In another half-hour we had passed the track which leads to Manzara, and were crossing the richest portion of the plain. The deepness of the furrows in the black earth argued careful cultivation; the crops had already been gathered in. We were now pursuing a rather more easterly direction, and could see a gap in the outlines on our point of course. The hummocks still followed us, at an interval of a couple of miles, and, beyond them, the meridional range to which Abul belongs. But, on our right hand, we now lost the open prospects; low, rocky hills advanced from the region of Lake Chaldir. It seemed a neck of the plain; for, further south, the view again opens, and the plain expands anew, in the form of a gulf-like extension, towards the water-parting between the Araxes and the Kur. It was evident that we were reaching considerably higher levels, for the crops were still standing, although ripe. The reapers were busy, gaily clad Armenians, the women helping in the work. In the distance, at the base of the eastern mountains, we saw a village, which was inhabited by Armenian Catholics. The cereals consisted of oats, from which they make bread, and a species of bearded wheat. At half-past four we arrived at the first considerable village, which, indeed, proved to consist of two villages, both of which adjoin the road. The first is called Khojabek, and is inhabited by Armenians; it contains fifty houses, and possesses a church but no school. The second, Bogdanovka, is a Russian settlement with eighty houses, the first of those settlements which we were so anxious to see.[9] At this double village we crossed a stream which was said to issue from Lake Chonchal, and which bears the same name as the lake.
Bogdanovka is not a favourable specimen of its species. I did not notice any appreciable contrast between the Russian and the Armenian village; it is indeed possible that they may have mutually affected one another, not to the advantage of the Russian settlement—in both cases rambling, stone-built tenements, and flat roofs, topped with turf. Dirty little lanes, of uneven surface, debouch upon the principal street. But the gait, the physiognomy of the two races—what a remarkable contrast in this respect! Large, lustrous, coal-black eyes: little, colourless pupils; shapely features, animate with expression: formless protuberances from a massive, heavy skull. The ugliness of the women especially appalled us, and we were impressed with the deliberate slouch of the men’s walk.
We had come a distance of 18 versts (12 miles). After changing horses, we gained some rising ground on the further side. From here we could see Lake Chonchal, with a village at the foot of the rising ground on its opposite shore. In half an hour we were at the tiny lake and village of Orlovka—a ragged-looking place, of which a striking feature was the stacks of tezek or dried manure. This was the second Russian village; we were disappointed. Gorelovka, the goal of our journey, was to come next.
The range on our left still continued; but on our right the hills had receded, and were replaced by gently rising ground. Patches of arable land mounted the slopes about us, suggesting that the rising tide of reclamation was flowing into these remote solitudes. We noticed that the soil had become more turf-like and fibrous in character; we thought it well adapted to potato culture, but not a field of potatoes could we see. These uplands provide good pasture during summer and sweet hay for the long winter months. It was a landscape of open downs at a great elevation; we had reached a height of some 7000 feet. Such are the bleak surroundings of Gorelovka. We were chilled to the bones when we arrived at half-past six.
The impression which we had received at the two smaller villages was quickly dispelled by our new surroundings. Great was our pleasure when we recognised that the high opinion of Colonel Tarasoff was amply justified by those to whom it applied. It is true that these sectaries are the flower of the peasantry in Russia; but that peasantry is none the less honoured by what they have achieved.
Gorelovka is the largest village in the district; it contains 150 houses and a population of some 1500 souls. The inhabitants said it was fifty-two years since they came hither from Russia, and were allotted lands. Each house pays fifteen roubles (about thirty shillings) annually to the State for the rent of their lands. Snow lies on the ground for about eight months in the year, and, like the Armenians, they heat their houses with tezek fuel, or cakes of dried manure. I admired their ploughs and spacious waggons; they are their own handiwork. You do not see such ploughs and waggons among their neighbours—Armenians, Tartars and Turks. On the other hand, they have not improved upon the usual threshing implements—the flat beams encrusted with sharp stones. They said they had found this method in use in the country, and that it satisfied their needs. Their markets are Alexandropol and Akhalkalaki. Cereals struggle for existence at this altitude; yet the patches of plough and stubble, spread upon the hillsides, climb higher every year.[10] It is pleasant to watch the waggons, loaded with hay, winding homewards over the springy turf.
A Dukhobortsy village is not built into the earth, like the burrows of the Armenians and the Kurds. The Russians cheat the climate by the additional thickness which they put into their solid stone walls. Their dwellings are low, one-storeyed houses; the masonry is covered over with plaster, which receives several coats of whitewash. A long street traverses the village—straight, broad and well maintained; the houses are aligned upon it at intervals. The roofs are almost flat, and consist of stout beams, supporting a superstructure of earth and sods of turf. The chimneys are mere apertures in the roof, protected by little wooden hoods. We found the interiors clean and comfortable; the wooden ceilings are neatly mitred, and the walls are distempered white. The deep embrasures of the windows testify to the thickness of the walls. In some of the Russian settlements, through which we passed later, the people had adorned their homes with gay shutters and combings of fretwork design; in Gorelovka no work of fancy adorns the dwellings of the peasants, and they have lavished all their skill in wood-carving upon the residence of their queen.
The inhabitants are tall and powerfully built, and, although they are bronzed in complexion almost beyond recognition, the fair hair bears witness to their northern origin. Their limbs are loosely put together, so that, apart from the difference of their dress and demeanour, they present a strong contrast to the neatly-made natives of the country, by reason of their lofty stature and the unbuckled slouch of their walk. The features are irregular, the eyes small, and the countenance is wanting in animation, in the case of both women and men. The dress of the men consists of dark blue trousers and jacket and a peaked military cap; this costume gives them the appearance of old soldiers, and all seem to shave the beard. The women wear very clean cotton dresses of showy patterns and bright hues.
Next morning, according to arrangement, we were to visit, in company with our host, Alexei Zupkoff, the venerable starshina, or head of the village, the residence and garden of the queen. The brother of the queen joined our party—Michael Vasilievich Ghubanoff, the same of whom Count Tolstoy speaks. We passed down the long, straight street of the village, the spacious intervals between the white houses opening to the breezy downs. Entering an enclosure, we found ourselves in a delightful flower-garden, among trees and thick rose-bushes, allowed to spread in freedom, and only saved from rankness and riot by the loving hand of man. How strange, after our wanderings among peoples whose material standards hover on the extreme margin where life is just possible and no more, appeared to us the sight of these garden flowers and the scent of the double rose. A low one-storeyed building faces the garden on two sides; the one wing contains the chapel and reception room, the other the private apartments in which the queen used to live. Passing within the doorway, we stood in a little hall from which rooms opened, one on either side. Both apartments are spacious, and their size was enhanced by the complete absence of furniture. Large stone stoves are built into the rooms, and form the most prominent feature in them; these stoves are usual in all the houses, but in this house they are decorated with a scroll of stone carving, which is not the case elsewhere. The ceilings are low, and the walls are so thick that the windows have the appearance of fortress embrasures, with their deep cavernous sills. The two large rooms on either side of the hall were formerly devoted, the one to prayer meetings and the other to social gatherings; but it was evident that they were not in use at the time of my visit, and I was told that assemblies in this house had been interdicted by Government, on account of the fresh outbreak of fanaticism which was apprehended should the people come together beneath the roof of their former queen.