Fig. 28. Alagöz from the Head Waters of the Abaran.
September 13.—At a quarter to six we were on the road. A chill was in the air, and heavy, sleepy clouds lay on the ground. But the zenith was softly blue, and a pleasant light fell on the valley with its spacious floor and ample expanse of sky. Our station was situated at a slightly higher altitude than the threshold of the pass; I should estimate our elevation, from the readings of my barometers, at about 7000 feet. After an hour’s drive, our track joined a newly-made road, metalled and ditched on either side; progress was fairly rapid down the incline of the valley, parallel with the current of the Abaran. This road was intended to serve as the postal avenue to Erivan from Alexandropol, and it bifurcates from the existing post road; but a series of misfortunes appear to have attended its construction, and it had not yet been used by the post. Verst after verst we drove along it, through a landscape which changes little from the features at the entrance of the pass. On our right hand rose the huge volcano, no longer an extended horizontal outline, but a shield-shaped mass, bellying upwards to the rim of a crater, which circled from us with a wide sweep (Fig. [28]). The slopes of the mountain were inclined at an angle of scarcely more than eleven degrees—soft convexities, broken into gullies and little hummocks, and, here and there, strewn with a shingle of greenish hue. The peaks had gradually disappeared as we rounded the base of the pile—a transition of which the phases were frequently withdrawn from observation through the incidence of clouds. On our left, at varying but always ample interval, the outer spurs of the border mountains described a parallel half-circle with the contour of Alagöz—one might almost mistake them for some outer shell of the volcano, so closely did they appear to follow the curve of its base. But, unlike their big neighbour, the slopes of these outworks were covered with brushwood, which developed into dwarf trees as we advanced. The floor of the valley revealed in most parts the hand of the reclaimer, by the side of a stretch of turf, by the margin of a rotting marsh. Yet mile after mile we could see no settlement; we seldom met a wayfarer, except for some drivers with a string of donkeys, laden with grapes from the valley of the Araxes, and a group of supple Kurdish girls. At a quarter to eight we drew rein for a few minutes in the large Armenian village of Bash Abaran. The inhabitants were busy getting in their corn from the open; here and there it had not yet been cut. In another hour we opened out a vista of Ararat, and, at a quarter to ten, we feasted our eyes upon the whole majestic fabric, before descending into the village of Ali Kuchak.
One may safely say of the scene which expanded before us that it is unsurpassed upon the surface of our globe. Nor is it difficult to account for the strength and permanence of the impression which it produces upon the mind. Nowhere has Nature worked on a scale more stupendous; yet on none of her works has she bestowed greater unity of conception, a design more harmonious, surroundings more august. Whatever mysteries compose the spell of the wide ocean and the open firmament, all the exquisite shades of light which temper the gloom of a northern climate, all the many-coloured radiance of the south, have been lavished upon the panorama which centres in Ararat and is spread like a kingdom at his feet.
Seen at this distance—measured on the map it is a space of fifty-six miles to the summit—the mountain is little more than an outline upon the horizon; yet what an outline! what a soul in those soaring shapes! Side by side stand two of the most beauteous forms in Nature, the pyramid and the dome. Both are developed on lines of almost ideal perfection, with proportions which startle the eye in spite of all their symmetry; and both are supported by a common base. The pyramid is one, and the dome is one; yet the structure is single which they combine to raise. From the dim east into the dim west you follow that long-drawn profile, rising from a distant promontory, declining to a distant promontory, centring in the roof of the dome, in the peak of the cone. The dome has an elevation of 17,000 feet, the cone of nearly 13,000 feet; and the base reclines on a plain which forms the greatest depression in the relief of Armenia, and which has an altitude of scarcely more than 3000 feet above the sea.
The standpoint from which we looked upon the wonders of this landscape were the basal slopes of the opposite colossus of Alagöz, where they descend to that same spacious plain. It is the plain which the Araxes waters; yet we could not see the river, hidden in the unseen hollow of the expanse. Between us and our horizon flat tracts of naked earth stretched away from the stony ground about us to a distant region of half lights and soft mist; above those shadows rose the mountain, bathed in light and luminous vapour, to wreaths of white cloud, hanging to the snows of the dome. On our left hand, a wooded hill—the only spot of verdure in the scene—jutted out into the levels from the border ranges, which here recede from the plain. Its summit outline is broken by a fantastic peak, like the comb of a cock, and it may perhaps be identified with the volcanic elevation of Karniarch. Below us lay the village, a cluster of stacks of tezek fuel, and driving smoke, proceeding from scarcely visible huts of mud and stone. Ledges or tongues of rock and cliff projected on our right from the base of Alagöz; they represent the extreme outrunners of the northern mountain and sink into the landscape, like the capes of a rock-bound coast. We were about to leave that coast behind us and to cross the floor of this sea-like plain; hues of ochre were lightly laid upon its gently undulating surface and mingled with the nearer tints of yellow and umber in the stubble and fallow of the cultivated land.
