LIST OF MAPS AND PLANS

CHAPTER I

DESCEND INTO TURKISH TERRITORY

October 24.—The track which we were following winds for some distance along the spine of the range. You cross and cross again from the one to the other watershed, overlooking now the open spaces of the southern landscape, now the narrow and encumbered cañon of the Araxes below the adjacent cliffs of the tableland. The rocky parapets and gloomy valleys appear to extend from basin to basin, at right angles to the axis of the chain. West of the crags about us, and isolated from them, rose a shapely mass with black but snow-streaked sides. Darkness was falling when we descended from this lofty position into one of the valleys of the southern slopes. In its recesses we came upon a little Kurdish settlement, which seemed to promise shelter during the night.

Kurtler—Kurds! No sooner have we crossed the frontier than we find ourselves in their midst. The mountains of Kurdistan are more than 100 miles distant; yet these parasites fasten upon the countryside. Still their presence is appropriate and is not unwelcome, so long as they are confined to alpine solitudes like those which surround the village of Chat. Tufts of grass, interspersed with an endless crop of stones, were the only pasture which we had seen for some time. Yet the shepherds were in possession of a considerable stock of hay, against the approach of a winter season which can scarcely lack rigour at an elevation of 6700 feet above the sea. Their habitations just protrude above the level of the ground; and, once within the doorway, you proceed through narrow passages into the very bowels of the earth. In the darkness you stumble upon the forms of cattle or wake a ragged child. We took up our quarters in one of the largest of the subterranean chambers, lit our candles, and spread our carpet on the bare soil. We were surprised to discover that the roof of the apartment was artificial—layers of mud and straw, held together by laths of wood, and supported by huge beams. The walls, too, were built up of rough stones, plastered together; it was evident that the room was only three-parts buried, and that it communicated directly with the outer air. In fact we could see an aperture, the rude counterpart of a window, above the opening to the winding passage through which we had come. On the side opposite this only entrance a square hole in the face of the wall nourished a smouldering fire. The smoke wreathed upwards to a vent in the roof, or was sucked inwards towards the tunnelled approach.

When morning broke we were glad to issue from the fetid atmosphere of this human burrow into the pure mountain air. A few gaunt figures were standing upon the higher stages of the eminence which had provided a suitable site for these underground operations, and which rose like a large ant-hill from the waste of stone. Women squatted before the doors of the straggling tenements, weaving the bright rugs for which their race is famed. We proceeded down the glen, along the banks of a little stream. It finds an easy exit from the heart of the mountains, threading the trough of one of the meridional valleys. After riding for an hour and a half, we opened out the southern landscape from some high ground above the village of Amat ([Fig. 108]).

Ala Dagh Murad (invisible) Passage of Murad Kilich Gedik

Fig. 108. Plain of Alashkert from the Slopes of Aghri Dagh.

The great plain of Alashkert was outspread before us, bounded on the further side by the snow-capped mountains of the Ala Dagh, which stretched across the horizon from the east. Just before us, this lofty range was seen to recede into the misty background, the outlines bending away towards south-west. But the barrier was resumed at no considerable interval by a chain of hills, less distant, although of humbler proportions, called Kilich Gedik, or the sharp sword. We could just descry the site of Karakilisa, backed by the recess of the Ala Dagh. We knew that the Murad must be flowing through that nebulous passage in the opposite bulwark of the plain. The surface of the ground below us was level as water; the expanse was greatest in the west. In that direction the spurs of the range upon which we stood plunged by a succession of promontories into the floor of the plain. We were reminded of the valley of the Araxes in the neighbourhood of Erivan. Both depressions have the appearance of inland seas at the foot of the mountains, the one on the northern, the other on the southern side. But that of Alashkert is much more elevated (5500 feet), and less sheltered; you miss the presence of those extensive stretches of orchard and verdure which soften the landscape through which the Araxes flows. The eye wanders out over dim, ochreous tracts, broken by patches of fallow, and seamed by white rivulets. Just below the Armenian settlement we reached the margin of the level ground, and cantered along, almost on a compass course. We saw several insignificant villages; but the district was wild, the soil for the most part unreclaimed. Flocks of duck and geese took wing at our approach; cranes, with their long necks, sailed across the sky. In the course of an hour and a half we reached the street of Karakilisa, a distance from Amat, measured direct, of 9 miles.

A motley crowd collected round us as we enquired for the government quarters; a hundred curious faces were upturned towards us, and our ears were greeted with the cry of Ferengi! Ferengi! passed like a shuttlecock from mouth to mouth. The little town was full of stir; new shops and houses were in course of erection; it was evident that trade and traffic were on the increase. We had almost crossed it from end to end, when we were ushered into a modest building, of which the hall or outer chamber was thronged with people, for the most part peasants; while an old servitor or usher, with white beard and a flowing robe, was marshalling the rows of slippers by the threshold of an inner door. At our approach he drew aside the quilted curtain which screened this sanctuary, and turned the handle and bade us pass within. The low divan, which on three sides followed the walls of the apartment, was already occupied by a full complement of seated figures; they appeared to be engaged in deliberation when we broke in upon their séance. A little man with vivacious eyes was directing the conversation; he sat on the only chair behind a table covered with faded baize. Although we could scarcely doubt that our arrival had been announced beforehand, we seemed to take these notables by surprise. The little man rose from his chair; the assembly huddled together in order to give us place on the divan. Compliments were exchanged; coffee and cigarettes were provided; the discussion was adjourned by tacit consent. One by one, after satisfying without displaying their curiosity, the councillors stole from the room.

Fig. 109. Group of Kurd Hamidiyeh Cavalry.

Meanwhile the figure at the table—it was the Kaimakam, or district governor—had examined our numerous and weighty credentials, and had directed a billet to be provided and prepared. Our effects, which arrived later, were not subjected to examination; no excisemen or policemen dogged our steps. Such officials are almost unknown in this happy country! so we reflected with a sense of immense relief. The way they worry the people in the neighbouring empire passes the capacity of the uninitiated to realise. The Greek poet was certainly wrong when he gave expression to the sentiment that anarchy is the greatest of human ills. Here we were, enlightened observers, exchanging order for disorder with rapturous delight! We were free to wander as we willed, to enjoy a British liberty without so much as the restraint of roads and walls. Coming from Russia, the contrast was indeed startling; independence is far preferable to feeling reasonably certain that you will not be knocked on the head by a Kurd.

The Kaimakam escorted us to the adjacent barracks, in which a whitewashed room had been made ready to receive us. It belonged to the quarters of the superior officer—with the rank of Miralai—a Turk of great stature and broad shoulders, to whom we were introduced. He wore a dark blue military tunic of European pattern and material; but he had forgotten to fasten the lower buttons of this imposing garment, as well as the upper ones of the trousers beneath. His mouth and ears and nostrils were of unusual proportions; the expression of the face was kind, and denoted a childlike, buoyant nature—de bonne bête humaine, as one might say. In him we found an agreeable and a sensible companion. He bustled about the place, was accustomed to shave each Friday; he settled every difficulty with eh, wallah! accompanied by a hearty laugh. From time to time the troops were visited by the Liva, or commandant, an aged figure with a beard of snow. He had been at Plevna, and had made the campaign of Bulgaria; but nothing remained of him now but a worn-out body, made doubly infirm by an inveterate habit of getting drunk.

The peculiar care and constant plague of these high officials were the newly-enrolled regiments which, under the name of Hamidiyeh, flatter the vanity but sap the throne of the reigning Sultan. Am I guilty of indiscretion when I say that the prevailing opinion of them in official circles is one of contempt, not unmixed with alarm? Your high-placed Turk will quote at their expense his favourite proverb, the fish begins to stink from the head. The young men are the sons of their fathers, who are Kurds and brigands; the example of the fathers is transmitted to the sons. Something might be done, if the process were arrested—if the recruits were removed from their homes. When I objected that the Tsar’s Cossacks presented in some respects a hopeful analogy, I would be met by the reply that the Russian autocrat employed strong measures, the like of which the Turkish Government was too mild to enforce.

Fig. 110. Group of Karapapakh Hamidiyeh Cavalry.

