The weather was delightful—a climate mild as spring, made fresh by the expanse of sea. The rays of a hot sun flashed through a crystal-clear atmosphere, which disclosed wide prospects over lake and land. Fragments of white cloud floated above the outline of the Kurdish mountains, less gloomy beneath the newly-fallen snows ([Fig. 139]). In the west, Nimrud was faithful to its appearance of an island, separated by a strait from the train of Sipan. But to-day we could see the walls of the vast crater—a caldron of which the rim appeared commensurate with the area of the island, rising in a robe of white from the waves. We were pointing towards the high land in the direction of Artemid, the southern limit of the spacious plain of Van. When near the village, we struck a road which the Pasha was building, with the avowed intention of extending it to Bitlis. Workmen were busy upon it, and there was quite a stream of little bullock carts, conveying stones and soil. It follows the margin of the lake, and the drive along it to Artemid will be a treat such as few cities can bestow. The castled rock, backed by the fabric of the great volcano beyond the distant headland of the bay; the noble lake, intensely blue, expanding to the distant Nimrud, yet plashing tamely with tiny wavelets on the sand—these are answered in the opposite direction, across the poplars which hide the village, by the precipitous walls, sharp edges and deep shadows, characteristic of the stupendous barrier in the south. Although the distance between Van and Artemid does not exceed eight miles, it was after two before we arrived. We mounted the side of the hill ridge which meets the lake at this point in a bold and high cliff. Gardens decline along the easier levels towards the invisible margin of the shore. You look across the foliage to the fabric of Sipan, no longer covered by the horn of the bay (Frontispiece).
Fig. 139. Mountain Range along South Coast of Lake Van.
Artemid! the Greek name, and the memorials in the neighbourhood of that early civilisation which is revealed by the inscriptions of Van, suggest, no less than the striking site, the possibility of further discoveries, when the place shall have been thoroughly explored.[3] A hasty examination would have been of small service, and we were anxious to reach Vostan. So we rode, without halting, through the straggling settlement, and did not draw rein until we had reached a point some two miles beyond it, where it was decided to rest our horses and take lunch. We were still crossing the barrier of hills which support the gardens of Artemid; our situation was elevated, and the view superb. We were able to follow on the horizon the outline of the Ala Dagh, although those mountains were over sixty miles away. They were loftiest on a bearing a few degrees east of north; and in that direction there was a fine peak, overtopping the neighbouring summits which fretted the edge of the long wall of snow-clad heights. A little further west we could see those heights receding towards the south, to the passage of the Murad. In the ridges which bordered the gap we well recognised the outworks which the river pierces between Karakilisa and Tutakh—the same ridges which, from our standpoint on the slopes of the Ararat system, had composed a distant parapet, so faintly seen that we questioned the impression, between the two blocks of mountain on the southerly margin of the plain of Alashkert.[4] The landscape south of Ala Dagh was now outspread before us; it was indeed an instructive view. Whatever eminences broke the expanse were comparatively humble; a zone of plains or vast steppes would appear to be interposed between that barrier and the lake of Van. Recalling the prospects about Tutakh, we arrived at the conclusion that those steppes are continued towards the west; and subsequent travel established the fact that they extend from the foot of the plateau of Bingöl Dagh towards the longitude of Bayazid in the east. The only object which arrested the eye in the direction of Ala Dagh was a high hill on the southern shore of the arm of the lake, with a village and gardens at its base. It was said to be the village of Alur. Ararat was not visible; but for the first time we discerned land between Sipan and the crater of Nimrud. The two mountains appeared to be joined by some low hills.