All our thoughts, our whole ambition, were centred on that distant mountain; our emotions satisfied, we reflected that the spot where we were standing was the nearest point which we should reach to the summer resort of Darachichak. It might be possible to hire horses and ride the distance of some twenty miles; all the official world of Erivan would be assembled in that pleasant valley, and we had need of their assistance for our ascent. So, once arrived within the village, we sent for the elder; and we were glad to hear that the place was the seat of a Pristav, or head of an administrative group of villages. A lean and lank Armenian responded to our summons; he came with a slouching gait and with sleep in his eyes, and he was engaged in buttoning his long grey coat. The official dress of Russia and the peaked cap of white canvas on such a truly Oriental figure as this! However, he promised to procure us horses, and, putting faith in his official dignity, I decided to split our party into two. My cousin and myself would adventure upon the journey into the mountains; Wesson, Rudolph and the Armenian would proceed in the victoria and with the waggon to the town of Erivan.
Our companions started on their journey, while we with our saddles made our way to a neighbouring village in which the horses were to be found. We were accompanied by the Pristav’s man, a sinister-looking villain; the saddles followed on a bullock cart. But at a winding of the path, just after leaving the settlement, the wheels sank into an abysmal depth of mud. I have no doubt that this incident is of daily occurrence, and that neither village would entertain the notion of making a road. The horses were on the meadows; their owners refused to catch them, and we were obliged to essay the task ourselves. But in this open country they eluded all our efforts; we were obliged to return without attaining our end. The Pristav received our maledictions with equanimity, and we were reduced to the tame expedient of two sorry ponies, which were only equal to carrying us to the nearest considerable station on the road to Erivan.
How poor in resources is this magnificent country! what a curse appears to lie on these fertile lands! Our Pristav had the charge of thirty-six villages, of which six were inhabited by Persian Tartars and the remainder by a population of his own race. His district extended from Bash Abaran to Ashtarak; yet he told us that in the whole of this considerable region there did not exist a single school.
Baffled of our purpose, we mounted our ponies and took to the road to Erivan, two solitary figures in the lonely waste. The provincial capital was over thirty-five miles distant, and it was already half-past four o’clock. The prospect over the plain, which I have just described, is so far deceptive that you under-rate the extension of these stony basal slopes. This mistaken estimate is due in part to the position of the hill of Karniarch, which blocks the view towards the south-east. To gain Erivan, you are obliged to round the base of that elevation; nor, in that direction, do the rocky inclines die away in the level campagna before you have reached the gardens of the town. The base of Alagöz appears to mingle with the base of the volcanic masses which line the inner edges of the border range; mile after mile you cross a bleak and boulder-strewn country which sweeps into the plain. To add to our impression of the complete forlornness of this region, a violent storm arose. The immense expanse of heaven was filled with driving clouds, riven by lightning; the torrents roared, and the blast bent the stunted bushes which rise along their margin among the rocks. We were reminded of the famous night upon the Brocken, as our tired ponies tottered forward into the blinding rain. Shelter there was none; it was a case of struggling onwards and taking pleasure in the elemental war. And the road! was there ever outside of Persia such a strange caricature of a road? It wound like a snake, avoiding every hillock; the traffic made short cuts from bend to bend. There were bridges broken in the back with a ford alongside them; there were yawning culverts and parallel tracks avoiding the horrors of the metalled way. Not a soul did we meet, until, as the evening advanced, we passed through some considerable Armenian villages which presented the strange spectacle of a lamp-lit street. But where was Ashtarak, the goal of our journey? should we ever accomplish our self-imposed stage? When our mounts could go no further, my cousin points out a long building by the side of a large church. No door could we see or opening on to the ground, only a lofty verandah with a ladder, a feature which recalled the old lawless times. We clamoured, and were admitted after sundry explanations, and a stable was found for our weary hacks.
We were received by a young Armenian who spoke a little French, and who ushered us into the presence of a vardapet or monastic priest. I regret my inability to place on the page the handsome features of our host, Monseigneur Achote—so he transcribed his rank and name. He told us that we were welcome to the monastery of Mugni, and that he himself happened to be the only priest in residence. Assisted by his clerk, he busied himself about our comforts; clothed us afresh, gave us to eat and drink. Monseigneur belongs to the new school of Armenian ecclesiastics; he has received an excellent education, and possesses wide sympathies and broad views. His room was littered with books and papers; his talk was animated, and one could not doubt that his ardent patriotism was sincere. Next morning—September 14—we visited the church of Mugni, a plain but solid stone structure, quite in the grand style. An open portal, resting on four solid piers, gives access to the doorway with its richly carved mouldings, and is surmounted by a little tower in which the bells are hung. The exterior is of grey stone, varied by blocks of red volcanic rock; here and there carved slabs of such rock have been inserted, a familiar feature in Armenian architecture. The interior is quite plain and the masonry uncovered; so thick are the walls that in the apse you are shown two secret chambers built into the frame of the church. Access to these chambers is obtained by removing a block of stone in the ceilings of two recesses in the apse. In the old lawless times these rooms served as a refuge; they are capacious and receive the light of day. The head of St. George is preserved in a little side chapel, a treasure of considerable value to the monastery. It seemed so strange that our enlightened host should be profiting by the possession of this relic, and I thought that he answered my smile. An inscription informs us that the church was built—or may it not be restored or embellished?—by Mgr. Peter of Argulis in the year of the Armenian era 1118 or A.D. 1668, with his people’s money and his own.