Gevorg Marzpetuni
Muratsan’s masterpiece is the historical novel Gevorg Marpetuni, set in the 10th century, when the Bagratuni Kingdom was being consolidated by King Ashot II Yerkat. This period, roughly 75 years after the kingdom was founded and about 100 years before it fell, was the culmination of centuries of ferment in the Armenian Highlands. During the reign of Ashot I (Ashot II Yerkat’s grandfather), a centralized Armenian state had reemerged between 855-885 after several centuries of regional turmoil. Rebounding from Armenia’s partition between Byzantium and Persia in 387, the fall of the Armenian Arshakuni kingdom in 428, and the Arab invasions in the mid-600s, the Armenian Kingdom of the Bagratunis was renowned for its capital, Ani, a significant metropolitan center, with 1001 churches and population of nearly 100,000.
Despite the political and military tumult, the centuries leading up to the establishment of the Bagratuni Kingdom were a defining period for Armenian identity. It was during these centuries that Armenia converted to Christianity, established a national church, created the Armenian alphabet, and produced a golden age of culture, literature, music, architecture, theology and philosophy. This religious-cultural identity provided a cohesive force in the face of provincial rivalries among Armenian nobles and external pressures from Byzantines, Persians, Arabs and Turks. The broad geographic setting of the novel, ranging east to west from Artsakh to Taron and north to south from Georgia to Syria (see map), is an indicator of the geopolitical forces at play in this period of Armenian history and the diversity of interests and personalities involved.
The events in the novel take place largely between 920 and 940, during the reign of the Armenian King Ashot II. The stormy times called for a strong hand and Ashot II rose to the occasion, hence, his moniker, Yerkat, that is, “Iron.” However, the key figure of the novel is not the powerful king, but the patriotic Gevorg Marzpetuni, a soldier-diplomat with an unwavering dedication to the common good of the nation. At each critical juncture, Prince Gevorg Marzpetuni helps the King navigate the turbulent rivalries inside and outside the kingdom to protect Armenia.
Muratsan’s novel is a study in buffer state politics and elite intrigue, interwoven with keen observations on the pitfalls of ruling such a realm, ranging from interpersonal dynamics to the geopolitical relations. He perceived these tensions as a recurrent part of the human condition and especially the circumstances of Armenia. Its geographic location at East-West, North-South crossroads and its historical ties with neighboring countries and invaders seemed bound to produce internal and external conflicts, overwhelming even for those with the best of intents.
He saw the parallels with his time and wanted to share these insights with 19th century readers. Keen to cultivate awareness of Armenian history among his readers, Muratsan drew on contemporary accounts by such historians as Hovhannes Draskhanakerttsi (840-930), Stepanos Taronatsi Asoghik (10th – 11th c.), Tovmas Arstruni, as well as modern historians who synthesized these primary sources, such as the Michael Chamchian (18th-19th c.). And he drew lessons for his times from these archetypical situations and used fictionalized clashes among decisionmakers as a way to highlight the choices and to challenge the conventional wisdom.
Most famously, he challenged the conventional wisdom that individuals cannot make a difference. Turning the folk saying, “spring doesn’t come with one flower” on its head, he entitled one of the chapters of the novel “spring can come with one flower.” A writer of the romantic era, he wrote with a sense of urgency, but was realistic about the challenges and the consequences of missteps, not the least of which was inaction.
In a noteworthy scene, Gevorg Marzpetuni is talking with Prince Vahram, commander of Gardman castle in Artsakh. Prince Vahram was caught between his loyalties to King Ashot Yerkat and the rebellious nobles of neighboring principalities, who had already flipped sides and opposed the King. To keep peace with his neighbors, he played along with these nobles to gain an insider’s view of the rebels’ plot.
Marzpetuni questions this approach in a memorable scene. With echoes of the 13th cent. Cilician fabulist Vardan Aygektsi’s fable about the goats and the wolf, Muratsan warns:
“And you shall never raise your hand against your brother. And yet, perhaps you could have prevented this division by more tactful means. To preserve the integrity of the state, yes, one must never shed the blood of his brother, but it is always possible to disarm the rebellious blood brother through cunning. Everywhere the mob is like sheep who, by being deceived by the words of the wolf surrender their guardian dogs to win the wolf’s friendship, but every time, the latter, after having strangled the guardian dogs, has invariably devoured the sheep. Those princes who exploit the common herd’s credulity should be hanged. It is the duty of each of us to rise against such traitors. He who is the enemy of the fatherland’s throne should be regarded by every Armenian as his personal enemy. Because, after the loss of this rich heritage which has been won by such heavy sacrifices, there is nothing left for them except slavery and serfdom.”
“I know all that, yet I had no way of resorting to crafty means, my dear Prince.”
“Very well. I don’t blame you. What is done is done. Our present task is how to heal this division. Have you thought about it? Can’t you see that we are heading for the precipice?”
Originally appearing in serialized form in 1896 in the Tiflis-based Armenian journal Ardzagank (Echo), the novel has its share of cliff-hangers and romantic subthemes to keep the readership in suspense until the next installment. It was published in book form in 1912, only after the author’s death.
Like the original, this English translation by James Mandalian was issued in installments in the English-language quarterly The Armenian Review from 1951-53. The version presented here is largely based on Mandalian’s admirably readable translation, with the addition of certain passages omitted in his translation and updating of proper names consistent with current practice.
Although written over 150 years ago about events over 1200 years ago, this novel has lessons for our times in the early 21st century. Buffer states are unhappy places, roiling with internal proxy fights and external conniving–a witch’s brew. For a short time in the past few decades it seems that the lessons from the 3000-year school of hard knocks might have produced a little immunity to curb these self-destructive impulses, but in the guise of “democracy,” people continue to succumb to the self-righteous siren songs of internal rivalry and external leveraging, the Scylla and Charybdis of buffer states. It has always been a fragile, dicey situation; what little immunity there may be seems to wear off with generation change.
Of course, nations and countries are path-dependent, so the past in part accounts for trajectory, but it need not determine destiny. It is not enough to try to understand how we got where we are or to identify the persistent features of our situation without taking into account chance, personal agency, and changing circumstances. Indeed, brittle determinism poses its own risks, which may be just as dangerous as ignoring the past (and being condemned to repeat it either way). As Muratsan reminds his readers, the spring can come with one flower.