We approach the little island; I decide to land upon it; the water shallows, and assumes a hue of pure cobalt. Then the bed of soft white rock shines through the crystal element, and the vessel takes the ground. One steps ashore with the feelings of a Greek mariner, come from afar to a strange land. Gulls circle round us or rest tamely on the rocks; surely we have sailed across the bosom of the high seas.
Fig. 121. Scene on the Island of Ktutz.
Ktutz is the name of this enchanting spot, a name insulting to a Western tongue ([Fig. 121]).[15] We walked across a narrow stretch of grass, strewn with boulders, in the direction of a crag of the same white limestone, weathered yellow,[16] by which the cliff on the opposite shore of the islet falls away before reaching the point. Against that crumbling surface rose the conical dome of an ancient church, surmounting a picturesque group of gables, and, below these, a cluster of mud walls. Several almond-trees, of great age, spread their stippled foliage along the foot and up the side of the cliff. We observed for the first time one of the primitive structures which the people use for drawing water from their wells.[17]
The figure of a priest advanced to meet us; he greeted us kindly, and offered to escort us to the monastery. The finished masonry of the dome, the careful juxtaposition of black with yellow stone in the roof, evinced the culture of a happier age. The church consists of an outer nave and an inner sanctuary, from which the former is separated by a solid wall. As at Khosha Vank, near Ani, this outer building or pronaos is of larger dimensions than the shrine to which it leads.[18] It has probably been added at a later epoch. The nave is accompanied by two broad aisles. The doorway through which you enter the inner chapel is richly carved in the Arab style ([Fig. 122]). You look from without the open door across deep shadows to the lofty daïs of sculptured stone which supports the high altar in the apse.
Fig. 122. Doorway of the Church at Ktutz.
The inner chapel must date back to a remote period, in spite of the ogival arches of the two little doorways in the apses of the narrow side aisles. These betray the direct influence of Arab architecture, and are a solecism among the pointed arches of which the rest of the edifice is built up. It is disposed in the form of a Greek cross; the dome rises from massive piers. The apse on the north contains a chamber in which you are shown the grave of John the Baptist, and a girdle which is said to have belonged to the Saint. Frescos after the taste of the Persians cover the smaller spaces—garlands and wreaths of bright leaves. The archways are painted in quiet blues and reds; pictures of saints are suspended from the walls. Elaborate altar-pieces adjoin the entrance, one on either side of the door. The floor is carpeted with rugs, and an air of comfort pervades the dimly-lit shrine. This twilight serves to soften the gorgeous decorations which the wear of time has assisted to subdue. Neither they nor the interior which they adorn are of striking merit; yet you leave under the impression of a composite charm. We, as Englishmen, were much interested by an old standard clock which, to our surprise, bore on its face the name of Isaac Rogers, London. It ticked away in the heavy quiet, an object so familiar that our guide forgot to point it out.[19]
He was a pleasant individual, quite young, extremely ignorant and without ambition to learn. He was called the monk Peter, or Petros vardapet. Eight monks were on the foundation of the cloister; of these only four were in residence on the island. We found them each in his cell, sharing the group of little buildings which cluster at the foot of the church. All appeared to be without work or occupation of any kind. They seemed to have passed their lives upon the cushions of their couches, looking across the tremulous shade of the almond trees to the Italian sea and the soaring fabric of Sipan.
It was half-past twelve when we put off; the wind had dropped, and scarcely enabled us to forge ahead. For several hours we lay becalmed on the bosom of the lake, here at its widest, in full face of the murky chain on the horizon, which was reflected in hues of burnished steel. Banks of mist shrouded the landscape, especially in the west, where the mass of Nimrud seemed encircled by the sea. A pest of little midges covered our clothes and blackened our papers; then a shower fell, and yet another, and they disappeared. About four o’clock a nice breeze freshened, coming from the shore of low hills upon our left. It brought with it rain; but a little later the sun triumphed, and burst the canopy of clouds in the south and west. A double rainbow of great brilliancy rose from that near shore, revealing the site of a little village. Our head was pointed to the rock of Van, which, at this distance, shows like an island, even without the assistance of mirage. The long barrier of the Kurdish range declines in that direction, and gives way to a less steep and less gloomy ridge; but that outline again rises on the further side of the city, to culminate in a lofty parapet of saw-shaped edge. Varag—such is the name of this mass—commands the bay in which Van lies from behind a spacious interval of garden and field. In the landscape it strikes the last note of the tumultuous theme which is suggested by the mountains in the south—a final trumpet blast by which the procession marches onwards to the Persian plains.