“They Were, (and) are no more” (Կային, Չկան) is the title of the last chapter of Antranig Zarougian’s “The Greats and the Others” (Մեծերը եւ Միւսները) book where he casts a glimpse of the way an intellectual group of writers related to each other, as poets, novelists, journalists, and editors who propelled the post genocide Western Armenian literature to new heights that subsided with their passing away. The attached is abridged translated segment from that chapter. Vahe H. Apelian
“There was a commemorative event in the evening devoted to two great Armenians who had passed away recently within the same time frame, Nigol Aghpalian1 and Hamo Ohanjanian2. Shavarsh Nartouni presided the event. Before inviting the main speaker, among a few others, he also invited me, as the guest who happened to be in Paris, to briefly convey my thoughts and sentiments about the great men.
- “Pay attention to this speaker, listen to him,” told me poet Aharon Dadourian3 who happened to be sitting next to me.
The speaker was a tall and a slender person who moved gracefully. He talked with an impeccable Armenian weighing each sentence. He was not rhetorical and did not attempt to leave an impression. A nobility permeated his overall demeanor, from his facial expression to the way he wore his dress and his tie.
- “It’s Simamento4 you hear,” murmured Aharon to my ear.
Siamento? Indeed, Vahan Yerjanian is Siamento’s brother. It suddenly dawned on me why he had set up our meeting, early that day on the phone, at 11 p.m. in Café de la Paix5. It became obvious that he wanted us to meet after the event. Serendipity might come to my rescue, I thought, as I could secure his lawyer’s persuasion to convince Aharon, whom I had not been able to, during the past two days. I had been tasked with a mission and was authorized to speak on behalf of the newly formed Karen Yeppe Jemaran of Aleppo that was in desperate need for a teacher who was an expert in Armenian language and literature. Aharon was the only one that had the qualifications given his expert knowledge of the classical Armenian (krapar), as well as his Armenian language and literature expertise.
I was even entrusted with the authority to sign a contractual agreement with him. But he refused to come to Aleppo. All the efforts I vested in convincing him failed. He was a strange man. He would joke in the midst of a serious conversation, or would recite in krapar, and even not shy to tell a tasteless joke.
After the event was over, I approached Vahram and asked him if he would mind to have Aharon join us as well.
- “On the contrary,” he said, “it is pleasant to have his companionship. I always feel enliven whenever I meet him.”
We were sitting in the historic restaurant on the Opera square. All of us asked for coffee when the waiter asked for our order.
- “No,” said Yerjanian, “such a meeting could not be held over coffee alone. I am indebted to you. After I read your “Letter to Yerevan”6, I should have written to you. But my laziness got better hold of me. This is the time to redeem myself.”
The “redemption” was a bottle of champaign that was opened with a loud voice. I should say that it was not an ordinary champaign, neither was its cost as I happened to be privy as the evening’s account was settled.
Vahan Yerjanian was also incapable convincing Aharon to accept the offer. As a last resort I let him know his brother’s recommendation. Aharon had no job in Paris and no source of income. It was his merchant brother Kevork from London who supported him by regularly sending him monthly stipends.
- “For God’s sake, take him with you,” had told me his brother, “I will continue on sending him allowance every month. With the favorable exchange rate, he will be much better off there. He might even not need the salary you would be giving him. Let him go and be useful to the young Armenian boys and girls.”
Alas, we could not budge his stubbedness. The only thing that our joint efforts succeeded doing was changing Aharon’s cheerfulness. He became solemn, pensive and suddenly he stood up. He was a large man with snow white hair. He pointed towards the Opera and said as if to make a declaration.
- “Do you think I am staying in Paris because of these dark stones?” - Paris was dark in those days and did not have the brightness it has now – “or because of them?”. There were girls sitting a bit further down, “I stay here…”
He took a deep breath and looked upward as if sniffing the air and declared:
- “There is something about this place that attracts me…..”
We remained silent.
- “Excuse me, it’s getting late. I might miss my metro liner.”
And he left. The stairways that led to the metro station was not far. My last recollection of him was his snow-white hair that gradually disappeared from my view.
Decades ago Aharon was looked upon as a second Taniel Varoujan, when he made his mark in the literature in Constantinople.
After Aharon left, a sadness came upon us and we did not speak for a while. It was I who broke the silence and asked Vahran:
- “Why don’t you write?”
He appeared dismissive as if he was being asked an unimportant question. But I knew that there was a poet that lived in him. I have read poetries in “Shant” journal in Istanbul that bore his signature. They were powerful poems and were “siamentoesque”. I could surmize why he did not write, but I wanted to hear it from him. In order not to leave my question unanswered he said
- “What to write and why to write?”
After the martyrdom of Siamento, and not long after the armistice, Vahan Yerjanian’s poems first appeared, surprising many. However, people started gossiping that he is usurping his brother Siamento’s unpublished literary works. But when he continued to write with the same breath and with the same tempo about issues and events that Siamento could not have known, such as about the assassination of Talaat, the rumors and the gossips did not abate but changed their tone claiming – “Have we not said that anyone who can put together beautiful words, could write much like Siamento?.”
