Girls are given in marriage at a very early age, some when they are but twelve years old; but men seldom marry before they are twenty-two.
The wedding ceremony, as I remember seeing it in my childhood, and as it still takes place in Armenia, where customs à la Franca have not yet penetrated among the primitive, semi-civilized people, is a truly curious proceeding. Like the Turkish wedding, it takes place on a Monday. A priest is sent by the bride’s parents to inform those of the bridegroom that all is ready and the Duhun may begin. On the Friday, invitations are issued and the bride is taken to the bath with great ceremony. On the Saturday, musicians are called in, and all the young maidens assemble to partake of a feast intended especially for them, and extended to the poor, who come in flocks to share in the good things.
Next day this festivity is repeated; the dinner is served at three, and the young men are allowed to wait upon the girls—a rare privilege, equally pleasing to either sex, at other times excluded from each other’s society—and it is needless to say that they now make the most of their opportunities.
As soon as this repast is over, the married people sit down to the wedding dinner in a patriarchal fashion, husband and wife side by side, while the young men are the last to partake of the bridal repast. In the evening, they are again admitted to the company of the ladies, on the plea of handing refreshments to them. About ten o’clock the bride is taken into another room by her friends, who place upon her head a curious silver plate, over which a long piece of scarlet silk is thrown, falling to her feet, secured at the sides by ribbons, enveloping her in a complete bag, drawn tight at the top of her head, under the silver plate; two extraordinary-looking wings called sorgooch, made of stiff card-board, covered with feathers, are fastened on each side of the head. When this disguise is complete, the bride, blindfolded by her veil, is led forth from the apartment, and conducted by her father or nearest male relative to open a round dance, during the performance of which money is showered over her. She is then led to a corner, where she sits awaiting the arrival of the bridegroom in the solitude of her crimson cage.
The bridegroom’s toilette begins early in the afternoon: he is seated in the middle of the room surrounded by a joyous company of friends; the gingahar, or best man, and a host of boys arrive, accompanied by the band of music sent in search of them.
The barber, an all-important functionary, must not be overlooked: razor in hand, girded with his silk scarf, his towel over one shoulder, and a species of leather strap over the other, he commences operations, prolonged during an indefinite period, much enlivened by his gossip and bon mots, and turned to his advantage by the presents he receives from the assembled company, who, one by one, suspend their gifts on a cord, stretched by him for the purpose across the room. These gifts consist chiefly of towels, pieces of cloth, scarves, etc. When the gossip considers the generosity of the company exhausted, he gives the signal for the production of the wedding garments, which, brought in state together with the bridegroom’s presents to his bride, must receive the benediction of the priest before they can be used.
After the evening meal has been partaken of, the gifts, accompanied by the musicians, are conveyed to the bride, the company following with the bridegroom, who walks between two torches, and is met at the door by another band of music.
On entering the presence of his future mother-in-law and her nearest relatives, he receives a gift from her and respectfully kisses her hand. Allowed a few moments’ rest, he is seated on a chair between two flaring torches, after which he is led into the presence of his veiled bride, to whom he extends his hand, which she takes, extricating her own with difficulty from under her duvak, and is assisted to descend from her sofa corner, and stands facing her betrothed with her forehead reclining against his. A short prayer, called the “half service,” is read over the couple; their hands, locked together, must not be loosed till they arrive at the street door, when two bridesmaids supporting the bride on each side lead her at a slow pace to the church.
The procession is headed by the bridegroom and his men, followed by the bride and the ladies; no person is allowed to cross the road between the two parties. On entering the sacred edifice, the couple, making the sign of the cross three times, offer a prayer, believing that whatever they ask at this moment will be granted them; they then approach the altar steps and stand side by side. An Armenian superstition considers some days more propitious than others for the celebration of weddings, consequently a number of bridal couples generally collect on the same day, and at the same hour. I was present on one occasion when the church at Broussa, although a vast building, scarcely sufficed to accommodate the friends of the sixty couples waiting to get married. The brides, all similarly dressed, were pushed forward by the dense crowd of relatives, friends, and spectators towards the altar, where the sixty bridegrooms awaited them, standing in a line. Two brides, alike in stature, changed places, in the hurry and confusion of the moment. One was a pretty peasant girl, whose only dower was her beauty, destined to become the wife of a blacksmith; the other was the ugly daughter of a wealthy Armenian, about to be united to a man of her own station. The mistake was noticed, but the nuptial knot being already tied, it was too late to be rectified, no divorce for such a cause being allowed among Armenians.
The bridegroom who could only complain in a pecuniary point of view made the best of it,—doubtless consoled by the adage that beauty unadorned is adorned the most; while the blacksmith, greatly benefited by this unexpected good turn from Dame Fortune, had probably pleasant dreams of abandoning the hammer and anvil and passing the rest of his days in ease, affluence, and plenty, and was ready to admit that riches, like fine garments, may hide a multitude of defects.