1916
In the spring of 1916 I travelled with a small theatrical group to Gandzak and then to Shushi. Those were my first steps on the national stage. The theatrical group was unsuccessful in Shushi. That year my father was working in Baku, in the theatrical group headed by Voskanyan. And so, one day in the month of May, the servant of the Primate of the Shushi Diocese handed me a letter. My father was writing from Baku.
“Artashes, Professor Marr proposes that this summer you work in Ani as a photographer. I agreed on your behalf. Write how much money will be required to travel to Tiflis.” Your father.
I sent my acceptance on a postcard and asked for 25 rubles to pay my debts and depart.
I received the money and immediately left for Yevlakh where I met my father by chance. He was traveling to Tbilisi on the Baku-Tbilisi train.
Even though two years had passed since I had left the Nersisian School, I had kept in touch with my classmate, Mikayel Mazmanyan. He was very interested in our historical art and I had given him my first photographic works, a small collection of negatives of the monuments of Ani and Khoshavank (Horomos) photographed in 1915.
After arriving in Tbilisi, I met with Mikayel and told him about my unsuccessful theatrical tour and informed him that this summer I would work in Ani’s expedition as a photographer. That news made Mikayel happy. He had been sorry that I had not graduated school and now he was happy that I was going to work in Ani, and for a great Professor like Marr, at that.
In 1914, together with a group of students from the Nersisian school, M. Mazmanyan had come to tour Ani. That two-day visit was too short a period of time to observe and see Ani thoroughly, but that magical world, where for two days he continuously relived admiration, excitement and amazement, planted the first seeds of those noble ideas in his soul, the fruitful outcomes of which he subsequently reaped.
The first captivating impression of magnificent Ani that was engraved in the youth’s soul was expressed in a small article about Ani in the handwritten student almanac “Song and paint”, where the watercolor picture of the Mother Temple was also depicted, drawn by the author in Ani.
Ani drew the excited youth in like a magical magnet and now a suitable opportunity was being created: Artashes was going to Ani to work and he expressed his intention and we decided to go together.
Mikayel’s father had passed away a long time ago, leaving the entire burden of the family on his wife, Daro. Daro was a good-natured and active mother who carried the burden of the education of her three orphans: Mikayel, Mariam and Lusis on her shoulders, and worked relentlessly every day with her needle and talented fingers, to meet their daily needs.
Even though mother Daro was illiterate, she was certain that her intelligent Mikayel wanted to spend his summer vacation on something good. And using her limited savings, she provided her son’s travel cost and a small amount of money for living.
It was the third year of the First World War.
In 1915, the Armenian volunteer armies had occupied Van and Shatakh and liberated a fraction of the Armenian nation from physical extinction.
And so, in 1916, Ani’s expedition left for Van, leaving behind G. Chubinov as Professor Marr’s Assistant, N. Tokarski as Architect and the writer of these words as the photographer, in Ani.
The Van expeditionary team was comprised of: academician N. Marr, H. Orbeli, A. Loris-Melik Kalantar, and Aram Vruyr. They were leaving for Van, which was the war front those days. Academician Marr was wearing a civilian general’s costume with epaulets, while H. Orbeli wore that of a lieutenant colonel. Even though Ashkharhabek did not have a military costume, he was wearing high-riding boots, a French, and a fur hat. A Mauser in a wooden case was hanging at his side, which again gave him a military look. Amongst all those “military men” Vruyr was wearing worn-out high-riding boots and regular clothes and looked like a batman (servant to an officer) with his serious, comical face.
On the evening of departure my friend Mazmanyan showed up at Tbilisi station with paints, brushes, pens and papers in his small suitcase.
There was a commotion in the station. Many soldiers were leaving for the battlefront on that train. There was very little room on the train for civilians. Everyone was trying to get into the wagon as soon as possible and take a seat. As an exception, a compartment had been allocated for the Van expedition in the soft wagon. Mikayel and I somehow entered the wagon and remained standing in the corridor as that compartment of the wagon had already been occupied by seven people: professor N. Marr, his wife, H. Orbeli, A. Kalantar, N. Tokarski, Chubinov and Aram Vruyr.
The shrill whistle of the stationmaster was heard after the third bell and the train moved.
We spent that tedious night sometimes conversing and sometimes sleeping, standing up.
We arrived at Ani station at 10 o’clock in the morning.
We all got off the train except H. Orbeli and Aram Vruyr, who continued their journey towards Van, as vanguards of the expedition.
After exiting the train, Mazmanyan and I went ahead, in the direction of the Armenian-populated village of Kharkov. After walking for four kilometers, we reached Kharkov where we rested for a short while and descended to the deep gorge of the Akhuryan. We crossed to the right bank of the river by boat, from where there was a path towards the city of ruins.
We walk along the sinuous path parallel to the Akhuryan which stretches towards the west. After walking a fair amount, the path slowly rises on the slopes of the right bank of the Akhuryan George and, scraping the banks of the valley, leads us upwards.
We are walking on the slopes of the epic gorge. The Akhuryan is under our feet. And here, the most beautiful of all beauties opens up in front of us… on one side, the miracle of nature and on the other side, the genius of man. And so, here, it seems that nature and humans compete with each other and you do not know which one you should give the crown to – each one more beautiful than the other, each one more splendid than the other.
Here, where at a certain height Glidzor is intersected by the Akhuryan Gorge, there is a cluster of walls and towers. Here a small entrance has shrunk on the slopes of an imposing square tower; it is “Tigran’s” door. And there, perched on a green plateau at the edge of the gorge, above the towers and walls, stands the beautiful church of Tigran Honents, with its dome stretching towards the sky. While there, in the deep gorge, the Akhuryan scrapes the vertical cliffs and babbles as it flows on.
We stopped and silently stared at that beautiful scene.
My friend was inspired standing in front of those constructions of nature and intelligent man: he put his left hand on my shoulder, extended his right arm forward and recited the words of the great poet:
“A monastery is praying on this plateau,
A fortress is guarding on top of that cliff,
From the dark tower, like fear,
The hooting of the owl can be heard from time to time,
While on top of a rock, in silence, like a man,
An old cross-stone stares at the gorge…”
Transfixed, we silently stared at that captivating image with its multitude of colors, where the historic monuments, blending in with nature, form a beautiful harmony.
My soul fills with joy, my heart picks up pace. A sweet, very sweet, indescribable feeling envelopes me. Why does that sacred city of ruins attract me? Why has it captivated my soul? Every time I depart with pain and return with immense longing in my heart… I feel like I am a fragment, a polished stone, an inseparable particle of that grieving city that is smothered in eternal sorrow, grief, untold disasters and silent suffering which still, within the body that is torn and tattered, preserves its beautiful torso.
We move forward; we enter through the Tigran door, which leads us into the rectangular tower. Our steps echo in the desolate space of the tower.
We leave behind the rectangular pyramid and Tigran’s door and after climbing the short steep road, stop in front of the beautifully sculpted Tigran Honents temple.
The narthex of the church has collapsed and only the northern wall and part of the western wall remain standing. Of all the monuments in Ani, the church can be considered to be the most complete. People call it “Nakhshlu church” due to its abundant sculptures and colorful murals. The murals have numerous scars created at the hands of brutal and savage people.
That monument can be called a small academy of art. Its graceful figure; expressive sculptures and murals; general structure; and proportionate connections of the relationship between shapes and volumes which create a beautiful entirety fused with nature, display the great mastery and exquisite taste of our 13th century creative ancestors.