Perhaps my reader is already aware that the Hamidiyeh are irregular cavalry, who owe their origin to the endeavour of the Sultan Abdul Hamid to emulate the example which gave to Russia her Cossack troops. They are recruited for the most part among the Kurdish tribes; the name of yeomanry expresses the nature of their military service, but cannot be applied to the class to which they belong. The force is still undergoing the initial process of organisation. At the time of our journey it afforded the principal topic of conversation. Yuzbashis, or sergeants, of the regular army were being poured into the country, and distributed among the villages, to instil into the shepherds the rudiments of drill. Depots of arms were being established in convenient centres; and it was the intention of the authorities to keep the weapons under lock and key, except when they should be required for the annual trainings in spring. Hundreds and thousands of suits of uniform were arriving in the principal towns, loaded on bullock carts. Each regiment had been allowed to exercise its own fancy upon the choice of a distinctive garb. The result was an incongruous mixture of the braids and gold lace of Europe with the Georgian finery of a serried row of silvered cartridge cases, banded across the breast of a skirted coat. How proud they seemed, and how insensible of their ridiculous appearance in our eyes—the long-beaked Kurds, the swarthy Karapapakhs, masquerading down the street of Karakilisa in these strange creations of the tailors of Pera or Stambul! They did not require pressing to consent to be photographed—a group of Kurds ([Fig. 109]), a group of Karapapakhs ([Fig. 110]). Some of the principal officers of either regiment are represented in my illustrations; and I would beg my reader to observe the seated Kurd in the Georgian dress—it is Eyub Pasha with his son and nephew. Behind him stands his principal henchman, who, although a Kurd, has seen service with regular troops.

In the caza, or administrative subdivision, of Karakilisa three regiments of Hamidiyeh have been enrolled. Two are recruited from Kurds of the Zilanli tribe; the third from Karapapakhs. This people—who take their name from their caps of black lambskin—are found on either side of the Russo-Turkish frontier, and are no doubt related to the Tartars of Azerbaijan. The Kaimakam informed me—but I question whether his statement, even if true, can apply to more than a small number—that the fathers of those among them who inhabit this district were followers of the famous Shamyl. According to his account they were at that time settled in Daghestan, whence they removed to their present seats. He added that their villages were 8 in number in this caza; that their regiment had a strength of 800 men; and that they had branded no less than 650 horses with the military mark. Their chief, Ali Bey, is a man of hideous features, whom we recognised as the same individual who had been seated in the place of honour, when we broke in upon the deliberations of the Kaimakam. I now learnt the purport of their lively discussion; it had been a question of fixing a price for grain. Months ago Ali Bey had made a contract with the Kaimakam to supply the cereal for Government purposes at a stated price. The time had just arrived for delivering it into the granaries; but the price had risen, almost to famine rates. In the drawer of the green baize table was securely buried the precious document, behind a lock of which alone the Kaimakam possessed the key. How great was the dismay of the wretched official to find that it had been abstracted, and to recognise that the robbery might cost him his place! His despoiler felt quite safe behind his Hamidiyeh uniform and his paper figures of 800 men-at-arms.

But the Kaimakam was not the man to go to sleep beneath an injury; he possessed both energy and brains. He and the Miralai would each evening repair to our quarters, and discuss the events of the day over coffee and pipes. On one occasion, in company with the Miralai, we had awaited to a late hour the arrival of the Kaimakam. When at last he made his appearance, his clothes were covered with dust and he was wearing his long top-boots. His eyes were bright with excitement as he narrated in vivid language the story of his day’s work. Kurds from Lake Balük had made a foray into his district, and had plundered the village of Mangasar, inhabited in equal numbers by Armenians and Mussulmans. He had proceeded in person to the scene of their depredations, and at the head of his motley followers had forced them to retire after a sanguinary fight. What was the origin of this man whose animated face and supple character contrasted strangely with the wooden figures of officers and notables who attended his divan? He told me he was an Albanian; he was, of course, a Mohammedan; but his whole appearance stamped him a Greek. Compared with Kurds like Eyub Pasha, with their resemblance to big birds, he stood on the opposite pole of human development. Although in point of years the youngest of the group, he led them all by the nose. A situation had scarcely been stated when he had already discovered the solution; he shared the feelings as well as the thoughts of the individual to whom he was lending his ear. I have no doubt that he was far the superior of Ali Bey in the successful practice of every kind of deceit. He professed himself my friend; I am sure he took a pleasure in abusing the confidence which I was obliged to affect. We had almost exhausted our stock of money when we arrived in Karakilisa; between us and the town of Van, where we might hope to replenish it, lay the wildest districts of Asiatic Turkey. Semi-civilised communications are entirely wanting in those regions; it was even impossible to hire a caravan. It was necessary to purchase horses; three days were consumed in finding the animals; having selected four, at an average price of £6 apiece, we were without funds to defray our expenses in the town. The Kaimakam might no doubt have advanced the few pounds in perfect safety; but he had cast longing eyes upon my gun. Alleging that he had already spent the last instalment of his allowance, he insisted that the usurers, who would supply him with the money, required that I should leave the weapon in his charge. It was arranged that, the moment the debt had been recovered, he would despatch the valuable pledge to Erzerum. No sooner had we reached Van than I contrived to send him the amount by way of Bayazid. Weeks later, upon my arrival in the capital of his provincial government, the gun had not yet come to hand. The Vali, or Governor-General, was recently dead; no successor had been appointed; the fact that I was an Englishman was scarcely worth recalling to the petty authorities, daily witnesses of the feebleness of the British Government, and full of contempt for the British Power. When my property was at last restored to me through the good offices of Mr. Graves, the whole winter and part of the spring had gone by. The Kaimakam had wreaked his revenge; the weapon came in broken pieces, and the barrels bore the marks of heavy blows.

Fig. 111. Caravan on the Black Sea—Tabriz Trade Route.

I was unable to ascertain with any accuracy the number of the inhabitants, whether of the district or of the town. The Kaimakam, although extremely communicative on other subjects, professed to have been forbidden to make them known. According to the most recent official statistics, the caza contains no less than 58 villages, and possesses a population of 5377 Mohammedans and 1902 Armenians. For the town in particular I have not had access to any information; but I should judge that the residents might be put down at 1500 to 2000, of whom the Armenians would be nearly two-thirds. With the exception of the shops, the houses are in general little better than the usual village tenements, half buried beneath the ground. But Karakilisa is increasing in importance day by day, being situated on the great avenue of communication between Persia and the Black Sea. Strings of camels, with their finery of coloured tassels, were continually passing at a stone’s throw from our door ([Fig. 111]). They were bearing the multitudinous wares of Europe for distribution among the Eastern bazars. They proceed by way of Trebizond, Erzerum, and Bayazid to the city of Tabriz. The place has also the advantage of being both a military and an administrative centre; there is always something going on. The fashionable amusement of the day were the Hamidiyeh. A luxurious coffee-house had just been built for their delectation; their name was on every tongue.

It was whispered in fear and terror by the poor Armenians. I visited their bishop, and found him in a state of blank despair. He was afraid to receive me, and sent me excuses—which, however, I refused to accept. After some parley with intermediaries he made his appearance—a stout figure, a thick-lipped, common face. He refused to listen to the simple questions which I addressed to him, and burst out into abuse. Europe, and especially England, had played the part of swindlers towards his miserable race. Their hopes had been incited by delusive professions, which had only served to alarm the Sultan and let loose the Kurds. Nor could they look to Russia, the arch-offender, fanning the agitation for ends of her own. The poor man continued in this strain until he was nearly beside himself; I was obliged to leave him to his rage. His diocese embraces the districts between Zeidikan and Bayazid, and extends southwards to the borders of the vilayet, or Government, of Van. His church at Karakilisa is little better than four stone walls. An ignorant priest imparts instruction in a wretched little building which can scarcely be dignified by the name of school.

Fig. 112. The Kuseh Dagh from the Plain of Alashkert.

One afternoon we made an excursion to the point where the Murad changes direction, and flows through the gap towards the south. Between the barracks in which we were lodged, on the extreme outskirts of Karakilisa, and the river, flowing placidly over the plain, there extends a considerable tract of marshy ground and low covert, the home of plover and innumerable water-birds. We crossed a stream which, coming from Aghri Dagh, passes just beneath the barracks to join the Murad a little further west (Kör Su), and made across the marsh in the direction of a little Armenian village which stands on the left bank of the principal body of water, almost due south of the town. Just below this settlement, called Küp Keran, we forded the Murad, which was winding at the foot of a gentle eminence of the southern border through a pebbly and many-channelled bed. Either shore was quite a museum of living wildfowl; in especial we admired a beautiful species of golden duck of which the wings were flaked with white bands. Avoiding the swamp on the opposite margin, we followed this bank for some distance: and a little later crossed back to the northern side. About a mile and a half below Küp Keran the river describes a beautiful curve, and enters the spacious passage of the hills. It is pushed southwards by rising ground at the base of the Kilich Gedik barrier; but the higher outlines of that range, as well as those of the snowy Ala Dagh in the east, are several miles removed from its shores. It flows towards grassy hills, among which you lose the silver thread which the eye has followed as far as a village, named Dombat. The breadth of the Murad at the bend, where its errant waters had issued from the marsh, did not appear to us to exceed thirty yards. The intense stillness of the scene was in harmony with the quiet sunset which shed radiance over mountain, river, and plain. From the lofty bulwark of the northern chain, beyond the lake-like surface of the steppe, rose the form of a single summit, overtowering its neighbours—the shapely dome of the Kuseh Dagh ([Fig. 112]). The fantastic profile of the system was drawn across the horizon in hues of opal to the far east. In that direction we could clearly see the magnificent bastions of Ararat, mounting the sky behind these heights. The snowfields were flushed with a delicate madder; we noticed that from this side they appear to gather to a single peak, the eminence upon which we had stood. We remarked the convex modelling of the lower slopes of the system along the opposite margin of the plain. A shorter way was shown us for the return to Karakilisa ([Fig. 113]), which leaves the river and crosses the head of the marsh.

