An Armenian Princess: A Tale of Anatolian Peasant Life
Edgar James Banks
9781465512352
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
Nestling among the hills of Central Asia Minor is the little village of Ak Hissar, or Aksar, as the natives call it. The name comes from a neighboring old castle, a relic of the early days when the wild Turkish hordes from the distant East swept over and conquered the country. The white ruins of this ancient fortress are now almost hidden by mulberry trees. Its dungeons, once dark and damp, but now lighted by the warm sun, had they the power to speak, could narrate tales of horror to the children who make them their innocent playhouses. On a little square in the heart of the village stands the great wooden government building, before whose rickety, half-closed door the little folk often stop to gaze at the soldiers quartered within. It is here the governor lodges when he comes to the village. Here the passports are issued. Here the tax collector stores his money. Here the prisoners are chained. And it is here the villagers learn the latest news from the outside world, or discuss weighty questions, while lounging and smoking and sipping their coffee. At one end of the single street of the village may be seen a little, whitewashed mosque. From its slender minaret, towering above a roof of reddish tiles, the muezzin rubs his sleepy eyes at the appearance of the first rays in the east, and sings to the Faithful that prayer is better than sleep. And by the side of the mosque, in a thatched hut with bare openings in its walls for windows, the little Moslems go to school, where they sit from early morning till late in the afternoon, squatted on the dirt floor in a circle about the priest and teacher, and imitating his nasal accent obtain their education by memorizing verses from the Koran. At the other end of the village stands the Armenian church, a small building surmounted by a wooden cross. As in most Protestant churches in Turkey, for the protection of the worshipers, the few windows are grated with iron bars. Nearly opposite the church is the Armenian school, where it is taught that other countries than Turkey exist; that czar and emperor and king are not governors appointed by the Sultan, and that there are other things worth learning besides the Koran. The rest of the narrow street is lined with buildings peculiar to Anatolia. The low houses with latticed windows to shield the faces of the Osmanli women from the polluting eyes of the stranger are at once distinguished as Turkish homes. Here and there are grouped the shops, their entire fronts open to the street. Year in and year out the grocer sits patiently behind his stock in trade, consisting of a box of coarse salt, a cone of sugar, and a few glass jars filled with spices, candles, and cigarettes. The saddler exposes for sale huge gorgeously decorated packsaddles and long strings of blue glass beads, which, good as they are as ornaments for the donkeys, are even more potent to protect the animals from the influence of the evil eye. Half concealed behind his dark-brown loaves of bread, the baker mixes his dough, and with long-handled scoop pushes it far back into the stone oven. On a shelf before the little eating house is displayed a row of bright copper pans, filled with boiled rice, eggplant floating in oil, curdled milk, and other dainties savory to the palate of the Anatolian peasant. In the fruit shop are baskets overflowing with grapes and figs, and huge piles of delicious melons, which provident nature has bestowed so lavishly on the improvident Turk. The little village, remote as it is from the busy world, can boast of its money changer too. Badiark, a young Armenian, sits from morning till night at his little glass case rattling his silver coins to inform the passers-by that he has money to sell. For a coin worth twenty cents he gives nineteen cents in change; the other cent is his profit.