My friend Mikayel was staring at that beautiful monument of art, mesmerized. He told me excitedly, “Artashes, look at the inexhaustible material on this delicate monument. I have to try to paint and describe it a lot, if only time will allow it.”
How expressive, natural and alive these sculptures are. Here we see expressions of peace, love, beauty, power and labor, depicted in the form of various animals and birds.
Here under the window of the southern façade are onocentaurs with the body of a bird and human features. There, in the southwestern corner of the southern facade a massive bird, with its predatory beak, has turned its head to the side and is staring at us with an unblinking eye. And here, the deer with its delicate body has raised its right leg, thrown its delicate neck back with a powerful movement, and is staring with an innocent expression.
All the animals have been sculpted in movement, in their natural form, as if they are living, breathing and feeling.
Besides its sculptures, the western facade is also rich with murals.
I showed my favorite rooster which had attracted me from a young age, to Mikayel. It is sculpted in the corner of the southern wall. It stands with a victorious posture, as if saying, “I am invincible”.
I often came here from early childhood, especially to look at my favorite rooster and recall the song of the rooster.
The door of the church was closed.
We continued on our way.
Passing through the ruins of the bath, near the rock piles of Prkich and Queen Katranide’s ruined mausoleum, we stopped in front of the Mother Temple and looked at it.
The Virgin’s Temple is staring at us from the depths of the centuries. It is one of the attractive monuments in Ani, dominating the capital city with its magnificent position and attracting the attention of visitors to Ani. It was constructed in the tenth century (completed in 1001) by the Armenian Queen Katranide. The four external walls of the temple have ornaments, fine pilasters and vaulted arches. The windows have ornamental crowns and frames. That giant has three entrances: northern, southern and western. Queen Katranide’s inscription has been engraved on the southern wall: it is a record on the construction.
Refined carvings which, in their shape and content, are exceptional in Armenian historic inscriptions, are carved on rock ribbons with delicate exquisite sophistication on the upper portions of the two large niches of the eastern façade. Those stone ribbons with their carvings resemble embroidered delicate fabrics. Perhaps Queen Katranide had engraved one of her mistresses of embroidery’s creations on the large eastern niches of the temple.
We enter. The interior is completely different. There are no carvings inside. The spaces on the four heavy and soaring pillars daringly cut through the sharp and noble arches. That magnificent structure is noble, symmetric and beautiful in its simplicity.
That wonder is built with tuffs of various hues which, due to Mother Nature’s precipitation and the sun, have over time, been baked and transformed into warmer and more harmonious colors, as if the walls of the temple are covered in expensive carpets. That magnificent monument is the product of the creative mind of the brilliant architect, Trdat.
***
The mood was low.
My father took the 18/24 photographing device with its five lenses, which was a present from Alexandra Alekseevna to Marr, and which was used during the excavations in Ani to Van. They left me with an old 18/24 device without technical accessories and lens. I attached a “Busch” x 3 ml. lens to it and took a test picture of the general view of the Mother Temple from the north to the east the next morning, to check the field of vision of the lens, as that lens was made for the 13/18 device.
While photographing the general view of the Mother Temple, the negative of which is, fortunately, still safely with me, Mikayel and I were chatting and walking towards the expedition’s newly constructed residential building which was located close to the Citadel, on the left edge of Tsaghkotsadzor. We had just entered Marr’s street, when we came across the honourable professor near the repository. He was dressed in a general’s uniform, deep in thought. I introduced my friend to the scientist and presented the reason for his arrival in Ani. I requested that he be allowed to photograph some exhibits. The professor was listening to me silently and looking at the 16 year old youth, who looked younger than his age, with admiration.
The honorable scientist did not refuse my request and on departing, said, “Artashes, bring with your friend to dinner.”
The expedition’s newly constructed residence was built in 1908 and from then onwards the members of the expedition ate their meals in the dining room of that building; however, on that day, the team dined in Archimandrite Mikayel’s home. It was a farewell banquet. The expedition was departing for Van, after dinner that day.
And here, Mikayel and I are seated silently at the dining table, surrounded by scientists. They are eating and now and then getting caught up in conversation with each other. Our section was sitting silently and eating. I felt like I was sitting on thorns and was impatiently counting the minutes to when the meal would end and release me from this constraining situation. It was the first time in my life that I had had the opportunity to sit next to the great scientist.
At the end of the meal, the professor, wineglass in hand, drank to Mazmanyan’s and my health and turning to my friend, gave instructions on his future activities, encouraging him and ended his toast with the following words.
He spoke in Armenian. “Your initiative is laudable. I wish you success.”
At the end of the meal, the professor bid farewell to the residents of Ani.
The expedition team set off for Ani station, led by the Messenger of Ani.
They were going to Van, the center of the proto-Armenians, Biaina, where, lost under the dust of centuries, the silent witnesses of our history were waiting for wise men who would understand their language, in order to speak to them, recount and open the as-yet unread pages of our history.
The residents of Ani accompanied the expedition team up to Tigran’s door (near the Honents church), wishing them a safe journey. We stayed near the rectangular tower, continuing to watch the team going along the path which scraped the valley walls of the Akhuryan valley. A little later the team disappeared along the sinuous valley’s path. We were standing there petrified, as if an inexplicable sorrow had filled our hearts.
After being hosted for three days in the team’s building, Mazmanyan moved to Igadzor, to Karapet’s “residence”.
The adolescent boarder of Igadzor paid the landlord 50 kopeks a day for food, in other words, the same amount that Archimandrite Mikayel was paid for each member of the Ani expedition.
I was outraged at the indifference of my supervisor, Chubinov. That extremely strange man gave me no tasks in the first few days. I did not know what I had to do. Subsequently he only arranged that I should photograph the pictures of goats on the striped bands of fragments of several jars and pithoi. That task entailed 27 photographs, after which I was once again left idle.
Subsequently, prior to the return of Professor Marr, Chubinov tasked me with photographing in detail the church which had been discovered during excavations in the tenth scientific expedition of Ani in 1911.
Tokarski was measuring while I was photographing.
By the way, that section of the 1911 excavations was interesting in that it consisted of three layers. There was a second floor about 70 centimeters above the floor of the excavated church. Outside the church, at a level about 1.2 meters higher than the second level, there were tonirs, tombs and residences with simple stone masonry. There levels encompass the 8th to the 14th centuries and show the chronology and quantity of emigration and immigration.
I spent my free time with my friend Mikayel and, as a guide, I directed him towards Ani’s various monuments. I arranged the time of our visits so that it would be either when they were illuminated or about to be.
We set off early one morning. We went north through Dvin’s door, to the broad open field and from there we saw the capital’s northern fortifications, in the center of which stood one of Ani’s powerful gates, the Avak (major) door, to the left of which soars a massive tower.
Here on the north-western side of the northern fortifications can be found one of the large entrances, the Karuts door, squeezed in closely by two imposing towers which stand, as if they were two brave giants vigilantly defending it. And the third large entrance to the city, the Dvin door stands in the north-eastern corner, from where Glidzor starts.
The many towers of the northern fortifications, large and small, are lined up before us in the fresh rays of early morning. Their colossal bodies are covered with numerous scars from enemy arrows, as evidence of fierce battles.
The strongest artificial fortifications of the capital city are the northern double line of walls, which were built by Smbat, the powerful heir to the Bagratuni dynasty.
An enormous trench built with curved stones runs along the length of the walls of Smbat, which used to be filled with water. It acted as a kind of barrier for the attacking enemy.
Standing in the open field, we see a magical city of a thousand years with its solid fortifications which have seen sweet and bitter times throughout their existence.