Fig. 113. Karakilisa from South-West.

CHAPTER II

TO LAKE VAN

The principal artery of traffic in Turkish Armenia crosses the land from west to east. It follows the direction of a series of depressions: the plains of Erzerum, of Pasin and of Alashkert. It consists of a carriageable track, or rough road of unequal quality. The bulk of the transit trade between Europe and northern Persia is conveyed on the backs of camels along this route. The wall of protective duties which has been reared by the Russian Government compels this commerce to flow through a Turkish port and to adhere to Turkish soil. It has been stimulated by the efforts of a series of British consuls, resident at Erzerum. Robberies have been punished with great severity; and, at the present day, the traffic is seldom, if ever, interrupted, although it passes through the Kurd-inhabited districts about Bayazid, and the lawless border of the Persian and Turkish empires.

South of this beaten avenue are situated regions which, in spite of the researches of individual travellers, are still but imperfectly known. The lake of Van remains a centre of agriculture and primitive industry; yet it lies beyond a zone of feebly governed country which, year by year, is becoming more difficult to cross. The pest of Kurds has settled firmly upon these richly favoured territories, destroying agriculture and banishing trade. What caravans there are travel in large bodies, and every man is armed to the teeth. Between Erzerum and the town of Van they choose between two routes according to the season of the year. In summer they cross the mountains behind the northern capital, and proceed by the plain of Khinis, crossing the Murad at Melazkert. During winter they make the round by way of Pasin and Alashkert, deviating on the confines of the latter district, and passing the river at Tutakh. The approach through the town of Mush is used only once a year, when the pilgrims journey from Erzerum to the cloister of Surb Karapet. On that occasion the caravan, according to my informants, continues its course as far as Van. By the two first routes it is usual to follow the eastern shore of the lake, which is reached near the little town of Akantz.[1]

We set out from Karakilisa on October the 29th, mounted on our newly-purchased horses, and accompanied by a zaptieh or gendarme. Our objective was this same Akantz; the principal intermediate stations were Tutakh and Patnotz. I had thought it possible to accomplish the ride in the course of two days; our friends laughed at the idea. I decided therefore to start in the afternoon, with the hope of arriving on the evening of the third day. At a quarter-past three o’clock we were making our way along the marsh to the point where the Murad leaves the plain. After reaching the bend, we proceeded down the passage which receives the river, towards Dombat and the grassy hills which I have already mentioned. On our left hand, at an interval of about 500 yards from the left bank, rose the first gentle slopes of the Ala Dagh system; this high land was answered on the right bank, at about a similar distance, by the outworks of the Kilich Gedik. The Murad pursues its course between these two blocks of mountain, and, a little lower down, forces its way through the narrowing gap. Near Dombat both banks are of considerable elevation, and the ridges appear to cross the direction of the stream. Before arriving opposite the village we crossed the Sharian Su, a tributary which collects the drainage of the western portion of the plain, and which appeared to us to have a volume scarcely less than that of the principal branch.

After passing Dombat—which was said to be inhabited by Kizilbashes—we sank to a valley in which is situated the Kurdish village of Zado, and ascended the ridge on its opposite side. From the summit we commanded a prospect towards Karakilisa, and were impressed by the serpentine course of the river, flowing towards us in a pebbly bed which it threaded by several channels. We were placed at a height of some 250 feet above its waters. On a hillside further south we could now discern our evening station, the little village of Avdi. It was signalised by a green patch, due to vegetable gardens; its surroundings were bleak and bare. Arriving at half-past five, we selected the best of the fifteen tenements as quarters for the night. We were surprised to find a sergeant of the regular army established in this miserable place. He had come to recruit Kurds for the Hamidiyeh, and bitterly cursed his fate.

Next morning we were anxious to reach Tutakh before mid-day in order to pass the night at Patnotz. At a quarter to eight we were in the saddle; it had rained during the night, and heavy clouds hung over the hills. As we rose up the slope, we caught glimpses of the mountains which bound the plain of Alashkert upon the north. The plain itself had long been lost; we were at some distance from the river; we looked across high hills, which engulfed the invisible waters, to the summits of the Ala Dagh. The doubtful track commenced to wind between grassy slopes, strewn with boulders—a belt of country well adapted to guerilla warfare, and reputed the favourite haunt of Kurdish robbers. Horsemen would no doubt be completely at their mercy in the blind recesses of these irregular valleys. At a quarter to nine we approached the Murad, still high above it; the hills rose from either bank. In another half hour we obtained our first view of the cone of Sipan, a gleaming object in the south. Some two miles further the landscape opened, and assumed the character of a vast steppe of broken and uneven ground. Distant ranges encircled the expanse with dim outlines; Sipan alone was clearly defined against the sky. From the Kurdish village of Köshk we obtained a fine view over this country, with its waving surface featured by shadows from the clouds. We had got behind the barrier of the Kilich Gedik; and the whole segment of the circle from north-west to south-west was filled by comparatively level land. We observed a prominent shape in the mountains of the furthest distance, which we identified with the Khamur Dagh. Beyond the Mussulman village of Okhan, the river, which had left us, took a sharp bend, and joined our course. We made our way along it at a rapid trot and reached Tutakh a little after eleven o’clock.

The little township does not possess more than about a hundred houses; yet it is the seat of a Kaimakam whose administrative area includes Patnotz, and meets the boundary of the vilayet of Van. It stands on rising ground, at some little distance from the bank of the river, facing the lofty hills which rise on the opposite shore, and push the Murad towards the west. It is about equidistant from Karakilisa and from Patnotz, a ride of some twenty-three miles from the first, and of twenty-eight miles from the second. The inhabitants are for the greater part Karapapakhs, imported into the district after the last Russo-Turkish war. They can now boast of some 400 houses in the caza, or a population of about 3000 souls. Agriculturists by profession, and by temperament robbers, they appear to be in an extremely prosperous state. Their aged chief conversed with me, and imparted several particulars which I had not known before. He told me that they had emigrated from the province of Chaldir, being dissatisfied with the Russian Government, who had not treated them well in the matter of lands. The Sultan had received them back, settled them in these fertile regions, and allotted to them as much ground as they required. I questioned him with some care about the original seats of his tribe; he was emphatic that they had always lived in Chaldir.[2] Taylor tells us that they became possessed of the villages and lands in that province, and in the neighbouring province of Kars, which had been abandoned by the Armenians who followed the army of Marshal Paskevich upon his evacuation of Turkish territory in 1829. According to the chief, their original possessions in Transcaucasia extended from Daghestan to Chaldir. The tribe supplies a regiment of Hamidiyeh for this caza; the head men were resplendent in their new uniforms, of which they seemed very proud. Both here and at Karakilisa I was impressed by the diversity of type which is found among them. Mingled with physiognomies of purely Tartar or Persian character were faces which, with their lighter hair and fairer complexion, might have belonged to a group of Circassians. With the exception of the shops, single-storeyed stone buildings, the houses in Tutakh are the usual loose agglomerations of earth and rough stone. The great majority of the population in the caza are Kurds; a scattering of Armenians are entirely at the mercy of their rapacious Mussulman neighbours.

