. I had newly left my boxing and soccer days behind. Confronting me was not an option for him, especially that I am taller than him.

Suddenly, he left the classroom and went straight to Shant’s office. I hear Hrant’s “he-he-he” have given way to  sobbing with a futile fury.

I waited to be called to the principal’s office at any moment, but there was no sign from the office. I saw Hrant coming down wiping his eyes. The school day ended. We had no classes in the afternoon. It was devoted to reading or taking a group walk with a teacher. I was seated next to a small library at a small desk in the reading room. The student came, picked books from the library and read seated around a large desk. An utter silence prevailed in the room. Shant, his hands behind his back, was pacing back and forth in the hall.  

Hrant approached the desk. On a piece of paper, he had written the title of the book he wanted to read. He did not talk to me. He presented me the paper and looked the other way, visibly irreconcilable. Shant noticed us and approached us and confronted me.

- “What do you want from this boy?”

- “I want nothing from him, Mr. Shant.”

- “Why did you slap him?”

“ I did not slap him.”

He looked at Hrant and said.

- “My son, when you came to my office this morning, the mark of the slap was visible on you face, but since he says that he did not slap you, therefore he did not slap you. Your friend would not lie…..”

And again, with his hands behind his back, holding his head high, his goatee preceding him, Shant resumed his silent pace, after having given me a stronger blow than my slap and causing me much more pain.

 For a long time afterwards, I could not look straight at his eyes.

Jemaran Building and its terrace.

***

Shant’s humor is not impulsive. It is thoughtful, qualified, that is to say always meant to be educational.

It’s lunch time. In the middle of the table there is large basket full of loquats (nor-ashkarh). Hrant had his hand immersed in the fruit basket picking one fruit after another looking for the ripest and the best looking. He went on and on. Shant was also seated and was watching him going on with his search on and on. He stood up from his seat and came next to Hrant and said:

- “Son, you choose with your eyes and only pick up with your hand…..”

***

Shant was standing on the terrace of the Jemaran building looking the boys and girls playing on the playgroun. Moushegh and I were next to him. From below the voices of the playful students were being heard. Sako (Vartabedian) was running after Knarig (Attarian). Both of them were hardly ten years old yet, if that. Sako was being heard saying:

- “Boy, boy, golden boy; girl, girl, doggie girl” (shan aghchig).

Shant called from the terrace.

- “Sako, come here”

Sako, a bit hesitant, apprehensive came and stood in front of Shant, the principle of the school.

- “Sako, what were you saying? Do not be afraid. There is no punishment, just tell me. What were you saying?”

Sako, a bit assured but still hesitant and apprehensive, murmured:

_ “I said dogy girl, sir”.

Shant, playfully solemn and philosophical..

- “ Never mind, when you grow a bit more, you will change your opinion…”

Sako, had no comprehension of what was said but us, standing next to him, understood Shant’s words very well. We had already changed our opinion about the girls…..

What is Literature?

By Serop Yeretzian

Translated by Vahe H. Apelian

Hagop Oshagan, born in 1883, was a prolific Armenian writer,  prominent literary critic and educator. Serop Yeretzian is the author of an anthology of short stories titled “Very Ordinary Folks” (Շատ Սովորական Մարդիկ). This translated piece was his posting on his Facebook page titled “Oshagan, Father Kline and Literature”. Serop passed away on July 10, 2016.

" Hagop Oshagan’s literary writing classes at the Seminary of Jerusalem were ceremonial but we would attend them with timidity. Adjectives were ambushed and repetitions were unforgivable. But It would also happen that similar repetitions by an established writer would be considered enhancing the writing. 

For an example, he would cite from the writing of Krikor Odian. Opening a book, he carried with him, would read a passage such as:  “There are people who pray but there are also people who do not pray. Could it be that I started praying now? Could it not be that I prayed before? I can safely say that there has not been a day in my life I have not prayed”

I quoted the above passage from memory sixty-seven years later. There may be errors in my quoting, but they are insignificant.