Unwittingly, one’s imagination flicks through the vellum pages of history and with strong imaginary flights, one after the other, scenes of life in the sacred city appear before one’s eyes…
…Here, the Armenian ayrudzi (cavalry) charges out from the powerful northern fortifications to battle, to death. At the head of it, astride as untamable, spirited horse gallops the courageous and wise Sparapet (general in chief), Vahram Pahlavuni….
Here, the mother of heroism, Aydzemnik fights on the ramparts against the merciless enemy…
Here, Ani in peaceful times… Great construction works of brilliant architects and stone cutters, and master stone layers and stonemasons …
Gaiety, dance, happiness… Feast days…long camel trains, laden with heavy bales enter and leave through Ani’s gates…
Brightly colored pictures of bitter and happy moments come and go, one after the other, storming one’s soul sometimes with pride and exultation, sometimes with anger’s tormenting emotions…
We are walking….
The sun is still beaming on the northern fortifications.
We are standing in front of the Avag door. To the left of the entrance soars a massive, severe tower, with the sign of eternity on the front, on the inside. One feels oppressed under the imposing giant. To the right of the door, next to the semi-ruined tower, the expert master has stamped the symbol of Ani with an iron pen on the wall. It is a tiger which, with its lithe body, moves forward with careful steps towards its target, with a fixed gaze… It is breathing…its veins are pulsating…
Involuntarily one becomes nailed to the ground and, for a long time, cannot move their eyes away from that beautiful piece of workmanship.
Here and there, the symbol of Ani has become covered with moss. The rays of the sun play on the high relief sculpture and emit life-giving reflections, making it even more bright and alive……
Not losing any time, Mikayel took up paper and pencil and with swift, light movements started to outline it, after which, the bold movements of the brush gradually imprinted the multicolored symbol of Ani, in size and volume, on the smooth surface of the paper.
Sitting on rock piles, I watched his work with admiration and was delighted at his talent and abilities.
***
Leaving the Avag door and the symbol of the city behind us, we walk parallel to the walls and towers towards the west, pass in front of Karuts door up to the corner created at the end of the walls, where the northern walls bend towards the west near the large cross-bearing tower, which is a talisman. Here, crossing a small gorge-like distance, on the left side of which two churches have been carved into the reddish cliffs, we enter Igadzor.
Even though Igadzor is a dry valley, devoid of vegetation, a complete mass of dark colored tuff, it breathes; there is life in that valley. There, both to the left and the right, you can see numerous large and small ancient caves – sometimes two-storied, sometimes three storied with their mouths wide open, where new Anetsis have settled in. You can see people there… The mooing of the cows and the bleating of the sheep… Smoking ovens… And the fragrant smell of the Armenian lavash coming from the warm tonirs…
Here, on the right slope of the gorge, the cave-dwelling of my friend Mikayel Mazmanyan can be seen, where the pilgrim of Ani’s art slept for about three months…
Passing through the breathing gorge, we enter Tsaghkotsadzor.
This is the vista here: a wide valley covered in flowers and grass opens in front of us. The colorful flowers have spread their intoxicating fragrance everywhere.
At the corner of Igadzor and Tsaghkotsadzor the massive pumice cliffs are groaning under their formidable weight. They stand vertical, with sharp edges on the left bank of the gorge, representing a massive and indestructible bulwark. And at the right junction of the gorges, Father Mikayel’s lush vegetable garden, surrounded by trees, can be seen.
Tsaghkotsadzor begins at Ani village, around one-kilometer northwest from the northern fortifications of Ani city. The valley trails from the north to the south with small twists. The sides gradually become narrow and at one point it turns into a gorge, after which it once again grows wide and intersects with the Akhuryan valley.
Ani’s rivulet, which is comprised of the crystal-clear waters of springs, flows with cheerful whispers through the meadows of Tsaghkotsadzor and, through winding pathways, joins the Akhuryan River.
Tsaghkotsadzor is full of caves. Nobody lives there now. Paternal fires no longer blaze in the tonirs and ovens of cave dwelling Anetsis. Everything is empty. Desolation has stamped its black seal there…
The former residents of the beautiful city have abandoned everything – house, home, native soil… and, at the merciless hands of bitter fate, they have left in long sad lines of caravans, never to return, towards distant, foreign horizons.
The caverns of Tsaghkotsadzor are not simply dwellings. Here hewn into the rock are temples, booths and mausoleums.
We are walking along the rivulet. After walking a short distance, we cross to the right side of the valley, where a path directs us upwards.
There on a promontory, stands the Tigran Honents family two-story cave-mausoleum. It is comprised of several caves.
We stand silently in one of the lower-level caverns of the mausoleum – in front of a delicate, ill-fated tomb. It is the grave of a young girl, a bud who had barely seen 6 or 7 springs. How much pain and sorrow is buried in this grave… There are also other tombs here, all forgotten.
The cold breath of a grave…A sort of quivering, dreadful silence…
Our souls are oppressed and, in the ancient mausoleum cavern the sound of our heavy exhalation echoes dully, to which the adjacent small cavern halls respond with their oppressing dull breath. It is as if, in these gloomy mausoleum-caverns, the Honents generations, under the heavy weight of centuries, are sighing deeply from the depths of their eternal rest.
The remains of this child were resting peacefully for seven centuries in this mausoleum, but ignorance has thrust its ruinous and destructive, vulgar hand even into this small grave and perturbed the girl’s eternal rest. Savage shepherds desecrate the grave and, not finding the gold ornaments they anticipated, leave.
The Ani expedition manages to reach the grave in time and removes part of the little girl’s dress, her maiden’s belt and embroidered bodice from the soil of the ruined grave. These are now in the history museum of the Armenian SSR.
We leave the ruined grave depressed and go to the upper level of the mausoleum.
Before us we see a room – Probably the chapel-prayer room of the Tigran Honents family mausoleum. The walls are plastered, and we can see frescoes on them.
Mikayel began to draw.
In the morning he was working on a high relief sealed on stone and now, with a colored fresco.
Leaving the painter alone with his brush, paints and paper, I was sitting near the wall of the cave and from that height, lost in thought, looking around and admiring the panorama before me.
Some time passed and the voice of the painter roused me, as he was standing next to me, holding his finished work.
I was looking fascinatedly at the fresco on paper, and then scrutinizing the cavern wall.
Here on paper, painted in color, was the Tigran Honents, shall we say, chapel-cavern fresco, in live, bright colors with no distortions.
Leaving the Tigran Honents family museum, we set off towards Igadzor, towards Mazmanyan’s cave-dwelling where, bidding my friend farewell, I set off home, above Igadzor.
I was walking through ruins and piles of rubble. The thought of my friend Mikael’s mastery of the art of painting was constantly going round in my head and I went back in time to the depths of the centuries and began to think about Armenian mythology.
And imaginary thoughts besieged me on four sides. It seemed to me that our kind haralezes (legendary dog-like animals which resurrect victims of battle, by licking their wounds) had given back the breath of life to an old resident of Ani – a skilled painter – and here before me stands the re-born new Anetsi in a youthful form with a brush in his hand, with energy and impetuosity flowing through his veins….
Once again my friend, Mikayel Mazmanyan and I are walking around the ruins. This enthusiastic adolescent who has forgotten everything and, infatuated by the endless subject matter in this great academy of Armenian art and culture, works assiduously with paper, pencil, brush and paint in his hand without losing a second.
I, a junior Anetsi, love Ani and live for Ani and am overjoyed when many show love and respect for this city.