Our baggage animals, which had started from Avdi with us, arrived at one o’clock. They were in charge of a second zaptieh, to whom I had given instructions to find his way to Akantz as best he could. A little before two we were again in the saddle, making for the adjacent ford across the Murad. The river is fairly broad just opposite the town, having a width at this season of about 100 yards. It had spread beyond its average dimensions in this region, and the water did not reach higher than the horses’ knees. We admired the clear, blue current, sweeping past us—a stream neither sluggish nor impetuous, as befits the beginning of a great river. From the opposite bank we proceeded at right angles to its direction, up the side of the line of high hills. At eighteen minutes after two we had wound our way to the summit; we stood on the surface of rolling downs. A little later, when I thought we had reached the highest point of these uplands, I took the reading of my aneroid. We had reached a level of 5800 feet, or of 560 feet above Tutakh. The exhilarating air, the easy ground, the magnificent prospects rendered our ride most enjoyable. Behind us was the outline of the Kilich Gedik, running from east to west. We could just see the crest of the Kuseh Dagh beyond it, the summit of the dome. Towards the south rose the irregular mass of the Khamur, and the beautiful landmark of Sipan. That graceful mountain stood disclosed to three-quarters of its height. Such are the rewards which Armenia bestows upon the traveller, and which Man is powerless to destroy.

That insignificant creature lives in squalor amid scenes of desolation which are due to himself alone. The soil is rich and loamy; but it is little cultivated, and lies idle beneath a covering of rough grass. The climate is more propitious than that of the corresponding highlands in the more northerly, or Russian portion of the land. The rainfall is probably less; but this disadvantage may be balanced by the earlier maturing of the crops. We rode for an hour without seeing a village, with the heights of the Ala Dagh following our course away on the left. The first settlement which we passed was Milan, inhabited by Kurds, which we were careful to avoid. Those of their number whom we met were armed with numerous knives, and had rifles slung across their shoulders. A little further I called a halt on the requisition of the zaptieh; he was very anxious that the plan of the journey should be changed. It was half-past three o’clock; we could not reach Patnotz before nightfall; if I persisted it was almost certain we should be attacked. In crossing from the territory of the Sipkanli tribe to that of the Haideranli, we should be obliged to run the gauntlet of the armed parties which scoured the frontier between these two hostile tribes. He pointed to a dot on the grassy plain about us which he identified with the village of Köshk. He said that it was the residence of the chief of the Sipkanli, who from his official relations with the Turkish Government would be obliged to shelter us. His counsel was no doubt sound if one could only trust his estimate of our distance from Patnotz. For some time we had been passing between two opposite hill ranges, one on our left front, the other on our right. On our point of course, in the middle distance, these outlines approached one another, leaving between them a wide gap. The ridge on the left, a spur of Ala Dagh, was said to bear the name of Gelarash Dagh; that on the right was called Kartevin Dagh. It would be no short ride to the passage between the two; and this gave access, according to the zaptieh, to the plain in which, upon its further confines, was situated Patnotz. Satisfied by his explanations, I deferred to his judgment, and directed our steps a few points off our true course, towards the village which he had indicated. A shower of soft rain was falling as we entered Köshk at four o’clock.

Fig. 114. Yusuf Bey of Köshk.

I have already introduced my reader to a Kurdish village; the description of one may be applied to all. But Köshk is distinguished by a single house in the proper sense, a two-storeyed building of stone. It is the abode of Yusuf Bey, chieftain of the Sipkanli, whose portrait I was allowed to take ([Fig. 114]). His followers gathered round us, a throng of Kurdish warriors, prepared at any moment for a fight. Besides knives, each man carried a rifle; a band of cartridges was fastened across the breast. I examined several weapons; all bore the Russian marks and letters. They told me that they were procured from the Russian soldiers, probably Cossacks, in the frontier districts of Kagyzman and Erivan. When a little later I questioned the chief about this traffic, he expressed surprise that the soldiers should be able to obtain firearms for the purpose of selling them. After some palaver we were ushered into his presence; he happened to be engaged in prayer. A broad divan followed the bare walls of a spacious apartment, and rugs were spread upon the divan. Several tall, lank figures stood on these bright carpets, with stockings on their feet. They faced the window and the light; at the head of one of the two lines was placed an individual whom we easily recognised as the mollah from his humbler stature, stouter person and ampler robes. Their backs were turned towards us as we entered; we advanced a little, but not a muscle of the faces moved. Then the silence was broken by a deep, gurgling sound, which developed into the expression of a series of labials, half a chant, half a spoken prayer. At certain passages the figures bowed to the ground, or dropped to a seated posture, and were still. To us it seemed an ideal rendering of the solemn relation between man and the universe.

Fig. 115. Kurd of Köshk in Gala Dress.

The litany completed, our hosts at once turned towards us, with a sudden change of countenance which took us by surprise. Yusuf Bey extended to us his massive but almost fleshless hand; his cavernous cheeks were lit by a smile. He and his brother are men of more than ordinary proportions, and both are true types of the Kurd. He told me that they were in daily expectation of attack from Hoseyn Pasha of Patnotz. This miscreant, although under the ban of justice, had been given the title of Pasha by the Turkish Government, partly in order to recruit their new irregulars among his tribe, and partly as a recompense for his bribes. He had quite recently burnt some villages of the Sipkanli, and had reduced the clan to poverty. Judging from the finery which was displayed by the inhabitants of Köshk ([Fig. 115]), I could only accept the latter part of this statement in a very relative sense. The seats of the Sipkanli extend to the territory of Bayazid; they supply three regiments to the Hamidiyeh. After partaking of supper, we composed ourselves to sleep in the same apartment into which we had been introduced. The night was disturbed by the weird cries which were exchanged at frequent intervals between the patrols in the outskirts and the guard in the village.

Among the forty tenements which constituted this particular settlement we were astonished to find that six were inhabited by Armenians. Imagine the condition of these poor people, in the very jaws of their enemy, who just allows them to exist and no more! The Turkish authorities, a long way distant, would be quite powerless to assist them, even if they had the desire. A poor stableman told us beneath his breath that their lot was desperate, and that some of his countrymen had contrived to escape to Russia.

The rawness of the climate in the plain of Alashkert had disappeared when we reached Köshk.[3] The weather became mild, and the sun shone freely from a sky almost devoid of cloud. When next morning we were again in the saddle at twenty minutes after seven, the mown pastures looked green and fresh after the rain of the preceding evening, and it was a delight to breathe the crisp air. We could still see the distant dome of the Kuseh Dagh; the ridge on our left hid the lower slopes of Sipan. We rode towards the still remote promontory of that grassy ridge, and the gap between the outlines in the hills. At a little after eight we had reached the passage; it appeared to have a width of about a mile. It leads from the undulating plains about Köshk to the level plain of Patnotz. The ground falls away by a succession of inequalities to a spacious area of flat alluvial land. Beyond that lake-like surface rises the fabric of a single mountain, the broad base, the vaulted slopes, the massive crown. Sipan was at last exposed from foot to summit, recalling by many a characteristic the majestic Ararat.[4] There was the same length of sweep, the same symmetry of structure, the same rounded central form. And if we missed the gardens and the immense expanse of the campagna of Erivan, this open plain seemed to repeat the surroundings of Ararat on a scale exactly suited to Sipan.

Near the opening we passed the tiny village of Burnu Bulakh, inhabited by Kurds. We doubled the long promontory; it was evident it had been pushing us away from our true course. Once rounded, we pursued a south-easterly direction, keeping to the base of the hills to which it belongs. In these solitudes a human figure is an unfamiliar object; great was our surprise to perceive several men running towards us from a recess in the range. Stranger still was the discovery that they did not bear arms; we collected together, and awaited their approach. When they had reached speaking distance, they unfolded their story, and begged for protection at our hands. They were Turks from the province of Kars who had deserted their lands and homes, taking with them all their portable wealth. They said that the Russian Government treated them very badly, favouring the Molokans, and annoying the members of their religion and race. They had resolved to seek new seats beneath the sceptre of the Sultan, and had crossed the frontier in pursuit of this end. Their journey had until yesterday been uneventful; but last evening, as they were approaching the territory of the Haideranli, they had been savagely attacked. The Kurds had despoiled them of all their possessions, and had been induced with difficulty to leave them the clothes in which they stood. Poor fellows! honest, sturdy peasants, returning to their old allegiance and to the stronghold of Islam, only to find the one insulted by robbers and the other a gaping ruin. All we could do was to take them to the prince of the bandits, in the hope that he would be more prudent than his wild bands. Inasmuch as they were without horses it was impossible that they should accompany us to the town of Akantz.

Fig. 116. Sipan from the Plain of Patnotz.

