A home in the Fioletovo village in the Lori province of Armenia. Image via flickr.com/rietje

A home in the Fioletovo village in the Lori province of Armenia. Image via flickr.com/rietje

The Blind Girl: Village Memories

by | February 9th, 2012 | 1 comments
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This is a translation of a short story by Zabel Yessayan, which was originally published in the first issue of Archag Tchobanian’s journal Dzaghig in 1895.

Rising from trunks covered in thick vegetation, giant tree branches swayed in the darkness, creating moving shadows. The spicy, pungent smell of summer flowers spread intoxicatingly through the peaceful air. In the dark silence, the mechanical buzzing of an insect could be heard and sometimes even forgotten in its monotony. And from afar, the sound of a dog traveled towards me, crying with a pathetic, sickly bark.

Time passed very slowly, so much so that you could almost see the clouds, the outlines of which seemed to disappear into the jet-black sky, rolling in and out. Suddenly, once the barking ended with a desperate cry, the melody of a song resonated and gradually drew closer. The sound was exceptional. The melody flowed effortlessly, trembling with sweet undulations. Abruptly, it would rise, delightfully yet powerfully, and would fall once again and fade, as if the sound were emanating from a compressed chest.

Under the intoxicating influence of the song and of the night, there appeared to be invisible fairies singing in the air, the dreamy sweetness of the sound confirming my delusion.

A little while later, the sound stopped. In a nearby meadow, a slow humming could be heard instead.

Everything else was silent, motionless. We stretched out on the grass, our minds wandering among different thoughts.

I now realized that under these trees, a human chest was swelling with emotion.

Surrounded by folds of darkness and countless shadows, it was impossible to see a step ahead, but I could hear light footsteps approaching us.

We were not afraid. Maybe one of the tenants had stayed in the garden. But just then, I felt the sensation of breath on my face and a familiar voice said to me:

“Please tell me, where am I?”

I understood immediately. It was the blind girl.

She was a young girl, lovely and blonde, who lived in one of the rooms in our house with her father. She was blind, but her closed eyes were no reason to deny the overall attractiveness of her face, which nevertheless possessed a painful charm. She sat next to me on the grass, wet from frozen dew.

“Were you the singer?” I said softly, as if afraid to disturb the heavy silence around me.

“Yes,” she said and, after a moment, added, “Oh, I went mad tonight. Tortured by my memories, I fled to the garden and, forgetting everything, sang. Now, I don’t know where I am. I felt my way to this point.”

I had always been interested to know more about this poor girl’s past. Not wanting to miss this opportunity, I asked:

“Which memories were troubling you?”

“Tomorrow,” she said solemnly, “is the anniversary of my brother’s death.”

“Of your brother?”

“Akh, don’t ask me now,” she responded. “I will tell you tomorrow morning.”

It had gotten late and we both returned home. I spent the hours that remained until morning quite restlessly; it was not yet dawn when I rose. From a side window, I could see a wide field extending towards a row of mountains on the horizon. In the distance, the thick branches of a single pine tree extended towards it as well. The village was still asleep. The sound of ringing bells drew nearer. From very early in the morning, villagers on horseback were transporting containers of milk to nearby villages. A little while later, roosters began to crow, the sound mingling with the bleating of sheep and the bellowing of calves.

Downstairs, the woman of the house had already risen and was now at work behind a cow, leading it towards the field with a goad. I went downstairs. Within ten minutes the entire village had risen. On one side of the village, a man walked with farming tools slung over his shoulder; on another side, a girl carrying milk materialized.

Between two mountain peaks, thick, gray clouds gradually whitened and turned pink. On the horizon, all the small clouds that were scattered across the sky raced towards them. Five minutes later, we were walking arm in arm through the crisp grass.

As the flocks were being taken to pasture, we walked among the sheep, breathing in the clean air, in which the scent of wild flowers had the taste of mixed honey.

As our feet trampled over the dew-moistened grass, the scent of violets hidden within it drifted through the air.

The church bell rang unsteadily. In the distance, goats leapt playfully in the thicket.

We sat under a tree and, as my eyes turned to the blue of the sprawling Marmara before us, the blind girl told me her story.

I discovered this time that a few years earlier she had been living happily with her brother, until he became infected with small pox during an epidemic. They kept her far from her brother, her father tending to her on his own as her mother had already passed away.

One evening, disregarding the imposed separation, she slowly crept down to her brother’s bedroom, with much hesitation and fear, not for herself, but for the horrible surprise that would greet her upon seeing her brother lying down in the corner of his room.

She managed to slip into her brother’s room once her exhausted father had gone to bed.

That night, very early in the morning, the condition of her sick brother worsened and death’s agony began. But she could not tear herself away from him.

Her head against his, the sister and brother spoke to one other, their eyes brimming with tears.

Nearing the end of his life, her brother begged her to sing. The girl had a beautiful voice.

Choked by her tears, the poor girl sang the sweetest, most sorrowful song.

The song had not yet ended when her brother passed away.

The following day she also fell ill. For her, the small pox was crueler. It did not take her life, but permanently drained the light from her eyes.

When she finished the story, she gently put her head on my shoulder and began to sob. Sobs without tears are the saddest of all.

She later composed herself and started to sing her song once again, the same song that she had sung the night before.

The song seemed sadder to me now, more painful.

The melody of the song was so sweet, so poignant that it seemed more like spoken grief, like a sigh put to music.


Comments

  1. Aram says:

    Thank you to the author for a beautiful translation. The story is riveting in its simplicity, and powerful. Thank you for keeping this wonderful Western Armenian literary heritage alive…