This magical city, like a patriarch, seems to be creating the soul of Mikayel, the future architect, with an invisible hand. It is infusing his essence with its centuries of experience and unprecedented sublime art.
And truly, years later, this youth’s encounter with the fragments of Armenia’s past, gave fruit.
One day Mikayel and I decided to visit subterranean Ani. There are two subterranean passages, which are well-known to this day, and which lead the visitor along paths plunged in everlasting darkness, towards the bowels of the earth.
The mouth of one of those passages opens beneath the Citadel in solid basalt masses on the Dzaghkotsadzor side, while the second opens near the Tigran Honents church, on the Akhurian valley side. This second subterranean passage, where man’s mind and pickaxe have dug deep into the pumice mass and gone into the depths of the earth with its bewildering paths, leads one towards obscurity.
We preferred the first, leaving the second for later.
Here we enter, crawling. The passage gradually expands both in height and width, so that shortly after, we can already walk standing up. We are moving by the fluctuating, blurry light of a candle which frequently goes out and we are buried in darkness. The air is thin and damp and makes our bodies tremble, and the gloomy dark is oppressive.
After walking a fair bit we noticed that the path was diverging; we had to choose one of the two. Questions arise before you and you don’t know which path to take.
Although I have had numerous opportunities to walk along those gloomy and inhospitable paths, there have been times that I also have erred.
We continue on our journey, going to the right. A little further on, the passage branches again and as we go deeper in, we get deeper into bifurcations which crowd us in like a spider’s web. My memory fails me here; we walk and walk and always come out at the same spot.
Magical paths, which stretch like winding ribbons and, buried in cemeterial darkness, oppress a person with their tight, cold sides. For a moment fear runs through my body and involuntarily unpleasant thoughts bedevil us… Are we perhaps condemned to remain in this distasteful dark passage, as our final resting place?
Suddenly our candle goes out; we are left buried in darkness and dampness.
And onerous thoughts were going round in my head, like dark ghosts. I wanted to move my leg…but a shiver ran through my body… my teeth chattered like a person with a fever. The cold death-sweat covered my forehead…I couldn’t lift my leg, as if a skeletal hand had come out of a grave and caught it and was pulling it… the matches Mikayel was lighting were going out, one after the other. I felt as if the skeletal hand was pulling my foot. Finally, Mikayel succeeded in lighting the candle and in the dim light I saw that my foot had been caught between two stones.
We are walking. Finally, a passage leads us and a little later a subterranean hall opens up before us. In the candle’s dim light we see human bones and skulls. I showed Mikayel a human thigh bone in that damp and gloomy room. Lifting the bone, I carefully pulled out a piece of paper from its hollow center, on which there were numerous signatures with different dates and periods of time. The author of that memorial leaflet was my mother, brave Nune, who had frequently had the opportunity of leading visitors to Ani through the subterranean labyrinth buried beneath those great mysteries.
We also added our signatures and dates to that piece of paper and inserted it back into the thigh bone.
Considerable time has passed since those days and if the memorial paper hasn’t decayed, we would still find our signatures there. But who knows? Will we be given the opportunity to see the sacred ruined city once again?
We continued our journey, which now was leading upwards, but stopped at a dead end. As a result of collapse, the passage was obstructed, burying the mystery of the exit point.
It is assumed that this subterranean passage is a secret path to the Citadel.
Leaving the dead end, we turned back. We took a short breather in the damp, dark hall where human bones and skulls were resting and, in the stifling air and unpleasant surroundings, we were pondering… during the times of those underground secret passages, when they were complete and operative, how many people had come in and out, and how many incidental people, unacquainted with the complex bifurcations of the gloomy paths, had become disorientated and perhaps desperate and, spending panic-stricken days approaching madness, had died in agony?
Without straying, we got safely out of that awful labyrinth, buried in cemeterial silence.
It is still morning. Coming out of subterranean Ani, we continue our tour. We slowly walked up to the Citadel.
There are four semi-ruined churches in the Citadel. The oldest of them is a seventh-century church which carries Ani’s oldest inscription (in Armenian) on its southern wall. The church was built at the time when the Citadel was merely a fort for the Kamsarakan dynasty. This seventh-century structure has unique embellished capitals. The second, the Citadel chapel with its engraving and extant dome. And the third and fourth, an octagonal church and one more. There we looked in detail at the1907-08 excavation sites. We saw the royal baths, water pipes, the remnants of the large hall in the palace, and other ruins.
There in the Citadel, a mausoleum rests solidly. It is the tomb of Gayl. At the top of its headstone, on its half-upright pedestal, there is a four-line inscription.
We passed round to the back of the Citadel and a magnificent scene opened before us.
From the south-east a headland stretches, forming a peninsula. That is the Virgin’s fortress. It is surrounded on three sides by continuous, inaccessible gorges, from the bases of which formidable rocks soar upwards, each perching on the others shoulders, thus creating natural fortifications. The Akhuryan grips the two sides of the peninsula with its rapids while on the Tsaghkotsadzor side, is the Ani rivulet. This section of Ani is the southern edge of the city.
Here the formidable landscape has taken the fortress of the Virgins into its bosom. Over there, a semi-destroyed tower and the remnants of walls can be seen, while in the center, a ruined church. All this blended in with nature. Silence lies heavy like lead and grips all the surroundings and has buried the entire deserted peninsula in mystery.
Above the Virgins’ fortress, falcons were soaring with broad wings outspread, their probing eyes peeled, hunting for prey.
This beautiful, fairytale panorama bewitched by friend Mikayel and, inspired, he began to sketch the Virgins’ fortress with his pencil.
We continue on our way. We go down on the south-easterly side of the Citadel towards the octagonal half-ruined church standing on the lip of the rock. Then, passing by the ruins of the walls, we come across a difficult passage. Below the walls there are numerous caves in the huge pumice masses. In bygone times, as a result of collapse, the caves were destroyed, the only traces left behind were the rear parts of the cave dwellings and chapels. Hand in hand, I and my friend climb carefully down over the piles of pumice. A plateau covered with multi-colored wild flowers and grasses spreads out before us, to the south-east of which the hellish path leads us towards the Virgins’ fortress. That inaccessible path which could be called “the devil’s way” is quite long. It scrapes past rocks and stretches in a long ribbon. Hard rocks squeeze us from the left side of the path and to the right the rocks form a sheer precipice into the gorge. A careless step and you’re doomed.
Holding our breath, our eyes fixed on the path stretched out before us, we move carefully forward along the “devil’s way” avoiding looking into the abyss… We finally finish our dangerous path and after a little climbing, reach the peak of the peninsula.
All around us are rock piles and ruins amongst which, as a solitary witness to its devoured but beautiful body parts, stands a magnificent monument whose northern and eastern walls are erect as is a corner of its western wall, on which delicate engravings are preserved as a sample of its beautiful body. The south-eastern corner of the southern wall is erect, keeping the church altar intact.
The people called this location Virgins’ fortress and that name has reached us, passed on from generation to generation. Here almost everything has been kept in virginal condition: everything is as it was when the ancient buildings collapsed; humans rarely step foot here.
Virgins’ fortress, with its grieving and heart-wrenching appearance, rests silently at the top of the peninsula, lamenting its inglorious condition. Its laments are accompanied by the dull murmurs of the Akhuryan, which is taking its muddy waters towards Mother Arax, to mix its anguish with her great anguish.
Here my friend, lost in vivid impressions, with his adolescent imagination describes, depicts and explains to me how the Virgins’ fortress may have been centuries ago, when it lived and breathed. With visual descriptions and broad hand gestures in the air, he was outlining the former erect church, adjacent buildings with their surrounding towers and ramparts and the residents living there.