Not less eloquent an illustration of the decay of the Ottoman Empire was the landscape through which we passed. Mile after mile, the eye ranged across the floor of the alluvial plain to the lower slopes of the great volcano which, with the hills circling towards them, compose a basin-like area of vast extent. The fertile soil lies idle, as though the waters had lately receded; in the distance some goats and cattle browsed the burnt and scanty grass. Nature alone has made the most of exceptional opportunities; and Sipan, with this plain on one flank and the lake of Van upon the other, is worthy to rank among the most beautiful objects in the natural world ([Fig. 116]). There, can be little difference between the level of the expanse on either side; plain and sea have an elevation of about 5500 feet. The summit of the slowly-rising fabric which divides them attains an altitude of 13,700 feet. The history of the mountain may be studied to advantage from this, the northern side. There can be little doubt that it possessed a central crater, of which the walls have fallen in upon the north. The southern rim still stands, presenting an almost horizontal outline of sharp rock, harbouring drifts of snow.[5] The processes of denudation have been busy with the slopes of this ancient cone, and have broken the surface into knife-like ridges. We stood for half-an-hour in full face of the pile. After crossing two little rivulets which wandered out from the hills behind us, we arrived at half-past ten in Patnotz.

We found it nothing better than a wretched Kurdish village, with some one hundred huts and numerous stacks of dried manure. It is situated at the foot of the hill range which we had been skirting, and which had gradually been circling round towards Sipan. It overlooks the plain and the opposite volcano. About thirty of the tenements are occupied by Armenian families, and there is a row of shops which rise proudly from the ground. On the further outskirts a large stone building was in process of being erected; the Armenian masons were busy with the work. It was to serve as a school and for other purposes, and was due to the policy in favour with the Sultan, of educating the Kurds. I understood that the funds were provided by the Turkish Government. We rode up to a group of people assembled before this palace, and enquired for the chief. Among them was an individual of heavy build and forbidding features, attired in a long coat of military pattern, and displaying the brass ensign of the Hamidiyeh on the sheepskin cap which he wore. It was Hoseyn Pasha, lord of the Haideranli, and ruler of the territory of Patnotz. The irregular mouth and nose, and the dull, sparkless eyes correspond with the reputation which he bears. But discontent as well as malice was written upon his countenance; and the situation explained the humour of the man. His followers would no doubt argue that he was assisting at his own destruction; this school was the visible evidence of the Ottoman yoke. I have no doubt that he would console them with the assurance of its futility; and I am certain that he would be right. Meanwhile he had appropriated the completed apartments as a residence for himself. I waited for him to invite us to be his guests in his new quarters; but he beckoned to an attendant to find us a room in one of the huts. So I dismounted, and myself led the way into the schoolhouse, obliging him either to affront or follow me. He chose the latter course. Continuing the same tactics, I bade him take a seat by my side on his own divan. In his company was a fine specimen of the Kurdish nation, whose mien contrasted with that of his chief; and a genial Turk who had travelled, and was at once a man of the world and a parasite of the lowest type. This gentleman was delighted to have an opportunity of conversing about the affairs of the outside world; it was to him that I addressed the conversation until the sullen temper of the chief relaxed. When I was able to put some questions in return for those which I had answered, the tongue of Hoseyn Pasha had commenced to flow. He told me he was the titular chief of the Hasananli Kurds, a tribe of which the Haideranli, Adamanli, and Sipkanli were offshoots or species. This widely-spread genus extended to the Persian frontier. I asked him why his people did not cultivate the plain, and augment their wealth and numbers. He replied that in the absence of communications and markets they were not encouraged to take such a course. We lunched off some wretched cheese, inlaid with herbs in Kurdish fashion; and, after commending our companions to his sense of responsibility, took leave at a quarter-past eleven o’clock.

I am sorry that I am not able to present a better description of the features of the country between Patnotz and the lake of Van. I hope that some future traveller will be able to ascend the sides of the hills along the trough of which we rode for many miles. I should advise him to devote at least three days to the journey between Karakilisa and Akantz. The first night would be spent at Tutakh, the second at Patnotz. Hoseyn Pasha was astonished to hear of our intention to push on to our destination by a single stage. But the zaptieh knew of no village in which we might safely sojourn, before reaching the territory of Akantz. The authority of the Turkish Government is little better than a name among the valleys of the Ala Dagh. I was assured that I had formed a wrong conception of the distance, which, measured direct on the map of Kiepert, amounts to no more than twenty-one miles. Arrived at Akantz, I computed that we had covered, from station to station, no less than thirty-six miles. An incident which occurred just after our departure contributed to hasten our steps. A Kurd, mounted on a swift Arab, cantered ahead of us and was soon lost to sight. The zaptieh was certain it was an emissary of the chief, whose treachery he feared. The word would be given to the bands in the district that helpless travellers were passing their way. I think it more probable that he was bearer of orders not to attack us on any account.

From Patnotz we proceeded in an easterly direction towards the ridge which bounds the plain upon the east. It connects with the hills which we had so long been skirting, and which hollow inwards beyond the village. A few minutes before twelve we were on the summit of the low pass, and were leaving behind us the landscape of the plain. We entered a broad valley, which, with a grassy hill range on either side, stretched away towards south-east. The range on our right concealed from view the lower slopes of Sipan, and was distant about a mile. Its elevation above the valley was at first not greater than from 100 to 500 feet; but, as we proceeded, it rose to a more considerable altitude, and, at the same time, came closer up to the track. On our left hand the barrier was more remote and loftier, some five miles off, and some 1000 feet above our heads. The heights were streaked with snow; according to our informants, they belong to the system of the Ala Dagh. We rode for several hours between these two ridges, the ground rising as we advanced. Here and there a little brook threaded the waste soil, flowing towards the west. At one o’clock we came up with a long line of bullock carts, travelling from Erzerum to Van. We counted no less than seventy of these primitive vehicles, crawling over the ground with creaking wheels. Several horsemen accompanied the caravan, their persons bristling with arms of every kind. The leader was a Turk of quality and some importance. He told me that the journey occupied eight days, and that the Murad was crossed at Tutakh. Each of the drivers was said to be in possession of weapons, although they did not happen to be wearing them as we passed.

Three-quarters of an hour later we crossed a nice stream which, according to the zaptieh, flows into the lake. The transparent current pursued for some distance a roughly parallel direction to the south-easterly course upon which we rode. It left us to diverge southwards towards the barrier on our right; but we could not discover at what point it pierced the hills. A few horses were grazing upon its margin, and we wondered to whom they might belong. The track continued to approach the immediate foot of those hills, and they continued to increase in height. But it became evident that the average elevation of the ground had risen, for we were on a level with the higher slopes of the opposite range. At three o’clock we reached the end of the long valley, which narrows towards its head. The hills roll away; you stand on a lofty platform which commands a distant prospect of the lake of Van.

Dismounting on the rough soil, we stood for half-an-hour in contemplation of the scene. All our horses showed signs of fatigue; that of the dragoman was quite exhausted, and his plump rider required to be lifted from the saddle. We had covered, according to estimate, some 18 miles from Patnotz and over 33 from Köshk. The instruments were uncased, and the elevation taken, which I compute in round numbers at 1000 feet above the level of the lake. Below us lay spacious tracts of undulating country—friable soil, modelled into hummock shapes. We could follow the long profile of the hills on our left hand, dying away towards the still remote shore. The waters were scarcely visible beyond the detail of the middle distance—a glimpse of blue in the lap of the expanse. They represent the gulf-like extremity of the inland sea, of which the broad face is hidden from these slopes. But the scale and tendency of the land forms prepared us for such a presence, which they were aptly designed to usher in. We stood on the edge of a great half-circle; the view ranged to some sharp summits, belonging to a ridge on the opposite side of the lake, which must have been some 40 miles away. Our zaptieh knew it under the name of Besh Parmak, or the mountain of the five fingers. The arc of the curve was composed by the heights in that direction, arresting the softness of the vaulted hills and shelving ground. We were shown a long bank which had the appearance of a mound, and was distinguished from similar shapes by its size. It lay in the distant trough of the landscape, and was said to overlook the town of Akantz.

I placed the dragoman on my own horse, and was obliged to perpetrate the cruelty of riding his jaded animal. We had the benefit of the incline; but the nature of the ground was against us, necessitating long winds. Deep gullies obstructed our course; or we were turned aside by rising land. If I have estimated correctly, we were separated from our destination by a space of fifteen miles. We took to the saddle at half-past three; we did not arrive until past seven; and we must have covered some eighteen miles. At half-past four we crossed the first running water, and we were at the first village at a little before five. Karakilisa (Black Church) is well named, for it possesses a little church of black stone, with group of gables and conical dome. It is inhabited by Armenians, and has an air of prosperity; we were refreshed by the rare sight of a group of trees. The next settlement, Hipsinek, was also Armenian; we had emerged from the wild Kurdish zone. As we neared the lower levels, the deep silence of the evening was broken by a loud, rumbling sound. It was a river, descending from the mountains, and flowing in a stony bed. They call it the Buyuk Chai or Erishat; we crossed it, and arrived, soon after, at a village which bears the last of these names. It was half-past six o’clock; the light was uncertain; we were near water and on marshy ground. A villager was hailed; he showed us the way with a lantern to the solid land beyond. We proceeded at a walking pace along the foot of a dark cliff to the houses of Akantz.