 During his literature writing classes Hagop Oshagan would transform for us into a pagan priest and we would turn into his faithful worshippers; but his literary writing classes for us were an ordeal. We handed him our compositions with trepidation. We considered almost impossible to emerge from his dissecting scrutiny safe and sound. Should it happen that he would notice a semblance of a literary spark, he would thunder endearingly and say “Idiot, you have approached what appears to be literature. I expect you to invest more efforts”. Idiot for him was meant to sound flattering.

After our English literature teacher entered the classroom for the very first time, he placed the bundle he was carrying on the podium and wrote on the black board ‘Father Kline’. He said that was his name and then he approached each and every one of us, shook our hands asking each and every one of us: “How are you?” After this short ceremony, he opened the bundle on the podium, took out soft cover books and distributed a copy to each one of us. “As You Like It” was printed on the cover. He presented the book to us saying - “This will be your study book. It is a play by Shakespeare. Let me remind you that the theme of the play has no relations with its title”.

Father Kline was an American clergyman. He was a lean, blue-eyed, blonde-haired man in his fifties. He had been a chaplain in the U.S. Army during the Pearl Harbor attack and had miraculously escaped the carnage. He had an uncanny ability keeping us focused on the subject during our classes. We could almost recite by heart Melancholy Jack’s monologue in the “As You Like It” – “All the world's stage and all men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances”.

Father Kline had also the ability to surprise us. During such a class, he suddenly digressed from the subject and asked us - “What is literature?” We were perplexed, as we would have expected such a question only from Hagop Oshagan. A few of us gave convoluted answers. After listening to them attentively, he then took upon himself to answer the very same question he had posed and in no uncertain terms said - “Probably you may not agree with me, but whatever is written on a blank page is literature”.

After so many years whenever I recall my two former teachers I remain cognizant of the vast chasm between the two regarding what constitutes literature. I want to remain impartial towards both. My heart wants me to side with Oshagan’s understanding of what literature is or ought to be; but can I dismiss Father’s Kline’s understanding of what  literature is?

Յակոբ Օշական, Father Kline Եւ Գրականութիւն

Սերոբ Երէցեան

Յակոբ Օշականին գրականութեան դասաւանդութիւնները արարողութիւններ էին, որոնց երկիւղածութեամբ պէտք էր հետեւէինք: Ածականները որոգայթներ էին, իսկ կրկնութիւնները աններելի: Սակայն կը պատահէր, որ նոյն կրկնութիւնները վարպետ գրիչի մը մօտ առաւելութիւն կը դառնար: Օրինակ կը բերէր Գրիգոր Օտեանը և ձեռքին տակ պահած գիրքը բանալով կը կարդար:

«Մարդիկ կան, որ կ‘աղօթեն., իսկ մարդիկ ալ կան, որ չեն աղօթեր: Ես անոնցմէ եմ, որ կ‘աղօթեմ: Միթէ հիմա՞ սկսայ աղօթել, միթէ ասկէ առաջ չե՞մ աղօթած, կրնամ ըսել, որ կեանքիս մէջ օր մը չէ եղած, որ չաղօթեմ»

Վերոյիշեալ հատուածը 67 տարի վերջ, յիշողութեամբ կ‘արտագրեմ, որուն մէջ կրնան աննշան թերի տեղադրումներ պատահած ըլլան: 
Դասաւանդութիւններուն ընթացքին Յակոբ Օշականը քուրմի կը վերածուէր, և մենք կը դառնայինք իր հաւատացեալները: Սակայն շարադրութեան պահը մեզի օրհասական կը թուէր: Վախով կը յանձնէինք իրեն մեր տետրակները: Իր տարրալուծարանէն ողջ առոդջ դուրս ելլելը գրեթէ անհնարին կը կարծէինք: Սակայն երբեմն եթէ կայծ մը նկատէր մեր գրութեան մէջ, «Յիմար, քիչ մը գրականութեան մօտեցեր ես .աւելի ճիգ կ‘ակնկալեմ քեզմէ» կըսէր: Յիմարը իր մօտ փաղաքշական իմաստ ունէր: 