We decided to forgo the “devil’s way” and return by another route. On the south-eastern side of the Virgins’ fortress, although there is no path or track, it is a thousand times easier to go down to the Akhuryan gorge. And that is what we did. This side which used to be fortified with ramparts, has now been turned into a pile of ruins. We went down to the Akhuryan gorge along the paths bears use, from where the only way to return is via Tsaghkotsadzor.
We went right at the Akhuryan gorge and entered Tsaghkotsadzor. Here, a wide valley full of flowers, through which the Ani rivulet flowed, opened up before us. The riverbanks were overgrown with reeds. That beautiful valley is gradually squeezed towards the north. And so, we returned to Ani along the tracks of that valley.
Underground Ani with its dark and mysterious paths had left a depressing impression on Mikayel. That mental state gradually disappeared when, in the following days, we went to Apughamrents and Prkich. These two beautiful monuments are expressions of the eleventh century Armenian ingenious, creative mind.
Here stands the Prkich church (Church of our Saviour).
With its charming design which soars proudly upwards with beautiful golden ratio proportions, it stands before us with its stately appearance, like a beautiful virgin. Two rows of delicate columns and arches surround the church’s polygonal torso. Although the entrance is small, the ingenious architect has given it a distinguished appearance and beautiful and severe expression in its simplicity. Above the entrance, in an external smooth area, the author has placed a delicate round skylight which also serves as a guide for those coming out of the church.
The beautiful high relief chain, which stretches and surrounds the church at a particular height and scientists have called a “Seljukyan chain”, catches our attention.
“I am amazed”, said Mikayek. “The church was built in the 11th century (1035). Why have they called it Seljuk? We know from history that the Seljuks invaded Armenia in the 13th century; there had never been even a trace of them in our country prior to that.
“Yes, it is strange,” I said, “but the fact is that knowledgeable men have deigned to give that name to that beautiful engraving, although in the 11th century that chain had no relation to the Seljuks, as our great scientist-architect, T. Toromanyan says”.
Our judgement about the Seljuk chain was limited to that much. We were too young to be able to go deeper into the origins of that strange name.
The polished stone cover of the church dome roof is mostly collapsed. Only the solid mass of lime mortar remains. That lime mortar is stronger and longer-lasting than the cement used nowadays.
The upper parts of the eastern and western sides of the southern wall of Prkich have acquired two cracks over time. Subsequently, at that point the church wall collapsed vertically. That collapse happened in 1960. However, bearing in mind that this magnificent monument was fundamentally renovated in 1912, then it puts into doubt the possibility that the collapse of the southern wall could have happened naturally.
In the past, Ani served as a stone mine for the surrounding villages and boroughs. They even came from Kars to take construction stones. If the stone-carrying apprentices had only taken the fallen stones, that would have been the lesser evil; however, they tore at the bodies of the solid monuments. That explains the condition of the monuments. You can see the absence of the lower rows of polished stones of walls and other magnificent buildings, where only mortar remains, proudly carrying the huge heavy walls of the monuments.
Only during Marr’s domination was the removal of even one plain stone forbidden. Care and attention was such that it was even forbidden to shoot off a rifle so that the strong fluctuations in the air would not damage the monuments.
The beautiful, simple entrance had captured Mikayel’s attention; he began to draw it.
I do not know why, but a strong inner desire was compelling my friend to go and see the second underground passage to Ani. We went the next day.
The mouth of the second underground Ani passage opens into the pale grey pumice masses on the upper right slope of the Akhuryan valley, a little to the east of the Tigran Honents church.
The people named Ani’s two underground passages “Gedan-gyalmaz” (he who departs, never returns)…
“Gedan-gyalmaz” (he who departs, never returns)… that frightening name alone is enough to grip a person’s inner world with a feeling of terror especially when, candle and matches in hand, you are preparing to go into the profoundly magical entrance where, in fear-inducing darkness, the passages stretch out in uncertain and unknown routes.
Yes, “Gedan-gyalmaz” (he who departs, never returns)…the characteristic label which the people’s imagination has stamped on those gloomy passages.
We enter, each of us holding one candle and a box of matches. After a short walk, here again the path bifurcates. We leave the right passage and walk straight on towards the west, along the passage directly before us. The underground passage is high and wide, so we are able to walk upright. Here and there we come across small holes which are artificial and are only at the edges of the paths. In certain places, closets are dug into the walls of the passages – we do not know for what reason. Perhaps as hiding places, or defense points, who knows?
The path bifurcates at certain distances. In order not to get lost, we leave marks on the walls or the ground and continue on our unknown path. The air becomes more and more stifling; the candles burn with difficulty. After walking for a considerable time, we come to a dead end. There has been no collapse here; it simply ends. It is possible that it was built so that random or insidiously deliberate people who entered would get lost, remaining endlessly in those secret passages. We decided to go back. We are walking….at the junctions, we carefully inspect the walls and ground in order to find our markings and be certain of our direction. We see a dim light ahead. The more we move forward, the brighter it becomes, meaning we are approaching the exit.
Close to the exit, at the first confluence, we enter the passage going east and after a small semicircular bend, that mysterious path leads us to a magical pit.
Under the flickering dim candlelight, we see the bottom of that pit, which was not that deep. I showed Mikayel the small ledges in the left and right of the walls of the pit. They were the footholds of that brutal path and were the only way to go down.
However hard and severe the pit is, it nevertheless pulls us towards it, like a magnet. Curiosity eats away at a person’s soul and, lost in the bosom of forgetfulness, wants to plunge into those fear-inducing, treacherous passages lost in cold silence and darkness, which to this day are buried in mystery.
This is not a place for jokes; extreme caution is necessary. Mikayel lit the pit up with the candle. I put out my candle in order to descend as it was necessary to lean against the wall with two hands and descend carefully, using the foothold-steps. I used both hands and feet in the task. Pressing my hands on the right and left walls of the pit and with the help of the footholds, I reached the bottom of the pit. Then I lit my candle and my friend began his descent; he reached the bottom successfully. After taking a short breather, we continued on our mad expedition. At the bottom of the pit, slightly at an angle, the path continues. A little later we reach another pit. Here the air is damp and fetid. This time, I lit up the mouth of the pit. Mikayel put out his candle and again, using the foothold steps, carefully started to descend. He hadn’t yet reached the bottom when, I don’t know why, I remembered a phrase from the chants and said it out loud.
“When they say ‘Sandaramet andndots’ (abyss of hell), this was it.”
My friend could not restrain his laughter and fell down. Although I was also laughing, my friend’s fall cut short my laughter like a knife.
“Well, what happened?” I called out, worried.
“I am alive,” could be heard from the bottom. Here, I could not control my laughter. I remembered Msra Melik’s exclamation from the bottom of the well. “I am alive, come again…”
Mikayel lit the pit up. I put out my candle and climbed down the ‘Sandaramet andndots’”
In the lower part of that ‘deep dungeon’, again after a small incline, the path continued; this of course would land us in front of another pit.
Sitting at the bottom of the pit, we are looking in the direction of the continuing passage. Curiosity is pulling us toward unknown depths.
Truly, “abyss of hell”…It’s as if in the darkness, at the mouth of the third pit, sitting on a piece of rock, a horned smile on its face, with fawning small movements, seemingly inviting us towards the abyss of hell. “Come, come, honorable friends…”
However, tired after visiting those two pits, we decline the treacherous invitation and decide to return to the “Promised Land” via the “Sandaramet.”