[1] The following are my estimates of the mileage distances along our route from Karakilisa to Akantz:—

Distances.
Karakilisa-Tutakh23miles
Tutakh-Köshk11
miles
,,
Köshk-Patnotz17
miles
,,
Patnotz-Akantz36
miles
,,
Total87miles.

[2] At the time of Taylor’s journey (1868) there were some 13,500 Karapapakhs in the mutesarriflik of Chaldir, which comprised the towns of Olti, Ardahan and Ardanuch. The mutesarriflik of Kars counted 12,900 of this people, and that of Bayazid 2500 (Archives of British Consulate at Erzerum). [↑]

[3] Temperature at 9 P.M. 53° F., and at 6.30 A.M. 41°. None of my readings at Karakilisa reached as high as the first of these, though some were taken in the middle of the day. [↑]

[4] The comparison was also suggested to Koch, as he approached Sipan from the side of Melazkert (Reise im pontischen Gebirge, p. 428). [↑]

[5] Upon my ascent of Sipan during my second journey it was ascertained that the highest ridge of rock, as seen in this illustration, is not actually the southern rim of the crater. It is merely the side of the flat-topped mass of lava, upon which is situated the eastern summit. The western summit is just visible in this illustration. [↑]

CHAPTER III

ACROSS LAKE VAN

The Kaimakam of Akantz was in the company of his notables when we entered his reception room. Along the walls of the bare apartment stretched the usual cushioned seat; a row of figures, serried upon it, lined two sides. It was with difficulty that place was made for us beside him; and several minutes were occupied by the exchange of salutes, each man bowing and raising the hand to the chin and forehead. Coffee and warmth revived the drooping person of the dragoman; such was his command both of the Turkish and the German languages that it cost him little effort to perform his task. While supper and a lodging were being prepared for us, I was able to discuss plans with the Kaimakam. He promised that he would endeavour to procure a trading vessel to take us to Van on the following day. He engaged to despatch our horses thither, as soon as they should recover, by way of the southern shore of the lake. Unlike his colleague of Karakilisa, he proved faithful to his word; but I regret to say that we never saw the dragoman’s horse again. That night and the following day I attended him myself; but he appears to have died a few days after we left.[1] It was arranged that on the morrow we should visit the ruins of Arjish. I enquired of our host whether he knew of the remains of a city on the table surface of the cliff above Akantz. He confirmed the information which is given by Vital Cuinet, and said that the place was known to the learned under the name of Kala-i-Zerin. The people call it Zernishan.[2]

Fig. 117. Akantz.

According to the Kaimakam there are no less than 500 houses in Akantz; but I am inclined to consider this figure excessive. A number among them are well built, with good walls and glass-paned windows; and it was a change to erect our camp beds in a clean and airy room. The population is partly Mussulman and partly Armenian. I should say that the former have the preponderance, although not in the proportion which was assigned to them by the same authority of four-fifths of the whole.[3] The Armenians possess two churches and a school, administered by a priest. Several regiments of Hamidiyeh have their headquarters in the town. They are recruited among the Haideranli and Adamanli Kurds. Their enrolment has been attended by the usual result—a general relaxation of the law. Robberies are committed under the eyes of the Kaimakam, and stealing is scarcely considered an offence. While our effects were being conveyed to the lake in a little cart, a clever thief made away with the yoke of the oxen.

The morning of the next day was devoted to preparations, and the whole afternoon was occupied by our excursion to Arjish. The site bears a few points west of a line due south from Akantz, at a distance of several miles. But the track across the plain is obstructed by channels of water which compel you to deviate. Leaving the town by the south side, we paused to admire the cluster of houses, embowered in trees, and backed by the high cliff ([Fig. 117]). A continuation of the same ridge rises behind the gardens and orchards, which are about a mile away, upon the east. Between us and the lake lay a broad zone of alluvial land, of sandy surface broken by green oases. We rode through two considerable villages, Hargin and Igmal. They are almost buried beneath the foliage of tall poplars and forest trees which are supported by a network of irrigation. The last of these two settlements can scarcely be less distant than an hour’s walk from the shore. Beyond them the ground is patched with cultivation, which in turn gives place to a desert, cut by dikes. The ruins adjoin the lake, and accentuate the loneliness of the bleak waste from which they rise ([Fig. 118] from the north, and [Fig. 119] from the south).

Little is left above ground of the once important borough of mediæval repute. The crumbling walls of a castle, a ruined chapel, a minaret are the principal monuments still erect. The method of building is that of a more cultured age. A recent fire had converted the brushwood into black patches. We looked across the silvery waters to the opposite shore of the lake, from which a range of hills rise. Behind this barrier towers a rocky ridge of serrated outline, which, commencing at a point about east of the ruins, extends westwards and groups together with the magnificent chain on the southern margin of the sea. The arm beside which we stood stretched away by a succession of promontories, to spread towards those distant and snowy peaks in the south.

Fig. 118. Ruins of Arjish from the North.

Arjish played an important part in the history of the Middle Ages; and there can be no doubt that these ruins are those of the mediæval city.[4] On the other hand it is quite possible that the name Arsissa, under which Lake Van was known to Ptolemy, may be connected with a much more ancient Arjish, which may well have stood on the high land overlooking the modern town of Akantz. I regretted at the time of my visit, and I have since had reason to deplore more keenly, our inability to protract our stay in the neighbourhood, and to examine the site of the so-called Zernak, or Zerin, or Zernishan, of which I have already spoken. Its situation seems to correspond with that of the plateau of Karatash or Ilantash, where Schulz informs us that he discovered traces of the sites of numerous buildings, and at the foot of which, on the north-east, facing the plain, he copied inscriptions in the cuneiform character, which, according to the translation of Professor Sayce, record the planting of vineyards in this region by the Vannic king Sarduris III., who lived in the eighth century before Christ (c. 735 B.C.).[5] The inscriptions are found upon a series of three tablets, hewn in the rock, some eight feet above the ground. One of the tablets is without any characters.[6] Close by is the cave where a nest of serpents or large lizards are reputed to have lodged since immemorial times, and have been seen by modern travellers.[7] The place is described as being situated about two miles east of Akantz near the road to Haidar Bey.[8] Messrs. Belck and Lehmann, who have visited Akantz since I was there, were brought some objects in bronze, of which one represented a serpent, and another contained cuneiform characters. They were found by the natives among the ruins of this Zernak.[9] It will be interesting to learn the result of the excavations which they appear to contemplate. In the village of Hargin, through which we passed, they have found a large stele, with a cuneiform inscription of Argistis II. (714-c. 690 B.C.). A second monument, containing records of the same monarch, has been discovered by them in the same district.[10] The name Arjish agrees so nearly with that of this Vannic king that one is tempted to suppose that it is derived from it. And we may be rewarded by the bringing to light of a city of Argistis, buried upon the summit of that salubrious plateau of which the cliff backs the houses of Akantz.

Fig. 119. Ruins of Arjish from the South.

The mediæval city of Arjish was sacked by the Georgians in A.H. 605, or A.D. 1208–9. The Arab historian, Ibn-Alathir, who chronicles this event, states that its outcome was the desertion of the place by the inhabitants, so that it remained in the ruinous condition to which it had been reduced.[11] But there seems to exist evidence to show that, like Ani, Arjish struggled on through the centuries during which barbarism was increasing its hold upon the land.[12] It was known to Marco Polo (thirteenth century) as one of the three greatest cities of Armenia; and at the commencement of the sixteenth century it formed one of the seven fortresses which encircled the lake of Van.[13] In the summer of 1838 it was still peopled; but in the winter of that year the waters of the lake rose, until in 1841 they had attained an increase of some 10 to 12 feet. The foundations of the houses gave way and the supply of fresh water failed.[14] Arjish was evacuated by its reduced population, and is at the present day not tenanted by a single soul. Marshes extend on either side of the ruins; that on the east appeared to me to be the more extensive.

Fig. 120. Our Boat on Lake Van.