Դասարան մտնելէ ետք, ձեռքին ծրարը ամպիոնի սեղանին վրայ դրաւ, պատի սեւ գրատախտակին վրայ Father Kline գրեց, յայտնելով իր անունը և բոլորիս ձեռքերը թօթուեց How are you? կրկնելով: Այս հակիրճ արարողութենէն վերջ, ամպիոնի սեղանին վրայի ծրարը բացաւ, մէջէն լաթակազմ գիրքեր հանելով, մեզի բաժնեց: Գիրքին կողքին վրայ AS YOU LIKe IT տպուած էր: 
«Ասիկա ձեր դասագիրքը պիտի ըլլայ: Շէյքսփիրի մէկ թատերախաղն է: Յիշեցնեմ, թատերախաղին նիւթը գիրքին անունին հետ բնաւ կապ չունի» եզրափակեց: 
Father Kline-ը ամերիկացի հոգեւոր հովիւ մըն էր: Բարեկազմ, կապոյտ աչքերով, դեղին մազերով յիսունը անց մարդ մը: Pearl Harbor-ի աղէտին ամերիկեան բանակին մէջ Chaplain էր և հրաշքով ազատած կրակի դժոխքէն:

Father Kline-ը իր դասաւանդութիւններուն ընթաքին իր նիւթին մէջ մեզ կեդրոնացնելու լաւ կարողութիւն ունէր: AS YOU LiKE IT-ի Melancholy Jaques-ին մենախօսութիւնը գրեթէ գոց կրնայինք արտասանել: 
All the world's stage,
 And all men and women merely players;
 They have their exits and their entrances,
 Father Kline-ը յաճախ մեզ զարմացնելու կարողութիւնն ալ ունէր: Դասապահի մը ընթացքին յանկարծ իր նիւթէն շեղելով` «Ինչ է գրականութիւնը» հարցուց: 
Նման հարցումներ մենք միայն Յակոբ Օշականէն կրնայինք ակնկալել: Քանի մը շփոտ պատասխաններ տուողներ եղան, որոնք ուշի ուշով մտիկ ընելէ ետք, իր հարցումին ինք պատասխանեց. «Հաւանաբար ինծի հետ համաձայն չըլլաք. ինչ որ թուղթի վրայ գրուած է, գրականութիւն կը նկատուի։

Հիմա, երկար ժամանակէ ետք, մտաբերելով երկու ուսուցիչներուս գրական ըմբռնումին հսկայական անջրպետը, կ‘ուզեմ երկուքին հետ ալ անաչար ըլլալ: 
Սիրտս անշուշտ, Յակոբ Օշականին ըմբռնումին աւելի նպաստաւոր կ‘ուզէ ըլլալ. բայց կարելի՞ է բոլորովին անտեսել Father Kline-ին տեսութիւնը: 

January 20, 2016

 

Levon Shant and Nigol Aghpalian (No. 2/5)

The Unlike Twins 

In this second segment of the abridged translation of the first chapter of Antranig Zarougian’s book titled “The Greats and the Others” (ՄԵԾԵՐԸ ԵՒ ՄԻՒՍՆԵՐԸ», Zarougian reminisces anecdotes about Levon Shant and Nigol Aghpalian. Translated by Vahe H. Apelian. 

 

" Catholicos coadjutor Papken (Gulesserian) had visited Jemaran.  Shant was escorting him. After touring the building , they entered our classroom. Shant presented each one of us to the Catholicos explaining where each one of us came from. The catholicos had words of encouragement to us, noting the orderliness of our classroom, the beautiful building we have and  the good attributes of our principal and his literally fame. He extolled us to live up to the sacrifice being made to educate us.

Shant had the demeanor of a junior officer who reported to his superior and was now attentive to his commendations. His posture was straight, he was polite, and not smiling. As the Catholicos took leave, Shant shook Catholicos’s hand politely, nodded a bit and that was all to it. We had a venerable guest and we politely hosted him and escorted him out.