“The power of the unshakable will of the Armenian has created this underground passage,” said my friend, and we returned, bidding farewell to the buried dens in Sandaramet’s darkness.
Outside, the sun smiled at us.
The villagers in the surrounding villages knew many things about those difficult underground passages and describe and relate various versions under magical visions and vivid imaginations. Although not one of those story tellers had had the courage to enter the depths of those magical passages or go to the end; nevertheless, there was a certain amount of truth in what they related.
One told us how, on entering the depths of the earth through the underground passage near Tigran Honents or, as they call it Gedan-gyalmaz, he crossed under the Akhuryan River to the other bank and gradually stretching upwards, he came out at the top of a hill facing Ani, which occupies a dominating position.
That terrifying passage bifurcates now and then. Here, in the inner layers of the earth, mysterious halls of different sizes are hewn into the earth. Passing under the riverbed, water drips from the roof of the passage.
Another describes in imaginary vivid colors the underground dark journey through a network of passages which lead you out to Kars.
However, there is no doubt that those secret passages were of military importance for Ani.
***
We enter through the western door of Tigran Honents sculptured church. An entire gallery of murals opens in front of us. They depict different scenes in distant history, painted in bright colors. Centuries ago our skilled masters worked with paint and bush, without sparing their talent and vigor.
Signs show that during the construction of Tigran Honents church, it was not planned to cover the walls (internal) with murals. This idea came later, after the construction of the church. From the peeled plaster, it can be seen that the walls of the church (internal) were built using polished stones, just as in our other monuments. However later on, when it was decided to paint murals inside the church and the narthex, they were forced to scratch the polished stones using pickaxes to be able to keep the plaster on the walls, so that the plaster stayed in place. Those traces can be seen from the plaster that has come off the walls. The same can be seen in all of Ani’s monuments that have murals or only plaster.
It seemed as if a magnetic force constrained Mazmanyan in the walls of that cozy temple of centuries of art, and he was completely absorbed in those great values that we have inherited from centuries ago.
I could sense my friend’s emotional soul and was trying not to disturb his stormy inner world.
There was no empty space on the walls. The dome of the church was covered in murals from the top to the bottom.
Tigran Honents church bears the name of Grigor Lusavorich and naturally the majority of the murals are dedicated to his life and actions. The twelve sufferings of Lusavorich are depicted there in color: Lusavorich in Khor Virap; a woman is throwing bread into the pit; they are bringing Lusavorich in front of the Judge – King Trdat, and so on. There are many murals with religious content as well.
After attentively inspecting the murals for approximately an hour, my friend froze in front of a mural painted on the northern wall of the church. That was King Trdat’s parade together with kings from Georgia, Abkhazia and Aghvan and their bodyguards.
By turning the old lectern of the church into a table, Mikayel started his work from that mural. The fire of art was inflaming the young painter and giving warmth to his artistic breath. From the prolific movements of his arm the brush was accumulating speed and King Trdat’s parade was being depicted on the paper confidently and boldly.
While he was painting “Trdat’s parade”, I exited the church, leaving the painter alone.
After finishing his first work in Tigran Honents “Picture Gallery”, Mikayel exited the church to rest. He told me about those moments of horror that he had felt while working. Absorbed in work, in self-forgetfulness, he had focused solely on “Trdat’s parade”.
He was about to complete his work when he felt heavy breathing. A chill went through his body. Cold sweat covered his forehead… He froze in place. As if the depicted supernatural powers had nested under the gray arches of the isolated church… As if a phantom, dark creature was breathing heavily, and the empty space of the church was echoing with a pressing dull breath and weighing on him with a terrifyingly unpleasant feeling… He did not dare to look back for fear. Is it reality or a dream?
Holding his breath, he listened attentively. No, the heavy breathing was continuing. Now it could be heard more clearly. He could even feel the warm but unpleasant exhaling breath on the back of his neck. Yes, close, very close, immediately behind him.
Who and what kind of supernatural power is it that in this temple, buried in cold cemeterial silence, was horrifying his soul with a lethal terror, like an immortal creature that had woken up from deep sleep …?
Those seconds of fear were passing slowly, and an unpleasant cold current was coursing through every feverish fiber of his body …
He gathered strength and dared to look back. And what…? A tall Kurdish man with sunburnt face and broad shoulders was standing behind him with a hairy face and huge appearance. His disheveled long hair had escaped from under his Kurdish white hat {koloz} on his head. My friend was shocked by the presence of the unexpected visitor and his appearance.
And when his glance meets the other’s eyes, he sees astonishment, amazement and a smile in the eyes of that man with a terrifying appearance. He relaxes and takes a deep breath.
His eyes were smiling: he was staring in amazement at how that big and colorful mural on the wall had transported onto a small piece of paper with the same colors, and all of that was being done by a young man.
He says a couple of words in a language foreign to Mikayel. But my friend manages to understand. He replies with a smile by showing to him the large mural and its smaller version.
With his smiling eyes and surprised facial expression, he utters a couple more words and exits the church, shaking his head.
After a break, Mikayel starts working on other murals, after which he starts working on the beautiful sculptures on the exterior of the church.
Mikayel worked for about six days in the “Picture Gallery” of Tigran Honents.
The reproduction of “King Trdat’s parade” by Mazmanyan was immediately published in Garegin Levonyan’s 6th “Gegharvest” (Fine Arts) edition in 1917. He presented the original and two other Dehisus’ (Christ flanked by the Virgin Mary and John the Baptist) painted on the curved ceiling of the mausoleum of Tigran Honents to Garegin Archbishop (later on, Catholicos of Cilicia), at his request. If only those unique pictures had not gotten lost in the archives of the scientist.
***
My free days were passing unnoticed. I was touring with my restless friend in that extensive academy of art, where every monument, every fragment, which I had had the opportunity to see many times before, stood before me each time I visited with their charming appearance and presented themselves with a new language and form of beauty and mastery.
With its charming breath that magical city was filling my friend’s soul with an understanding of beautiful, unprecedented sublime art and great taste.
I noticed that Mikayel, submerged in his surroundings, had forgotten about everything, as if constrained with invisible chains. He did not feel the rapid passing of time, hunger and tiredness while surrounded by those weighty and old monuments, beautiful sculptures and diverse beautiful scenes created by Mother Nature, which were blending with the creations of human genius, creating a beautiful totality. All of this was both food and a powerful breath of internal energy for Mikayel and drove him to boldly comprehend that art and imbibe its beautiful breath.
We are walking…
We pass close by Apughamrets church. The narrow and tall windows of its drum resemble unblinking eyes, on the edges of which two murals had been drawn, resembling eyebrows raised in shock, as if they were staring into the desolate capital city in surprise.
And here are the ruins of the magnificent round temple of King Gagik I. It was erected in the 10th century, with its massive height and its majestic head boldly sitting on the edge of the structure and, like its master, looked proudly with a dominating expression, at the territories of the capital city, as a symbol of strong will and power.
The unique shape of the structure of the temple, was born in the 7th century in our mother land and even after its destruction, another of the exact same shape and volume was rising in the heart of the breathing capital city. However, time passed and that magnificent giant was also destroyed, burying its proud head in the rubble.
In his chronology, historian Asoghik briefly mentions the temple constructed by Gaghik and which part of the city of Ani Gagkashen was constructed in.
