In the land of the lion and sun, or, modern Persia

by C. J. Wills

A few miserable daubs on plaster in this passage represent Saint Michael weighing good and evil spirits, etc. To the right is a low door, which leads to the church; at the extremity of the passage is a large courtyard, which contains the apartments occupied by the Arachnoort and the little bishop Christopher.

There is no pretension to magnificence in these. The rooms of Christopher are small, and comfortable in a humble manner; a few religious engravings and paintings of saints that Wardour Street would not look at, hang on the walls; it is carpeted with cheap rugs, and a mattress and a couple of cushions form the furniture; in the corner is the tall, silver-headed ebon staff of the little bishop; in a recess stand his conical hat and hood. A room quite without ornament forms his bedroom, and his property, a few years ago considerable, he has made over to the Church.

The little bishop is a gouty man, and does not indulge, though there are legends that in his youth his potations were pottle deep; he does not even smoke, but he snuffs—a thing that most of the old people in Julfa do. A jovial old man in a skull-cap and flowing black robes, he insists on regaling one with gez; a sort of sweetmeat, prepared from the gezanjebine, a mawkish exudation from a plant found in the desert near here, and akin to manna; it is mixed with sugar and made up into round cakes with almonds or pistachios. It is impossible to break these cakes with the finger; they will bend freely, but on striking them with a hammer or another cake, they fracture at once. Ispahan is celebrated through Persia for this sweetmeat, and large quantities are sent away in every direction. In Julfa and Ispahan the gez is always offered on the arrival of a guest, and urgently pressed on one; it is considered impolite to refuse. The flavour is merely sickly sweet, and it sticks to the jaws like butter-scotch; it is white in colour, and very cloying. The monk, too, always has a glass of good old Kishmish wine for his friends. The Kishmish grape is the smallest in Persia; it is a bright yellow colour, and very sweet; it is, when dried, what we call the Sultana raisin. The wine is a golden yellow, delicious when quite new, but terribly heady. It is a great favourite with the Armenians, as it is quickly intoxicating. As a rule it will not keep well, but when it does is not to be despised. A glass of arrack is offered as an alternative, and this is more suited to the native taste; it is, as a rule, what is called in India “fixed bayonets.”

The monk is a laughing philosopher, and generally has some store of local yarns; in fact, he is a sort of “vieulx Parchemins,” and his tales would have astonished and delighted the author of the ‘Contes drolatiques.’

Passing under the guidance of the monk we ascend on the further side of the courtyard a long staircase and enter a huge empty room newly carpeted, which brings us to the curtained doorway of the bishop’s private apartment. On the walls, decorated with many figures in cut plaster of the Russian eagle (for the bishop is a Russian subject, and wisely takes care that the Persian authorities shall know it),[15] hang some twenty daubs in oil of saints and sacred scenes; these are more pretentiously framed than those in the monk’s room, but of equal value. A high chair, considerably ornamented with native carvings, is the bishop’s habitual seat, and at its side is a table covered with well-bound books, which at my first visit considerably impressed me; but I found out afterwards that they were always the same books, so my respect for the literary attainments of the Arachnoort somewhat diminished.

After a decorous interval the bishop enters, a handsome man—a man who would create a furore in England—a man with large, dreamy, black eyes, which he uses as much as the late Mr. Fechter, a pale and interesting face, and a long, silky beard, well combed, and black as the raven’s wing. From his neck hang an amethyst cross and a large portrait of the Virgin, in an oval enamel surrounded by paste. Clad in black lined with violet, his tall conical cap and flowing black hood give a fine stage picture, which is completed by a gentle raising of the hand (a white and delicate hand) as if to bless; a soft, whispering, almost purring voice, completed the charm of a man who in some other sphere would have doubtless achieved the success usually attained by great personal attractiveness. A sort of smile, as of a superior nature compassionating itself, spreads over his handsome face, and in a whisper he asks after one’s health. The glossy beard is stroked, the black eyes are rolled; coffee is brought, a kalian, and the visitor retires, after much bowing on both sides.

The church alone remains to be seen, for the monastery itself is not in use, the cells being filled with firewood and corn. The church is not large, and is divided by a row of coarsely-painted wooden rails into two compartments, the outer and larger one, which is surmounted by a dome, being decorated with large paintings in oil of the events in Bible history from the creation. There is nothing particularly remarkable in these; most are copied from well-known pictures, while others are amusing in their naïveness. The general effect is good, a sort of gorgeousness being produced by so many yards of brightly-painted canvas. All round the walls are modern tile-work, presenting a florid pattern of green leaves on a white ground. The general effect of this is not bad. The episcopal throne is placed just beyond the railings, and consists of an elaborately-carved and ornamented chair, covered by a wooden domed canopy, gilt and painted in gaudy colours. A few feet in front of this is a raised platform, some four feet from the ground, running back into a recess. This can be curtained off at pleasure; a gaudy curtain hangs at either side of it. At the extremity of the recess is the altar; there is only one in the church. It has a sort of cabinet for the host, and has numerous smaller platforms above it, each a few inches high; on these are coarsely painted a few figures of saints.

All round the church run various pictures of martyrdoms, some of them horrible in their grim realness, others as intensely ridiculous. Here are shown the various sufferings of Ripsimeh virgin and martyr, also Gregor; these are the chief saints in the Armenian calendar.

Illustrations are also seen of the parables and miracles. One of these is the man who had the beam in his eye seeing the mote in his brother’s. The mote is depicted as a moat, and the beam as a huge beam of wood.