Among the literary circles the prevailing supposition was that Vahan Yerjanian did not continue to write and maintained a silence just to safeguard his brother’s literary preeminence and memory. Arshag Chobanian was also of the same opinion for he had talked to me with conviction about Vahan Yerjanian’s poetic instincts.
If that was true, it was a unique expression of a brother’s love. But I wanted to hear it from him. But he never said anything in that regard, not even a word, even though I hinted about it over again. He continued to evade the subject.
The night was progressing. After a drizzle, the air had cleared. The late-night pedestrians were dwindling, as we were facing the imposing features of the opera building and were experiencing the effects of the champaign. In the background we could hear the arrangements of the empty chairs. The whole thing had created the moment when we let go of our guards, our hearts want to empty our inner thoughts and our lips would lend to confession we would not have dared otherwise.
But Vahan Yerjanian did not open up. We got up and he accompanied me as we started walking towards the hotel I was staying for it was not far away, saying nothing all the way. I was the one who was carrying on a conversation, until we arrived at the door of the hotel. Up until then he had always spoken with me deferentially, addressing me in plural. There, near the door at Edouard 7, just before he said goodbye to take leave of me, he addressed me in singular and bared it all.
- “You know Zarougian”, he said, “I have always considered little Massis is an unnecessary appendage next to the Great Massis.”
He turned his back on me and walked away.
During the past forty years I have spent numerous nights in Paris but the most memorable remains that night and also the saddest.
Every time I sit at that corner of Café de la Paix, it becomes impossible for me not to remember Vahan Yerjanian with his noble gestures and gentle soul and also Aharon’s imposing height as he descended down the stairs of the metro station.
Vahan Yerjanian, that night, ceased for me being Siamento’s brother but became a man in the full sense of the word. A person who possessed a lofty soul and who did not need to have the association to a famous name to chart his course in life.
Vahan Yerjanian, the poet who did not write, will continue to live in my soul.
Aharon, the author of magnificent books, that I have difficulty reading now.
Admirable men, both of them.
They were, are no more.
Notes
1. Nigol Poghosi Aghbalian (Armenian: Նիկոլ Պողոսի Աղբալեան), 1875, Tiflis – August 15, 1947, Beirut. He was an Armenian scholar, public figure and historian of literature. In 1928, he became one of the founders of Hamazkayin Association and subsequently founded the Hamazkayin Djemaran (Lyceum) in Beirut together with Levon Shant.For the rest of his life Nigol Aghpalian remained a close colleague of Levon Shant. He taught history of Armenian literature and archaic Armenian in Djemaran.
2. Hamazasp "Hamo" Ohanjanyan (Armenian: Համօ Օհանջանեան), 1873 Akhalkalak, 1873 – July 31, 1947, Cairo, Egypt. He was an Armenian medical doctor, revolutionary, and politician of the Armenian Revolutionary Federation. He served as the third Prime Minister of the First Republic of Armenia from May 5 to November 23, 1920.
4. Aharon Dadourian (in Armenian Ահարոն Տատուրեան), September 19, 1887 - January 31, 1965. He was known by the pen name Aharon (Ահարոն), born in Ovadjek (near Constantinople, Ottoman Empire) and died in Montmorency, France was an Armenian writer and poet, teacher.
4. Atom Yarjanian (Armenian: Ատոմ Եարճանեան), better known by his pen name Siamanto (Սիամանթօ), 15 August 1878 – August 1915. He was an influential Armenian writer, poet and national figure and an editor of Hairenik Daily. He was killed by the Ottoman authorities during the Armenian genocide.
5. Café de la Paix (French pronunciation: [kafe də la pɛ]) is a famous café located on the northwest corner of the intersection of the Boulevard des Capucines and the Place de l'Opéra, in the 9th arrondissement of Paris, France.
6. “Letter to Yerevan”, written in 1944 in response to Soviet Armenian writer Gevorg Abov's «Մենք չենք մոռացել» ("Menk chenk moratsel," "We Have Not Forgotten"), and published the following year, «Թուղթ առ Երեւան» (Tught ar Yerevan, Letter to Yerevan) made Tzarukian a prominent voice in the Armenian Diaspora almost overnight—from the Middle East to Europe and the Americas. The poem was republished more than a dozen times in various Armenian communities—including in Syria, the United States, Lebanon, and Cyprus—up until the early 1990s, and as a result became a source of inspiration for tens of thousands.
Its translation was published by the 120-year-old Hairenik Press, as the first and only English translation of Tzarukian's “Letter to Yerevan.”
The translation was a collaborative effort between the former director of the Armenian Revolutionary Federation (ARF) and First Republic of Armenia Archives and former editor of the Armenian Review Tatul Sonentz-Papazian and former editor of the Armenian Weekly Rupen Janbazian. It features an in-depth introduction by another former editor of the Armenian Weekly and the volume’s English editor, Vahe Habeshian, as well as six original illustrations by Yerevan-based artist Meruzhan Khachatryan.”
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