At that time, when the year 1000 was coming to an end… Armenian King Gagik voluntarily took the massive church, which had been located in the city’s field, named after St. Grigor and which had collapsed and was destroyed, and decided to erect one with the exact same size and shape in the city of Ani, towards Tsaghkotsadzor, on the plateau…
Aram Vruyr managed to find that site in 1904, after seeing the ruins of the magnificent Zvartnots which were found as a result of excavations near Ejmiatsin. He shared his opinion regarding the site he had identified, which was a large mound in the place described by Ashoghik (in Ani), with architect Toramanian, who was well acquainted with the structure and details of Zvartnots and confirmed Vruyr’s assumptions. Vruyr then informed Professor Marr, who during the years 1905-1906 initiated excavating that conspicuous mound, on which two chapiters resembling the chapiters in Zvartnots were lying as convincing evidence.
“Amongst the ruins of Gagkashen, Professor Marr found the statue of King Gagik I Bagratuni. It was standing inside the temple, in the northern part. During the collapse of the building the statue had broken into forty-eight pieces. Fortunately, the king’s head had remained undamaged.”
The skilled painter Poltaratski, a member of Ani’s expedition, collected the fragments of the statue and restored it, giving it an honorable place in Ani’s repository.
We have a vivid idea of the completed appearance and details of the Gagkashen St. Grigor round church from the sketch made by T. Toramanian, which was published in one of the 1908 editions of the “Husharar” theatrical-literary-fine arts bi-weekly periodical.
After bidding farewell to the ruins of Gagkashen, we walk towards the Hovvi church (Church of the Shepherd). It is located about one kilometer outside the northern walls of Ani.
We are standing in front of that delicate structure. That three-story small monument does not have any carvings. With its volumes and shapes piled on one another, it has formed a beautiful, small body, wrapped in simplicity.
The internal structure of the monument surprises every visitor. Six columns rise and curve and connect to one another in the center, creating a sheaf which hangs in the center of the chapel in the form of a lamp.
We are acquainted with Toramanian’s article on Hovvi church which was published in “Geghuni” under the title “A drop from the sea of Armenian fine art”, in which the scientist-architect describes in detail and highly rates that small church (it can be called a chapel), as a rare gem in historic Armenian architecture. And so that delicate monument, stands before us as a giant in all its greatness and fills us with fear and honor towards it.
A folk tradition has been woven around this magnificent structure and it has been named Hovvi church – a name which has reached us from generation to generation.
Although we were short on time, Mikayel couldn’t pass indifferently by this attractive creation that was causing surprise and amazement in people. With its star shaped floorplan and graceful body it stands desolately in the open field like a tortured, sad virgin and is constraining us with the attractive harmony of its different parts.
Mikayel took paper and pencil in his hand and, after finishing his work, we continued on our path.
We were walking with enthusiasm towards Horoms (Khoshavank).
We are passing through the “Fox” small canyon, which is half way along the road leading to Horoms (Horoms is about 7-8 kilometers away from Ani). After walking a short distance Khosher can be seen in the distance. Supposedly it is a victory arch constructed on the Ani-Horoms road. Here, after bidding good luck to my friend, I return to Ani.
Mikayel stayed in Khoshavank for two or three days and returned to Ani with an indelible stamp of surprise and amazement.
With their powerful and charming warm breath and as independent expressions of unprecedented art, the amazing creations of the creative minds of our genius ancestors were enchanting and shaping the soul of the future architect, Mikayel, with great ideas of taste and noble art.
The time to depart arrived.
Every inch of the sacred city was sanctified… It is difficult, it is very difficult to leave that magical circle… Your legs do not comply, you barely move from your spot. As if an invisible force is restraining you… as if the “decrepit elderly” of the city, with their venerable age, solid mien, bodies marked with deep wrinkles, buried in great mysteries, with their profound images where everything is always new and fresh, are draining you with their enchanting charm and inexplicable, constricting your soul with invisible bands.
My friend is sad and heavy-hearted.
With a sad face he bids farewell one by one to the honorable “elders” buried under the symbols of the grieving city.
We passed next to Ani’s Ana (Mother, referring to the Mother Cathedral) and left Prkich and the ruins behind us. After descending the small slope, the majestic church of Tigran Honents stood before us. We passed through the “Tigran” door, crossed Glidzor and exited the path on the right slope of the Akhuryan gorge. Here my friend bid farewell to the city of ruins with a last sad glance.
We continue our path through the narrow passage. My friend is silent… I am trying to dispel his sadness with conversation.
We bid each other farewell, beneath the village of Kharkov, on the bank of the Akhuryan.
Tigran, the boatman, helped Mikayel cross to the other bank of the river.
With the small suitcase where his three-month long achievements were stored in his hand, he climbed the road stretching between cliffs towards Kharkov village. I was accompanying him with my eyes, standing on the right bank of the river.
Mikayel disappeared from my vision.
I returned to Ani.
***
Nikolay Mikhaylovich Tokarski, 5th year student of the Civil Architecture Institute of Petersburg, worked in Ani’s 15th expedition team as an architect (1916).
In the summer of 1915, he was working in the Red Cross vanguard battalion of the Transcaucasian front. The battalion was stationed near the village of Ishkhan, in the basin of Jorokh. That village is the birthplace of renowned Catholicos Nerses Shinogh, who constructed one of the largest monuments in Armenian historical Art near Vagharshapat: Zvartnots.
And so for the first time in his life the young student saw Ishkhan Church, one of the beautiful pieces of art in Armenian architecture in the basin of Jorokh, constructed by Nerses Shinogh in the 7th century (completely renovated in the 10th century).
Tokarski was sitting under the massive monument’s grand arches which bore the creative stamp of the talented Armenian architect in their structure.
Taking advantage of the temporary ceasefire, without losing time, Tokarski began to study, draw and measure it.
Ishkhan Church became the solid link that steadfastly connected the young architect with Armenian architecture.
After returning to St. Petersburg at the end of 1915, on the advice of his acquaintances, Tokarski presented himself to Professor N. Ya. Marr and placed his measurements of Ishkhan on his table.
The professor got to know about the careful measurements of the young and enthusiastic student, with satisfaction. He opened the first door for Tokarski by inviting him to work in the 15th expedition of Ani as an architect. And so in 1916, we see him in the city of ruins, with a character specific to an artist – honest and straight, with an ardent fervor.
It was decided to go on a distant tour to Yeryeruk, Mren and Bagaran. The route was quite long.
«We have to rent horses”, said Tokarski.
Chubinov refused, arguing that he could not ride a horse.
“In that case let’s rent a carriage.”
“I also cannot sit in a carriage”, once again argued our strange leader. I think his objections were the result of his mean personality.
Even though the expenditure related to the transportation was to be covered by the expedition, that is what Chubinov’s weird personality dictated; we will have the opportunity to speak about it again later on.
Accompanied by Ani’s messenger we reached Yeryeruk via Ani station, where we stayed for about an hour and from there we returned to the station and left for Alagyaz by train.
It was close to evening.
We were forced to lodge in one of the station’s rooms, which the head of Alagyaz station provided us with.
“Artashes, tell Yesayi to find himself a place to spend the night.”
- Chubinov did not wish to stay with a messenger in the same room justifying it by the “smell” of his sweaty feet, without taking into consideration that we were all in the same situation.
To sleep in Alagyaz station means to wait until morning on chairs.
- Chubinov’s order was rude and I felt bad to say that to the messenger. I somehow managed to inform him. Yesayi was in an impossible situation: there was no other place to stay at the station. After thinking for some time, the messenger came up with a solution.
“The village of Bosh is around here, about three kilometers away, on the bank of the Akhuryan River. Our final destination toward Mren is through that village. I will go to Bosh village and sleep there. You will come early in the morning and we will continue on our journey,” said the messenger, took his rifle and disappeared in the dusk.
