We were sailing for Aghtamar. The little steamer cut across the flat of the lake, and ahead of us the island slowly grew. It is a crossing of twenty minutes only—twenty minutes of May-coloured blue, of wind, and of sunlight playing in the water.
Once upon a time, so the legend runs, a young man swam these three kilometres every night. He swam towards a light, kindled for him by the girl he loved, whose name was Tamar. He swam, and he knew that she was waiting. Then one night the light was not there. Her father had put out rather more than a lamp. The young man called, and swam, and went on believing. And when his strength finally left him, he was still calling her name:
Agh, Tamar…
—a cry that in Armenian sits almost exactly where an English argh would.
Since then the island has borne her name. And everyone who approaches it peers at the shore as though half expecting that a light might yet flare up—that the miracle might still be available.
There they are: those same three kilometres from the shore. The scene of an ancient tragedy, in which the turquoise surface is the stage, the emerald meadows at the foot of the mountain are the wings, and snow-covered Artos is a backdrop worthy of any great drama.
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances.
Sometimes they play with inspiration. More often in a hurry, off the script, or with all the conviction of an amateur dramatic society. But one thing in this production is beyond reproach, and that is the set.
The direction may limp a little. The production designer, however, is a genius.
