Translated from the Armenian by Shant Norashkharian.
The hall was becoming full with the newly arriving crowd. The newcomers were squeezing around the already-occupied tables, forming large groups, and blocking the walkways.
Smoke. Noise.
Herian was watching carefully.
"This is a strange scene", he said, "it seems, that these people have been in some danger. Confused looks, cringed mouths..."
"Russia is passing through an enormous screen. The heavy particles remain, but the rest surrenders to the winds..."
"Fugitives..."
"If one thinks well", exclaimed Sultanian, "he will see that escaping is a dishonorable thing. One should never leave his homeland, even if one's life is threatened. The refugee, after all, is a half-person..."
"They have escaped from famine, persecutions, deprivations."
"Precisely. They are afraid of deprivation. Although, watch, they already look like dead leaves blown away by the winds. And I do not understand one thing. If millions of people are suffering, why should artists escape these sufferings?"
"I am in total agreement", said Gara, "I am in total agreement. One must have the courage to face reality as it comes and to transform that reality, as cruel as it may be, to art. The song can be the basis for everything."
"That is undeniable", agreed Herian, "One must stay, insist, and persevere. We are all responsible for these events and we must have the courage to face their consequences".
"The spirit is the essential thing. Every individual must remain connected with the center of his spirit. Events are around us, not within us. They come, roar, leave and, finally are subdued by that same spirit, if it is great and radiant. We, Armenians, have known this for centuries..."
"These fugitives make a very interesting scene", Haig Shoushan started again, after a brief pause. " I have been watching them since they arrived here. This mob is not merely composed of artists and poets. There are all kinds of elements among them...When they arrived, they looked pitiful. Pathetic, thin, malnourished...But they did not waste any time. Many of them, personalities with examining eyes and stubborn foreheads, immediately analyzed the situation, they smelled the environment and put themselves to work. Numerous shops were opened. They were selling and buying everything. They were exchanging money and collecting gold, silver and precious gems. Before long, many ladies came forward. Baronesses, duchesses, princesses with resonant, noble names. With vain looks and lovely smiles. They then started sponsoring artists and writers..."
"According to the tradition..."
"Yes! Under that pretense they opened nightclubs, where they received you with the noblest ways, formal greetings, compromising smiles, and where, you met famous names, about whom you had once read in the papers of Petersburg or Moscow." They were offering you the unavoidable cup of tea. One of the ladies sang with half a voice. Pastries and cakes were served. They discussed and argued about art."
"Why not?...That was not such a bad thing..."
"No. It was very good. What was bad, came later when they invited you to the roulette room, for charity. Then, naturally, you were intimidated and accepted their offer, you lost your last pennies, and with a cold face, feeling guilty for not having any more to spend, somehow you came out and fled."
"That is what it was all about..."
"Tbilisi now has this kind of lifestyle. Nightclubs, beautiful Russian princesses, famous artists. It is surprising how profiteering the high nobility has become with respect to art...They invite you one evening, to a place where one of the renowned poets will read his latest writings. Full crowd. In the center of the hall there is a small stage. Roaring applause. The poet comes on stage. Dressed in a long and strange shirt sewn from the silk of Bukhara, the edge of his nose painted, his face tattooed like a gypsy, he starts to recite like a third-rate actor, with a distant and vague voice, singular and unintelligible words. The ladies sigh and start applauding. They surround the poet, shake his hands and kiss them. Then, unavoidably, they invite you over to the other room, where, by chance, you rediscover the familiar roulette, and the delicate ladies who eat you with their eyes..."
"Dirt...!"
"Fortunately, said Beronian, from that point of view our nation is unlike any other. We are poor but at least we have the honor to stay alone with our cursed problems and tragedies. We live a dangerous life: external enemies, malaria, typhoid, famine, and our refugees are no princesses...I prefer that. One day, from those same tragedies we will mold new beauties. Our beauties, deep and noble, are like all other things which are born of suffering..."
They fell silent.
Everyone was burdened with a large load. They mentally returned to Armenia. They fell silent.
"Do you see how beautiful this tall lady is, the one who served us our tea?" Asked Shoushan, as if awakened from a dream.
"Indeed..."
"She is from a very good family. Cultured, educated, with delicate taste."
"She caught my eyes from the first moment", said Herian enthusiastically. "She has perfect, classic lines, as if she were a Greek statue..."
"But...no, I might as well not ruin your illusion..."
"Our illusion...what do you mean by that...? Our morality...?
"No, no, I don't mean that. Avoid looking at her, as she may realize that we are talking about her."
"OK, fine, tell us then what you mean."
"Look, there is always something thrown on her left shoulder, to cover her arm."
"Yes, really..."
"It is because that arm is much shorter than the other..."
"Yes...what a pity..."
"Brother, why did you have to tell us that...?
"You were the ones insisting...Besides, I wanted to say, that every happiness disguises a wound, which we do not notice. We were talking about our nation and our misery...I thought; it is not possible to create anything from deformed beauties, however, the life that is deformed, crushed, and full of suffering can be transformed to the highest values..."
"It depends..." interrupted Sultanian, "It depends...Permanent physical suffering could lead to decay and numbness. Suffering is beautiful, when it nourishes creative energies, spiritual flights, fullness of life, which seek their own ways of expression. Dante stood on top of the darkness of his times. He was the echo of one of Italy's most vicious periods. Echo and judge.