We had been warned not to linger too long upon the site; the district is inhabited by some Kurds of ill repute. One of them had been sighted making off to apprise his friends of our presence. Yet darkness had fallen before we were clear of the intricate dikes, among which it would have been easy for an armed man or two to cut off our retreat. The villages lay before us—a mass of gloom in the dimly lighted scene. We were glad to pass within the fringe of their orchards; and a little later we were again in safety at Akantz. Meanwhile the necessary preparations had been completed, and we were informed that a vessel would be ready to receive us after we had partaken of a meal. We set out at nine o’clock; yet not a single light flickered among the houses of the silent town. The boats station at a point about south-east of the settlement, along the margin of the sandy shore. It was after ten o’clock by the time we reached the lake and our craft, from which the long stage was dropped upon the sand to let us in ([Fig. 120]). The vessel was not decked, and we could spread our carpets within the hollow of her lofty sides. Scarcely a breath of air was stirring; but the breeze was expected, and it was decided to await its approach. We composed ourselves to sleep beneath the stars.

At midnight we set sail. When I awoke at half-past seven, the sky was blue in the zenith above my eyes. Set within that field of brightness, the pale crescent of the moon marked the boundary of a sheet of cirrus cloud. The gauzy tissues deepened as they neared the horizon, and gathered into long banks of heavy vapour, suspended about the summits of the chain of inky mountains which borders the lake upon the south. In that distant and gloomy range I at once recognised the features of the mountains of Kurdistan. It was the same chain that I had followed for weeks upon the waters of the Tigris, threading the vast plains between Diarbekr and the Persian Gulf. Day by day those steep parapets, sharp peaks, and gleaming snows had accompanied the peaceful voyage of my little raft.

How well I now recalled the longing I had then experienced to explore the famous lake on their further side! What a thrill of pleasure I now felt to be floating upon its waters, expanding towards those mountains with the proportions of a sea! The reflection of the blue vault above us paled and whitened as the flood approached that long black line. Bank upon bank, the clouds were serried upon the peaks, shot by the lights from the snows. Here and there the fretted outline of a pearly bed of vapour was drawn across the background of dull opal in the region of the middle slopes; or wreathing forms, like smoke, clinging to the sides of some loftier eminence, broke the horizontal layers.

The scene behind us contrasted the softness of a southern landscape with the stern grandeur of the coast above our prow. The northern shores of the lake were bathed in light; and the hummock convexities of the Ala Dagh, streaked with snow towards the summits, rose against a sky of transparent turquoise, and sank to a surface of more solid substance, but not less pure and not less blue. From these heights, across the long sheet of azure water to dazzling snow in the heaven above our heads, the fabric of Sipan mounted slowly to the flat rim of the central crater, and, sweeping past us, declined, with equal majesty of outline, to low ground in the west. The great volcano composes one whole side of the lake, and faces full south. I observed that the snow-line was perceptibly higher than on the occasion when we had approached the mountain from the north. The western limits of the lake were vague, and, in places, invisible; the mass of Nimrud, dim and cloud-streaked, had the appearance of a long island, rising on the horizon between the sunny slopes of Sipan and the nebulous barrier of the Kurdish chain.

It is this contrast—no chance effect of light and atmosphere—between the more northerly and the more southerly coasts of the vast basin that gives to the lake of Van its own peculiar character and a beauty quite its own. On the one hand, length of sweep in the form, and brilliancy of tone in the colouring—as seen in the curves of the bays, in the profiles of the mountains, in the texture of the soil; on the other, startling steepness, black rocks and deep shadows—one long serration, made more vivid by the snows. Here a scene which recalls the luxuriance of the bay of Naples; there the features, the austere features, of a Norwegian fiord.

A fresh north-easterly breeze filled our huge lateen sail; in the hollow of the white fold were painted large in a russet brown the emblems of a crescent and a star. The ship was heading for a low promontory which showed up yellow against the shades of the distance, and ended in a little island rock. That cape conceals the site of the city of Van, as you approach it from the east. The answering horn of a wide bay rose from the waters in our wake; we were skirting the eastern shore of the sea, with its gentle hills and delicate hues. On the slopes we could just discern a single small village, the only sign of the presence of man.

On we glide, and are soon almost abreast of the promontory, opening the expanse on the further side. The line of the shore curves inwards, and describes a wide half-circle, meeting the base of the stupendous barrier in the south. The whole long range is exposed to view, from foot to cloud-swept summit, from the waters in the west to beyond the waters in the east. The eye is arrested by a strange vision in the middle distance—a bold, black rock, starting from a bed of white mist on the surface of the sea. We learn from the sailors that it is the castled rock of Van. When the mist clears, and the object appears in its true proportions, it becomes a speck against the parapet of the great chain.

We approach the little island; I decide to land upon it; the water shallows, and assumes a hue of pure cobalt. Then the bed of soft white rock shines through the crystal element, and the vessel takes the ground. One steps ashore with the feelings of a Greek mariner, come from afar to a strange land. Gulls circle round us or rest tamely on the rocks; surely we have sailed across the bosom of the high seas.

Fig. 121. Scene on the Island of Ktutz.

Ktutz is the name of this enchanting spot, a name insulting to a Western tongue ([Fig. 121]).[15] We walked across a narrow stretch of grass, strewn with boulders, in the direction of a crag of the same white limestone, weathered yellow,[16] by which the cliff on the opposite shore of the islet falls away before reaching the point. Against that crumbling surface rose the conical dome of an ancient church, surmounting a picturesque group of gables, and, below these, a cluster of mud walls. Several almond-trees, of great age, spread their stippled foliage along the foot and up the side of the cliff. We observed for the first time one of the primitive structures which the people use for drawing water from their wells.[17]

The figure of a priest advanced to meet us; he greeted us kindly, and offered to escort us to the monastery. The finished masonry of the dome, the careful juxtaposition of black with yellow stone in the roof, evinced the culture of a happier age. The church consists of an outer nave and an inner sanctuary, from which the former is separated by a solid wall. As at Khosha Vank, near Ani, this outer building or pronaos is of larger dimensions than the shrine to which it leads.[18] It has probably been added at a later epoch. The nave is accompanied by two broad aisles. The doorway through which you enter the inner chapel is richly carved in the Arab style ([Fig. 122]). You look from without the open door across deep shadows to the lofty daïs of sculptured stone which supports the high altar in the apse.

Fig. 122. Doorway of the Church at Ktutz.

The inner chapel must date back to a remote period, in spite of the ogival arches of the two little doorways in the apses of the narrow side aisles. These betray the direct influence of Arab architecture, and are a solecism among the pointed arches of which the rest of the edifice is built up. It is disposed in the form of a Greek cross; the dome rises from massive piers. The apse on the north contains a chamber in which you are shown the grave of John the Baptist, and a girdle which is said to have belonged to the Saint. Frescos after the taste of the Persians cover the smaller spaces—garlands and wreaths of bright leaves. The archways are painted in quiet blues and reds; pictures of saints are suspended from the walls. Elaborate altar-pieces adjoin the entrance, one on either side of the door. The floor is carpeted with rugs, and an air of comfort pervades the dimly-lit shrine. This twilight serves to soften the gorgeous decorations which the wear of time has assisted to subdue. Neither they nor the interior which they adorn are of striking merit; yet you leave under the impression of a composite charm. We, as Englishmen, were much interested by an old standard clock which, to our surprise, bore on its face the name of Isaac Rogers, London. It ticked away in the heavy quiet, an object so familiar that our guide forgot to point it out.[19]

He was a pleasant individual, quite young, extremely ignorant and without ambition to learn. He was called the monk Peter, or Petros vardapet. Eight monks were on the foundation of the cloister; of these only four were in residence on the island. We found them each in his cell, sharing the group of little buildings which cluster at the foot of the church. All appeared to be without work or occupation of any kind. They seemed to have passed their lives upon the cushions of their couches, looking across the tremulous shade of the almond trees to the Italian sea and the soaring fabric of Sipan.

It was half-past twelve when we put off; the wind had dropped, and scarcely enabled us to forge ahead. For several hours we lay becalmed on the bosom of the lake, here at its widest, in full face of the murky chain on the horizon, which was reflected in hues of burnished steel. Banks of mist shrouded the landscape, especially in the west, where the mass of Nimrud seemed encircled by the sea. A pest of little midges covered our clothes and blackened our papers; then a shower fell, and yet another, and they disappeared. About four o’clock a nice breeze freshened, coming from the shore of low hills upon our left. It brought with it rain; but a little later the sun triumphed, and burst the canopy of clouds in the south and west. A double rainbow of great brilliancy rose from that near shore, revealing the site of a little village. Our head was pointed to the rock of Van, which, at this distance, shows like an island, even without the assistance of mirage. The long barrier of the Kurdish range declines in that direction, and gives way to a less steep and less gloomy ridge; but that outline again rises on the further side of the city, to culminate in a lofty parapet of saw-shaped edge. Varag—such is the name of this mass—commands the bay in which Van lies from behind a spacious interval of garden and field. In the landscape it strikes the last note of the tumultuous theme which is suggested by the mountains in the south—a final trumpet blast by which the procession marches onwards to the Persian plains.