Coming to Aghpalian,

He held the Catholicos’s right arm firmly with his two hands, and bowed waist down kissing it passionately for a long time with the spiritedness of an ardent believer. The scene and its contrast to Shant’s demeanor had not escaped our attention. We noted his exaggerated bow.

He looked puzzled, opening his eyes wide and moving his eyebrows up and down – a familiar expression of his. He said:

-                " A՜khr,  don’t you understand? He is our only Catholicos. Do you know what does it mean to be a ca-tho-li-cos?"

During the weeks of lent, he wanted us to come down early in the morning and attend mass with him. He adored the mass. We accompanied him several times, but our church attendance did not last, while he continued remaining in the church all alone attending arevakal (mass before the sunrise).

I have not seen Shant in a church, even during Christmas or Easter. Jamaran had already done away with the reciting of “Aravod Louso”  (Hymn for the Morning by St. Nersess Shnorhali) we customarily recited in the other schools.

Aghpalian lived with Krikor Naregatsi. Shant remained faithful to the pagan gods, to his “Hen Asdoutzner” (“Old Gods” the reference alludes to Shant’s famous play Հին Աստուածներ).

***

Vahe Vahian had published his first book of poetry titled “Arev-Antsrev” (“Sun-Rain”, “Արեւ-Անձրեւ”) by the Jemaran’s printing house. It should be noted that Jemaran did not have a printing facility. The books were typeset in Jemaran, a porter carried the type sets elsewhere to have them printed and brought back to Jemaran. The book had seen the light of day in this manner and the author had arrived to carry them.  Of course, he had the first two copies personalized for gifting to Shant and Aghpalian  and two other copies personalized to his brethren of pen Moshegh and Antranig noting “to whom this book owes a lot”. He also had some ten to twenty copies personalized for gifting to others.  Aghpalian seeing me carrying these books thought that I was taking them to a bookseller, he said:

-         “Aha, he has already selling them.”

-        “No”, I said, “these books are gifts and are being taken to the post office.”

He turned towards Vahe Vahian, placed his arm  on his shoulder and said:

-        “Listen, your enemies will not buy your books. You are distributing them as gifts to your friends. Who remain to buy your books?”

***

There were four of us as new poets (one of the four only a novelist). We – Vahe Vahian, Smpat Panossian, Moushegh and your humble servant -  have decided to publish a literary monthly. Our literally heroes – Vazken Shoushanian, Shahnour, Hrach Zartarian, Vorpouny, Nighoghos Sarafian and others – live in Paris. We wanted to show them that we too are also present, and we live in Beirut. The monthly is titled “Hartagogh” (“Milky-Way”, “Յարդագող) and we call ourselves “Hartagoghi Janabahortner” (“Wayfarers of the Milky-Way” - Յարդգողի Ճանապահորդներ).  (Note: alluding to an Armenian pagan tradition that has to do with the pagan god Vahakn). We have no baptismal godfather. We have christened ourselves as such.

I was fated to be the editor because it is I who secured the finances without having money. How come? It was simple. I wrote one or two articles a week and translated novels for “Aztag” Daily. Balian (the publisher) did not give me money but instead had our monthly printed there for free. This way he secured not only my contributions for free but also a literally standing for his paper. Balian was the least literally inclined member of the Armenian press and had nothing to do with literature. As a matter fact not having secured state permission, the monthly was published as the literally supplement of the “Aztag” Daily, although completely independent from it.

The first issue saw the light of day. It was a stunning success. We were proud of ourselves and rightly so. I believe, should we come across a copy of this journal after more than fifty years, we will have no reason to feel ashamed of its literary content. For twenty years old young men, I doubt that we could have had a more honorable undertaking even before us and especially after us. Besides the founding four, there were also articles from others, but we the founders presented our original literary works and we were content with what we had acheived.

