“Dost thou not know that in town the wedding has already been going on for seven days and seven nights? The wine is flowing in rivers, and there is no limit to the dainty fare. They are eating, drinking, and making merry. The whole town resounds with the strains of music, and the feet of the dancers are never weary. I also came in for my share of good things—I ate and drank as much as I could, and now I am taking home what will be enough for my wife and children for many weeks.” “Whose wedding is it?” “The King’s.” “To whom is he married?” “To Anoush.” The Master spoke no more. He only started as one struck by lightning, then remained motionless. Then he rose and walked with weak, trembling steps towards the palace he had created. He looked around, and for the last time raised his sorrowful eyes to all the work that was the result of passionate love and beautiful Art. Then he entered into his work-room. His tools were lying about. He took up a heavy hammer and came out on to the narrow ledge. “She deceived me!” he said, and threw the hammer up into the air. It turned over and over, then fell on to his head. His warm blood sprinkled the wonders that were the work of his hands. Farhat did not obtain the desire of his heart, but the name of his beloved Anoush remained with that stone fortress, and it was called the Castle of Anoush. That rock-hewn palace which was prepared to be the temple of love and everlasting happiness became a hell full of tears and unending suffering. It was there that the Kings of Persia imprisoned the Armenian Kings who fell captive into their hands. HAPPINESS By ARSCHAG TCHOBANIAN (Born 1872) Weary of vainly seeking Happiness In city alleys full of sound and strife, I hastened from the noisy human press,— The labyrinth of this dark, grovelling life. I said, “The mountain knows its place of rest,” And clambered up above the level plain; But the bald Titan answered me distressed:— “Dullness alone doth Time for me ordain.” I left the mountain and approached the winds— Those infinite, proud spirits, ever free; “We are the sighs of griefs that to your minds Must still remain unknown,” they answered me. And then above the winds and clouds I rose, Soared to the skies, and asked the stars of Heaven. “We are the tears that flow from countless woes,” The answer by those eyes of darkness given. Above the stars, in the lone fields of space, I saw God musing, sorrowful and mild. “Father,” I cried, “where is Joy’s dwelling-place?” He said, “I also do not know, my child.” CONCERNING DEATH By HOVHANNES TULKOURANTZI (1450–1525) O evil man, with passions fraught, How long wilt thou strive after sin? Enough the ill that thou hast wrought: Repent,—a holier life begin.