In the opposite quarter, across the lake, and against the declining slope of Sipan the gardens of Adeljivas might just be seen in shades of grey. Those of Artemid were more distinct—a stretch of softness and verdure along the summit of a low cliff of yellow substance near the foot of the black range. A fragment of rock thrown seawards from those mountains was identified as the isle of Akhtamar. But the site of Van engrossed us, surpassing our expectations, high as these were. The rock, which had appeared at a distance to be an island, projected almost into the waters from a background of plain and without visible connection on any side. Battlements crowned its horizontal outline; while at its foot and along the shore luscious foliage, touched by autumn, covered all the inequalities of the ground. From rock and garden, and from the vague detail of the middle distance the eye was led upwards to the stony slopes of Varag; a bed of cloud lay captive upon them; but the jagged parapet stood out from a clear sky. Here and there, stray fragments of vapour, flushed by the evening, floated outwards from the dense canopy over the mountains in the south. The veiled snowfields of the range were revealed in fitful glimpses of yellow, unnatural light.... We moored our vessel by the side of a cluster of similar craft at the so-called harbour, and took the direction in which the town was said to lie. It is surrounded by a walled enclosure, and nestles at the foot of the rock. Darkness had fallen as we passed down its silent streets, made more gloomy by the shadows from the cliff. The bark of dogs, the sad refrain of an Eastern song were the only sounds which broke the stillness of the night. Then we entered a broad chaussée which stretches inland to the suburb of gardens which usurps the importance of the fortified town. There are situated the Consulates of the European Powers, and the residences of the principal citizens. Poplars of great height rose from the irrigated ground on either side of the road. Side lanes led away from this broad avenue into the park of trees. After a walk which seemed interminable, and which occupied no less than three hours, we arrived at the British Consulate at half-past nine o’clock.

[1] Mignan tells us that he purchased a gelding at Sulimanieh which carried him from Baghdad to Tiflis across Kurdistan in 16 days, a distance of at least 800 miles (Winter Journey, etc., London, 1839). I have heard of similar feats in the East, but have not been anxious to place the veracity of my informants to the test. [↑]

[2] La Turquie d’Asie, Paris, 1892, vol. ii. p. 710, “Tout près d’Akantz, à 2 kilomètres vers l’est, se trouve une montagne qui renferme une carrière de pierre calcaire, de 3 kilomètres d’étendue, large d’environ 300 mètres. Le sommet de cette montagne se termine par un vaste plateau couvert des ruines d’une ville antique nommée Zernak qui fut très florissante. Les rues de la dite ville sont larges et coupées à angle droit; on retire de ses édifices de belles pierres siliceuses régulièrement taillées dont on se sert pour les nouvelles constructions.” [↑]

[3] Cuinet (op. cit.) goes quite astray in his statistics both of the caza and town. He estimates the Mussulman inhabitants of the whole caza at only 5129. Akantz and the villages between it and the lake would alone contain as many or more. [↑]

[4] I do not think that Vivien de Saint Martin is justified in supposing that the town which was destroyed by the Georgians in A.D. 1209 was situated in a different locality from that occupied by these ruins (Nouveau Dictionnaire de Géographie Universelle, Paris, 1879–95, sub voce Ardjiz). [↑]

[5] Schulz, in Journal Asiatique, Paris, 1840, series 3, vol. ix. p. 322. Sayce, The Cuneiform Inscriptions of Van, in Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 1882, vol. xiv. pp. 649 seq., and 1888, vol. xx. pp. 3 and 19. [↑]

[6] According to Dr. Belck (Verhandlungen der Berliner Gesellschaft für Anthropologie, etc., 1895, Heft VI. p. 599) the third tablet can never have possessed an inscription. [↑]

[7] See especially Müller-Simonis, Du Caucase au Golfe Persique, Paris, 1892, p. 393. [↑]

[8] Müller-Simonis, op. cit. pp. 292 and 555. [↑]

[9] Verhandlungen der B. G. für Anthropologie, 1898, Heft VI. p. 591. These travellers add yet another name to the supposed ruins, viz. that of Sirnakar. [↑]

[10] Verhandlungen der B. G. für Anthropologie, 1898, Heft VI. p. 573. [↑]

[11] See the extract from Ibn-Alathir in Fragments de géographes et d’historiens Arabes et Persans inédits, by Defrémery, in Journal Asiatique, Paris, 1849, series 4, vol. xiii. p. 518. [↑]

[12] Saint Martin, Mémoires sur l’Arménie, vol. i. p. 136. We know that Ani was a fairly populous town long after the date when it was formerly supposed to have been deserted. [↑]

[13] Marco Polo, Yule’s translation, London, 1874, vol. i. p. 47; and “Merchant in Persia” in Italian Travels in Persia, Hakluyt Society, London, 1873, p. 160. The other six castles were Tadvan, Vostan, Van, Berkri, Adeljivas and Akhlat. [↑]

[14] Loftus, who visited Arjish in 1852, has collected the facts relative to the inundation (Quarterly Journal of Geological Society, London, 1855, vol. xi. p. 319). [↑]

[15] It may help to advance the study of the changes of level in the waters of Lake Van if I record that at the time of our visit (November 2) the island of Ktutz was almost a peninsula. The monks told us that in a few weeks’ time the long neck of sand which almost joined it to the land would be exposed from end to end. In spring the waters cover it. [↑]

[16] This rock, a specimen of which I brought home, may be described as a compact limestone, largely consisting of foraminifera and fragments of mollusca and other invertebrate organisms. [↑]

[17] The long pole shown in the picture projecting against the sky serves as a lever for lifting the bucket. [↑]

[18] The measurements of the interior are as follows:—Pronaos, length 36 feet 2 inches by 34 feet 4 inches. Church proper, length to head of apse, 40 feet 7 inches (25 feet 10 inches to the daïs supporting the altar, and 14 feet 9 inches from the daïs to the wall of the apse); breadth, 24 feet 8 inches. [↑]

[19] The reader of early travels in the East will be familiar with the figure of the European watch and clock maker, to whom he is introduced in some distant city of Asia. [↑]

CHAPTER IV

VAN

Of the various sites which one might select upon the shores of the lake of Van, none would present as great advantages for a populous and self-contained settlement as that of the city from which it derives its name. The great range along the southern coast leaves little respite of even land between the waves and the parapet of rock. The opposite margin of the bosom of waters is filled with the fabrics of those huge volcanoes, Nimrud and Sipan. Sipan, indeed, upon nearer acquaintance, is robbed of some of his apparent extension; and the low outlines on the west and east of the dome-shaped mass upon the horizon will be recognised to belong to a belt of limestone with intrusive igneous rocks which the traveller follows all the way from Akhlat to Adeljivas, and upon which the volcano has built itself up. But those hills, which from the neighbourhood of Van seem to constitute the train of Sipan, are at once rugged and approach closely to the shore. Arjish alone is backed by a zone of fairly even and fertile country; while, as regards the coast between Van and the mouth of the Bendimahi Chai, I do not know that it has ever harboured a considerable city. On the other hand, the alluvial plain which is confined by Mount Varag upon the east, and which may be said to extend from a headland near the village of Kalajik on the north to the high ground just north of Artemid upon the south, affords a considerable area of rich soil, capable under irrigation of producing the choicest fruits of the earth.

Of the beauty of the site it would not be possible to speak too highly; but I tremble to provoke in my English reader a nausea of descriptive writing. The Armenians have a proverb which is often quoted: Van in this world and paradise in the next. The comparison might be justified under happier human circumstances, the perversity of man having converted this heaven into a little hell. Its aptness may be recognised during the course of a walk in the neighbourhood, or from the standpoint of the rock which supports the citadel. In the north across the waters is outspread an Italian landscape—a Vesuvius or an Etna, with their sinuous surroundings, on an Asiatic scale. Nearer at hand and fully exposed, the long barrier of the Kurdish mountains recalls the wildest scenery of the Norwegian coast. From the city herself as from the extremities of the wide basin, the short, sharp ridge of Varag is seen with pleasure to the eye, lifted some 4500 feet above the waters, and, at evening, reflecting the sunset in the most varied hues. The lake is not sufficiently large to separate these various objects by distances which preclude under ordinary conditions the simultaneous enjoyment of the beauty of all from a single shore. And it is large enough to spread at their feet with all the qualities of the ocean—the depth and vastness and changing surface of the high seas.