I gave a copy to Nigol Aghpalian. He looked at it puzzled and said – “this appears to be a serious literally work”. He flipped the  pages back and forth, analyzed. My impression was that he would like it. There is time to secure his opinion regarding the content; let him read for now. We even were pretentious enough to envision that we may approach him later and secure his contribution for the next issues.  

Approaching Shant was not that easy, but we have devised a way to entice him. Without asking him we had placed inside the cover page an ad with large letters for his Armenian teaching textbooks “Hayreni Ashkharh” (Armenian World). How can an author not be appreciative of our consideration? There is time, let us wait, the opportune time will arrive. Meanwhile we were enjoying our success hearing words of encouragement and felicitation from right and left. 

Well, before publishing the next issue Shant entered the classroom thundering. His facial expression was the worst  he wore. He was frowning, nervous and barely holding his fury. He even forgot his customary “sit down” and kept us standing, rebuked us and left.

-        “ From today and on, it is absolutely forbidden, I repeat, absolutely, that articles appear in the Armenian press bearing your signatures. You are here to become future intellectual leaders, writers, teachers.  But until you graduate from Jemaran it is forbidden for you to write in journals.”

Dry, concise and definite.

As if a phantom had entered the classroom thundered and left.

The blow was directed towards Moushegh and I. There were no other writers in the classroom. The rest might not be even interested. There were some who looked at us smirking pretending that they were sympathizing us, but a hidden envy was palpable. (Note: Antranig Zarougian was later dismissed from Jemaran before his graduation because of his rebellious streak).

We were bewildered. Our bitterness stemmed from the fact that we did not understand what wrong had we done to be subjected to such a humiliation. The reason pretty soon became clear.

One of the girls from the lower class,  Armineh, had written a long poem. This was the theme; the girl has a precious gem hidden deep in her bosom. She throws her heart turned into a gem deep into the sea and wonders who will be the daring diver who will submerge deep into the sea and retrieve her gem for her.

It was an innocent and beautiful presentation and the title of the poem was “Who Will Be?” and the poem had appeared in “Aztag” Daily. There was nothing scandalous per se. But the issue got convoluted because a few days later there appeared a “daring diver” who not only was willing to dive to retrieve the heart but also  dared to share his willingness by a poem titled “I Wil Be”. The poem was published in the same daily under a penname. The assumption was that it was one of the students of Jemaran. Consequently, a boy and a girl were not only not romancing in private but daring to let it be known in the open in the Armenian press. What a scandal it created. Gossips, slanderous remarks, complaints were being heard from everywhere causing much distress to Shant who poured his anger on us, the innocent wayfarers of the milky way, bringing us down onto the earth.

The secret was revealed eventually but very late. It became evident that the chivalrous diver was not from Jemaran but was a medical doctor who loved poetry – Nerses Kupelian. He was a medical student then and later became the husband of Seza (Սեզա) the renown Armenian writer. Let us be mindful that it was over half a century ago when the norms and customs were different. ( Note: Seza, nee Seran Zarifian was born in Constantinople in 1903 was the sister of poet Matheos Zarifian. She passed away in Beirut in 1973). 

***

A dinner dance is organized in Beirut’s only Armenian social hall that was also the A.R.F. community center located in Bab Idriss, on the street behind the café Taneos, in the fish market. Before the music and the dance started a group of comrades, ungers, had arrived from Bourj Hammoud carrying sticks determined to prevent the event. It was Kaspar Ipegian narrating the event giving it a special flavor.  “Boys”, I said, “there is nothing to be ashamed of here. They are our wives and daughters and we are among ourselves, having gathered with our families.”

They answered:

“Unger Ipegian, is this not sacrilegious? Embrace each other and dance under the Tricolor Flag and under the watchful eyes of the A.R.F. Trinity?”. 

“It took me such an effort to convince these admirable boys otherwise and had them leave” said Ipegian, emphasizing on the preservation of our national endemic values.

Poor Ipegian. Had he known the state of our present national endemic values. The only thing that enlivens our social halls nowadays are the dinner dances….. "

Antranig Zarougian

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