The sun had already set. I would have happily joined the messenger and gone to Bosh village to spend the night there if the burden of escorting Chibunov and Tokarski in the morning had not been placed on my shoulders.
A night of torture…
The bedbugs in the chairs of the station did not let us rest… But I was convinced that Ani’s messenger was calmly sleeping in a soft bed in the village of Armenian gypsies.
At dawn, tired and shattered, we bade farewell to the unappealing room in the station and set off along the path the messenger had shown us.
Our trio soon reached Bosh village where we found Ani’s messenger ready to lead us towards Mren and Bagaran.
We were short on time: to walk from Mren to Bagaran and return to Ani on the same day meant that we had to walk another 30-35 kilometers.
Leaving the issue of food aside, we continued our path. Near Bosh village we crossed to the right bank of the Akhuryan and moved forward through tedious and uncultivated lands. The fields were covered in colorful perennial flowers.
We finally reached Mren and the 7th century huge domed three-nave basilica of Mren stood before us. The remains of other monuments were also there, of which the beautiful entrance to the Sahmandi fortress, on the façade of which the construction inscription (in Armenian) was stamped, attracted the attention of the visitors.
This visit was haphazard and disorganized.
After observing all of Mren’s monuments, without visiting Bagran and still hungry, we hurried to return and quickly catch the train. That is what we did. We reached Alagyaz station on time and departed for Ani station by train, where the four of us only managed to eat one large watermelon; from there we went to Karmir monastery to see the church constructed by Smbat. We spent the night there and left for Ani the next morning. With this we finished our tour.
Every year, after finishing his activities, professor Mar would depart from Ani and leave the keys of the repository and stone depository with Father Mikayel. And when Father Mikayel was absent due to work, he would leave the keys with Ani’s messenger. In other words, the keys of the museums where always in Ani, so that Ani’s visitors could have the opportunity to see the museums. However, during this tour, which lasted three days, G. Chubinov had taken the keys of the museum with him, which caused discontent.
In our absence, a group of people had arrived in Ani from Tbilisi. They found the doors of the monuments closed and returned agitated and displeased and raised the issue in the periodical press.
On our way back from Mren, the Head of Ani’s station handed me a note. My father had written, “Artashes, I took a breath in Tbilisi – come. Your father.”
The note came as a surprise to me and was partly incomprehensible. It meant that my father had returned from Van and without coming to Ani he had gone on and reached Tbilisi. But why…? Why had he left so hastily? These were questions that I had…
Later on, everything became clear.
In 1915, the Armenian inhabitants of Van, Shatakh and a number of surrounding villages had escaped inevitable extermination by the savage Turkish Government, as a result of the rapid seizure of the above-mentioned territories by the Russian army and Armenian voluntary battalions. However, less than two months later they had begun to retreat.
The rapid retreat of the Russian army did not last long. Soon they reoccupied the territories they had abandoned.
Here, the Armenian highlands which were completely under terrible fire, where the ill-fated Armenians were tortured, deported and dismembered under the ruthless blows of the Turkish yataghan (a type of Ottoman knife or short sabre); and here in that nightmarish desert, at the time of the genocide, a small area of land – Van, Alashkert, Shatakh and other places, which had been liberated from the cruel, bloody hands of the enemy.. and suddenly in August of 1916, those liberated areas of Western Armenia – beginning from the lofty peak of Sipan, the Shatakh mountains and dark forests, and from Van to the fertile vales of Alashkert… with hails of bullets a new catastrophe burst over the heads of the newly liberated Armenian people – this time more terrifying, more disastrous. Another retreat by the tsarist army.…….
In 1916, that current of indescribable panic took hold of Aram Vruyr and H. Orbeli, who barely managed to escape and sped in a carriage towards Russia’s borders.
During that rapid escape, the carriage overturned on the road and the civilian Deputy Colonel fell on the poor adjutant. Orbeli was in a better condition; he had fallen on top of Aram Vruyr, who was lay semi-conscious on the side of the road.
Without hesitation the Deputy Colonel began to pour cognac down the poor adjutant’s throat. Even though that immortal liquid was pleasant and analeptic, it did not mitigate the pain in Vruyr’s ribs.
After recovering a little and fixing the cart they continued their hasty escape. But superstition dictates that second and third tragedies were inescapable. And truly, they met their second tragedy. On the road, the Russian guards suspect that Vruyr is a German spy. Orbeli manages to ward off and dispel the suspicions of the guards.
That indescribable panic, the misery and annihilation of the outcasted Armenian nation had shaken Aram Vruyr’s sensitive heart.
Poor Armenian nation, with ruined homes and nests, walk as long as you have strength in your feet to carry you towards foreign and unknown horizons. This was the entire substance of the short note that I had received from my father.
A couple of days later Professor Mar returned alone to Ani from Van. After checking the works carried out in Ani that year he came to my studio.
“Artashes, what work have you carried out to date.”
I placed 27, 13/18 size negatives on the table, the content of which comprised of goats and other inscriptions on the fragments of various barrels and 7-8 negatives were from photographing the 8th century church that was excavated in 1911.
After placing the lenses on his eyes, the outraged professor asked, “Is this all the photographing work?”
“Professor, Mr. Chubinov’s instructions were limited to the fragments of this barrel and the church near the collapsed minaret.”
I do not understand what kind of a man is he? Couldn’t you initiate anything independently? Wasn’t there anything to photograph? You could have photographed the caves.”
I fell silent; I was in an uncomfortable situation.
The professor gave instructions for my future works. Then we entered the dining room while conversing. He opened the cupboard and saw the bottle of cognac which he had left in the cupboard before departing for Van.
“You did not even have the decency to drink a bottle of cognac. He was expressing surprise and outrage.
Here, I barely managed to contain my laughter.
“What could I do, Professor? Mr. Chubinov did not open the cognac bottle”, I said shyly.
“Mr. Chubinov is a weird man. I am simply surprised.”
On the next day I began to work. Scraping along the slopes of Tsaghkotsadzor I was choosing spots and lighting and photographing caverns. I was happy firstly, because I was working and secondly, that I was working with Ani’s improved camera, which had been brought back to Ani from Van.
That year Shushan Pahlavuni’s church was excavated near the Citadel.
The excavation work had finished. One day, in the morning, after breakfast, taking his draft sketches, N. M. Tokarski was preparing to leave the breakfast room and the professor asked, “Where are you going?”
“Towards Tsaghkotsadzor: I need to continue the measuring. Besides, only the drafts of the 8th century church near the collapsed minaret have been done.”
Prior to departing for Van, the professor had instructed Tokarski to measure and edit the drafts of several caves, as well as the sketches of the church that was excavated in 1911. However, after Professor Marr’s departure his deputy was editing the instructions of the scientist and ordering Tokarski to only measure (draft) there, and edit in Petersburg later, probably to save time.
However, Professor Marr’s instruction was so small that Tokarski could easily finalize all of them without any trouble in Ani.
“The activities of the expedition have been completed. Now is the time to go home and rest and leave the unfinished work for next year”… The professor said these words restraining his anger.
Did G. Chubinov understand that subtle reproach that was directed towards him? I do not know.
I photographed the eight-cornered church of the Citadel with its semi-standing dome, in detail.
And so, the activities of the 15th expedition of Ani finished in 1916.
The professor suggested that I work in Ani the next year as well (1917). I agreed and after bidding farewell to all the team and workers of the expedition, departed for Tiflis.
Photo – Gevorg Haroyan
