Fig. 37. Akhury: The Great Chasm from Aralykh.
I had sent two Kurds to collect firewood while we were sleeping; it was morning before they returned. We breakfasted beside a pleasant fire, and decided to devote the earlier hours to rest. I was able to avail myself of a convenient physical habit of being refreshed by violent exercise. The summit was clear of cloud, and I sallied forth with the camera to seek a standpoint in full view of the cone. At some little distance from our camp I found such an eminence, whence all the characteristics of the summit region were exposed (Fig. [36]). The peak of Great Ararat bore almost due north-west of this point, that of Little Ararat a little south of east.[1] On the left of the picture you see the hollow in the face of the cone and the rocks struggling upwards to its top; on the right is the shoulder, or head of the causeway, bordering the snow slope on the opposite side. In the afternoon we regained our standing encampment in the valley of Sardar Bulakh.
Fig. 36. Summit of Ararat from the South-East, taken at a height of about 13,000 feet.
Relieved of the tension of a fixed purpose, we were able to turn with real enjoyment to the contemplation of the surroundings in which we were placed. There can scarcely exist in the world another such standpoint as the platform of the sirdar’s well. You never tire of the contrasting shapes of the massive dome and the graceful pyramid; below you in the plains the silent operations of Nature proceed on their daily course. Morning breaks, and the floor of the plain is shrouded in white mist; the sun rises, and the opposite peaks of the Sevan ranges are crowned with banks of billowing cloud. Stray films wander out into the blue vault of heaven, and graze the sides of the dome. As the day grows, the warm air mounts these sides and melts the snows, which distil into a white vaporous mass. The ground of the landscape increases in definition of feature—the rich campagna, the looping river, the sites of the towns. It is the subtle quality no less than the scale of the composition which distinguishes this prospect from other views, similar in character, which are unfolded from the summit of a pass. And if you turn from the immense expanse and rest the eye on the forms about you, those forms respond to your emotions and invest them with a deeply religious cast. This vast fabric, so harmonious in design, in position so self-sufficient, touches chords in the nature of man which sound through all the religions, and die away only when they die. Yet how vulgar appear their dogmas in this pure atmosphere of religion, in the courts of this great cathedral of the natural world! You feel that this mountain has been the parent of religions, whence they strayed into devious paths. To this parent you would again collect the distracted; in this atmosphere you long to bathe the populations of our great towns. Our morbid dramatists, our nervous novelists need the inspiration of these surroundings—the promptings of Nature in her loftiest manifestations, from which the life of man can never with impunity be divorced.
In a lighter sense, to the traveller who seeks rest and enjoyment, I can confidently recommend a pilgrimage to this beautiful upland valley, and a sojourn among the marvels of this site. For the sportsman there are partridges in abundance; the botanist and the man of taste will admire the brilliancy of the flowers which nestle in the crannies of the rocks. Junipers clothe the ground, and a plant with spiked foliage like the juniper, and with a lovely little flower like a star. I have taken a specimen to Kew, and they call it Acantholimon echinus—a peculiarly appropriate name. Tiny bushes of wild rose flutter in the breezes; and, a little lower down, the earth is yellow with immortelles (Helichrysum), which, as I write, recall the southern sun. The journey to Erivan, by way of Tiflis, can be performed in luxury; from Erivan you can drive in a victoria to the foot of Ararat; on the mountain you have need of nothing but a tent and a cook. The Kurds are well-behaved, and will provide you with milk and mutton, of which it is a treat to taste. The old lawless times are passing into legend, thanks to the vigorous rule of the Tsars. The Russian officials abound in real kindness of disposition; and, if you can only succeed in patching a peace with the system, you feel that they really wish you well. We returned to Aralykh on the 22nd of September after an absence of nearly six days.
The cantonment of Aralykh faces the jaws of the great chasm which extends from the snowy roof to the base of Ararat, and lays the heart of the mountain bare (Fig. [37]). We were anxious to penetrate within these dark recesses, and, after a day’s rest, carried our project into effect.
It is a melancholy reflection that nothing is lasting—that the strength of the earth withers and the strength of the human body, that faith dies and the closest friendships dissolve. In the world of sense Time is all-powerful, and nothing escapes destruction at his hands.[2] This painful lesson is written with terrible emphasis on the fabric of Ararat, where it fronts the historic river and the historic plains. Another earthquake, and the massive roof may tumble headlong into the abyss which now yawns beneath its cornice of snow. I have already observed that Herrmann Abich was able to remark a lateral fissure between the two highest elevations in the surface of the crown of the dome. He suggests that this fissure may have been caused by the convulsion of 1840, to which the present configuration of the chasm is due.[3] It would therefore appear that Time has already taken a decisive step towards the overthrow of the uppermost portion of the cone. The chasm itself and the subsidence of the flank of the mountain date from an epoch beyond the range of history. Tournefort, who visited Ararat in 1701, presents us with such a vivid picture of the rent side of the giant, that one cannot doubt that the essential features of the chasm existed in his day.[4] The little monastery of St. Jacob, which, prior to the catastrophe of 1840, stood within the recesses of the gulf, probably occupied the same site when it was first erected in the early Christian times. The reader may not be acquainted with the story of the catastrophe, and may like to learn or to recall it in this place.