"Yes, because his personal, powerful spiritual unity was inseparably tied to the unity of his race. He was a furious judge in the name of that race's most supreme traditions," added Shoushan.
Gara flew out of his seat. He protested.
"Tradition, tradition!...By the love of gods, let us abandon these ancient, worn-out ideas, and put an end to these old, hallucinated words! Look around you! Life has leaped forward, head first, moving like a bullet bursting out of a gun, and you are lecturing about tradition...Brother, it is time to understand, that if we have fallen in this situation today, it is because we have been educated by the stupid priests and not less stupid schoolteachers. Always the same words! Our glorious past, our virtues, our Christianity, our Sahag-Mesrob, the invention of our letters, the torch of the Illuminator, the wisdom of our fathers, the hometown's fig tree, and mom's homemade yogurt...The result...? The result is in front of us...our inability to grasp the horrible events that are crushing us, the century which has invaded us, the history which is molding new forms that we do not understand. Why not say it? Our writers are more responsible for this incomprehension than any others..."
Sultanian replied:
"There it is, you got worked-up again, Gara. Of course, you are somewhat right in criticizing our educators. I think we are all in agreement on that... Speaking about traditions, as those gentlemen have spoken, is a sign of mental slumber, dullness, mediocrity, oversimplification, etc...
"Precisely..."
"They were small men, not always sincere, who tried to disguise their mediocrity behind empty formulas which were repeated again and again, from one century to another. No doubt, those ideas had once played an important role, in building things which are now forgotten; however, they no longer meant anything and found no echo in the minds...That is obvious like the light of day..."
"Bravo..."
"That is so. But let us not forget another aspect. Progress of history and mind in the lives of nations is none other than a return toward the true nature of the race; Toward that tiny and simple spiritual fountain-source, from which its main virtues are derived and on which is based its will to be. Those purest primitive energies, which have nourished and justified its existence. From that point of view, every real revolution is going back; not toward that which they have imperfectly named tradition, but toward that, which constituted the spiritual nature of the race, the impetus of its origination."
"The primeval nakedness..."
"I don't know, am I able to explain myself?...The fundamental change will occur only when the race rediscovers its bright innocence-lighted eyes; those eyes, which can see the essence in the light of eternity, and hold that essence higher than human, pure human values. Reality is recurring. It is the integration of the past with the present. It is that supreme union of life which we recultivate, as the land is recultivated by the sower's great and fundamental urge."
Those words reminded Herian of Mark whom he had met in Armenia.
"You know, in Armenia..."
He could not continue.
Everyone had turned their head to the nearby table. A short young man, with eyes swollen and bursting out like a frog, and turning his short arms round like a mill, was loudly reciting something in an unintelligible language.
His mouth twisted strangely, and he was meowing like a cat. He was howling like the wind, roaring, or making the sounds of birds which sang in an otherworldly, mysterious forest; then he cracked like a chicken, rumbled, growled and roared.
He was extremely excited.
He would brought his hands to his chest, rolled his eyes, twirled his body, stretched his lips like rubber and whistled, hissed, as if describing an inner sadness, a certain sorrow.
"Well, what's going on?" wondered Herian, "Is he sick or what?..."
"No", answered Gara seriously, "he simply is a poet who belongs to a group called '40 degrees'...That fellow, my friend, is the inventor of the international sound language. He is reciting a poem, which is called 'Mother's mourning at her son's tomb'. It is a beautiful and impressive poem. One must say, that is a true revolution in style and expression."
"There you go!"...Exclaimed Shoushan turning to Sultanian. "Most precisely the return that you were preaching about..."
"To the era of the beasts..."
They all laughed.
"This only indicates", responded Sultanian with a comfortable voice, "that every truth can be stretched to nonsense...I was talking about the primal spirit of the race, about the spiritual flight at the time of origination, not about walking on four feet...!"
"Let us not start this argument again", interrupted Beronian. Time is flying, we have a thousand things to do, and besides, we are eating something aren't we?...Let's go"...
In the street, Herian held Beronian's arm, waited for the others to go ahead and started questioning him.
"First tell me, why have you come back to Tbilisi?"
"Is that a question? You know, don't you, that this time not only we are out of paper, but ink and printing supplies as well?"
"I understand. One thing. How is the situation at home?
"Bad. After you left it became more complicated. As soon as the incident with the Georgians was over, the problems of Karabagh started...They truly do not want to leave us alone. It was heard, that the Turks had a previously-made decision to use every way to weaken and paralyze us, to make it impossible for us to fight and defend ourselves. Because of that , we have no rest. They are creating and inciting constant incidents on the borders. Add the horrible cold, and that our soldiers have neither clothes nor shoes...I am not even mentioning the lack of arms..."
"Fine, but the great Allied States?"
"Imagine, not only they are not helping us, but on the contrary, they are supplying our enemies with provisions, arms and bullets...Of course, history will one day record their despicable behavior...The problem is that, the popular opinion both in Europe and the United States is asleep, being tired of war, and those in action are old political wolves, without conscience, without honor, materialistic and greedy... The Allies, forgetting those ideals, for which they were supposedly fighting, today, after victory, have started competing with each other, conspiring and betraying, trying to win over yesterday's enemies, and arming them to defeat yesterday's friends. We are a small, blood-soaked nation, and our land has no oil or gold, so after deceiving us, now they are sacrificing us...All we are left with is to fight and endure. There is no other way out."
They walked silently.