But most of all, as we realise the vision, which in the noblest shapes of natural architecture, the dome and the pyramid, fills the immense length of the southern horizon and soars above the landscape of the plain, the essential unity of the vast edifice and the correspondence of the parts between themselves are imprinted upon the mind. If Little Ararat, rising on the flank of the giant mountain, may recall, both in form and in position, the minaret which, beside the vault of a Byzantine temple, bears witness to a conflicting creed, this contrast is softened in the natural structure by the similarity of the processes which have produced the two neighbours, and by their intimate connection with one another as constituents in a single plan. In this respect they suggest a comparison to a stately ship at sea, with all the close weaving and interdependence of hull and masts and sails. In the harmony of a common system each supplements and continues the other, and what Great Ararat is to the western portion of the fabric Little Ararat is to that on the east. The long north-western slope of the larger mountain is answered on the south-east by the train which sweeps from the side of the smaller towards the mists of the Caspian Sea; and there is the same correspondence between the slopes which are contiguous as between those which are most remote. The steeper side of the greater Ararat is turned towards the needle form of the lesser; and, standing in the valley which divides the two mountains, it appears that the degree of inclination of either slope is in exactly inverse proportion to their size. This pleasing interplay between constancy in essential principles and diversity of form invests the long outline of the dual structure with a peculiar charm. The differing shapes repeat one another, and one base supports the whole.
The plain itself, on the confines of which, and opposite to one another, these several ranges and mountain masses rise, is not unworthy of the works around it, and spreads at their feet a long perspective of open and even ground. Where the valley attains its greatest extension, just west of Erivan, the width of its floor, or level surface, is over twenty miles; and even when the spurs of the Lake Sevan system have inclined the northern boundary to the south, the space between these spurs and the extreme base of Ararat is scarcely less than ten miles. But these are divisions which the mind appreciates and the eye is unable to perceive, so gradual is the transition from one level to another, from plain to mountain-side. On the north the dappled landscape of the campagna mingles with the patches of field and garden which, fed by a number of slender rivulets, clothe the first slopes of Alagöz; on the south the gathering foundations of Ararat are accompanied by an almost insensible inclination in the surface of the dry and sandy soil. From either side the prospect extends unbroken to the long summit lines which confront one another at an interval of nearly sixty miles. From invisible limits in the western distance issues the looping thread of the Araxes, and, skirting the base of the Ararat fabric, bends slowly south-eastwards and disappears.
The shady walks of the little park were beginning to fill with groups of loungers when, at five o’clock in the afternoon of the 16th of September, we started from the central square of Erivan. A single horseman accompanied us, a chapar or courier belonging to the country police. This was the first occasion, since we had entered Russian territory, upon which an escort had been considered necessary by those responsible for our safety. We were approaching the Turkish border, and along that extended mountain frontier acts of brigandage are still not unknown. Yet the prince of brigands, the redoubted Kerim, no longer flouts the nachalniks; and a stream of laden carts and leisurely wayfarers attests the public confidence. Slowly we threaded the clay-built walls of successive orchards, the trees within them bending with fruit, until beyond this oasis of foliage and freshness opened, like an ocean at the mouth of a harbour, the free expanse of plain.
Fig. 29. Ararat from near Aramzalu.
The springless troika bumped heavily on the projecting slabs of massive boulders, embedded in the fairway. The road which leads through this stony region is little better than a natural track. The rocky slopes of the northern mountain border extend to the south of Erivan, until they die away into the level surface of the valley a few versts from the town. The evening was advancing and we had no time to linger; we were obliged to put up with the jolting and push on. At the promise of a rouble to the driver the pace quickened; we clutched the bare sides of the little post cart, and tightened our seat on the narrow belt of chains, cushioned with a bundle of hay. At the half stage our courier took his leave and was succeeded by a fresh horseman; and so throughout the journey one horseman gave place to another with only a few minutes’ delay. These chapars are young men, native to the country, who find their own mounts; they wear the drab skirted coat of Georgia and the usual lambskin cap. Their stations are often isolated, and are distinguished by the curious structures which adjoin them—lofty platforms, built upon piles, which serve the purpose of watch towers, and from which they command the inequalities of the ground (Fig. [29]). Away on our right the distant chain of the Ararat system was shadowed in tints of opal and indigo upon a rich ground of orange and amber hues; the sun sets behind those mountains, and it was touching with globe of red fire the fantastic peaks of the range. About us the plain lay grey and dim, and all the light and glory was in the western sky. In the south the misty fabric of Ararat loomed more gigantic as night approached; ever higher, before us, in the paling vault of heaven the dome and the pyramid rose. As we neared the first station on the road to Aralykh, the village of Aramzalu, it seemed as if the snowy roof of the mountain were suspended in the sky above our heads, a cold and ghostly island, holding the last glimmer of day.
Of the forty versts (26½ miles), which separate Erivan from Aralykh, we had covered thirteen versts (8½ miles) within the space of an hour and a half. The next stage is the village of Kamarlu, a distance of fifteen versts. Between these two stations the road follows the course of the Araxes, at an interval of two or three miles, and is lined on either side by the walls of extensive gardens, watered by a network of little channels which carry the river into the plain. The character of the soil favours the well-metalled avenue which leads within the fringe of poplars and fruit trees and forms the principal artery of this fertile and populous zone. Night had fallen; the road was clear; the fresh pair of horses were less than an hour in covering the ten miles.
In the post house of Kamarlu, where we again changed horses, we were surprised to find our cook. He had been retained as a hostage for the way-money of the fourgon, which our people had been unable to pay. We released him, and stowed him away with difficulty in a corner of the cart. At Kamarlu you leave the region of gardens, and make direct for the margin of the river, which flows between high banks through a melancholy district of waste land and cracking soil. In this yellow stream, of which the width at this point can scarcely exceed eighty yards, it is difficult to recognise with becoming emotion the haughty flood of the Araxes; yet the river is still crossed by fords or ferries, and still retains, I believe, the ancient distinction that it does not brook a bridge. A standing hawser of woven wire is laid from bank to bank, and the force of the stream propels along it a wide and solid pontoon. Transported without delay to the opposite bank, we made rapid progress along the roadway across low and marshy ground, and arrived just after nine at the row of trim cantonments which compose the military station of Aralykh, eleven versts from Kamarlu (Fig. [30]).
We made halt before the entrance to a single-storeyed dwelling built of clay and painted white. A young Russian officer in white linen tunic received us at the door. As we passed within the house, the burly figure of Rudolph was seen emerging from the shades. Our host had lodged the whole party in his quarters, and would not hear of our living in our tents. At Aralykh there are stationed a squadron of Cossacks and a detachment of regular cavalry. The regulars are employed in protecting the customs, and the Cossacks in hunting the Kurds. It was interesting to notice the contrast—in demeanour as well as in habits—between the polished young lieutenant of regulars and the kind but boisterous colonel of Cossacks. How small are the differences between opposite nationalities when compared with such essential divisions as these! In this hospitable house the manners of Europe prevailed over those of the East. As we sat in the comfortable room of the Russian officer it was strange to reflect that we were at the foot of Ararat, face to face with the memories of primeval simplicity among the thousand pretty nicknacks of a leisurely writing table and the various implements of a modern toilette. Perhaps the link, which connects all human development, was in this case supplied by a primitive reckoning table with rows of skewered beads.