Proceeding at four o’clock, we commenced to descend after half an hour from the range of hills which we had now crossed. In the plain before us, bordering the lake, we could see a winding river which our zaptieh knew under the name of Anguil Su, but which, I believe, is more correctly spelt Enghil Su (Brant’s Anjel Su). It comes from the territory of Mahmudia, where it is called the Khoshab.[5] But we had not yet reached the floor of the valley before we were confronted by a swift stream which, fortunately for us, happened to be spanned by a bridge. It was the famous Shamiram Su, flowing towards Artemid along the slopes of the hills. I was informed that it has its source in some springs about two hours distant, near the village of Upper Mechinkert, and that a portion of its waters find their way into the Anguil Su at the neighbouring settlement of Lower Mechinkert. After irrigating the orchards of Artemid, it pursues its course to the gardens of Van, in which it is said to become absorbed.[6] There can be no doubt that it is an artificial conduit; left to itself it would join the lake at the foot of this plain. My informant attributed to Semiramis the conducting of it as far as Artemid. We remarked the exceptional pureness of the current. Soon after crossing it, we reached the right bank of the Anguil Su at a convenient bridge. The basin proper of the river may have a width of some two miles, and it is a distance of three or four miles from the bridge to the lake. Looking up the valley, we could follow the outline of the Kurdish mountains as they circled round towards Varag; that ridge itself was concealed by the hills behind Artemid; but, although the range beyond had diminished in height after leaving the lake, it was still the same range of bold parapets and snowy peaks. The most elevated portion lay in the direction of Akhtamar, where there was a lofty mass, known as Mount Ardos.
The stream, which had a greenish hue, was not more than some thirty feet wide; a number of rivulets, driving flour-mills, come in on the left bank. We had left that bank before opening out the village of Anguil or Enghil; it lies below the bridge, on the further side of the river, and consists of some sixty or seventy neat houses, inhabited by Armenians and a few Kurds. On the same shore, about a mile lower down, is situated the village of Mesgeldek. Some high ground separated us from the plain of Vostan; but it dies away before reaching the lake. Gaining the summit of this moderate eminence, we looked across some flats and marshes to a hillside which projects from the foot of the mountains, and forms a promontory of the shore. The foliage which softened the lower slopes of the headland belonged to the gardens of Vostan. We followed the bay of higher land, and reached the village of Atanon after over an hour’s ride from the Enghil Su. Just beyond this Armenian settlement the zone of orchards commences; in the plain below a swift stream flows. An isolated house on its right bank was indicated to us as the residence of the Kaimakam of Vostan. We reached this edifice at ten minutes before seven, having covered a distance from Artemid of about fifteen miles. In the place of the official, who happened to be absent, we were received with great kindness by his brother. We were invited to pass the night in the room of audience; and quilted coverlets, filled with cotton, were spread on takhts or wooden couches, after the manner of the East. After supper and conversation we enveloped ourselves in them, and were not long in falling asleep.
When morning came I commenced to explore and realise our surroundings. Vostan is no town, nor even a village, but is a district or zone of gardens at the foot of the Kurdish mountains about the spurs of Mount Ardos. On the east it extends to the village of Atanon, and on the west to the promontory. The orchards keep to the high land about the base of the range; between them and the lake there is an extensive strip of alluvial soil which, in the neighbourhood of our quarters, had a width of about two miles. I was assured on all sides that there were four or five hundred houses within the limits of the district of Vostan; but people get confused when dealing with an area of this description, and with the dispersed units of which such a settlement is composed. I doubt whether there could be found more than half that number. The Armenian families have emigrated; their room, but not their place, has been filled up, at least in part, by Kurds. As a natural consequence, it is impossible to obtain the bare necessaries of a little corn, or a shoe for a horse. A small church still remains, a memorial of better times, which is said to have existed for many centuries. We could see its plain four walls and small conical dome to the east of the Kaimakam’s house. We were told that it is still attended by a priest.
It is only on the neighbouring slope of the bold promontory that Vostan can be said to assume a concrete existence; and, even there, the group of buildings which feature the hillside are but the remains of the ancient town. You see the relics of an old castle, the ruins of a church, and a mosque where the faithful still pray. On the margin of the lake, below the headland, a little mausoleum of yellow stone still rises above the grassy soil. I set out on foot to visit the site, in the company of the doctor of law for the caza of Kavach. My companion—a man of middle age and intelligent face—bore the name of Mustapha Remzi Effendi, and was known as the Hakim. After jumping many ditches, which often compelled us to deviate, we arrived at the mausoleum standing among the debris of an ancient cemetery, on rising ground, at an interval of a few hundred yards from the peaceful waters of the lake. It is indeed a charming monument, of highly-finished masonry, fresh and clean as on the day when it was completed. In shape it is dodecagonal, and it has an inside diameter of 15 feet 8 inches. The surface of the roof of stone—in form a cone with twelve sides—is relieved by a moulding of geometrical pattern; a sculptured frieze and a long inscription in Arabic character runs round the walls, just below the roof. A familiar feature are the niches with stalactite vaulting; a small doorway, surmounted by a moulding in this character, gives access to the interior from the side of the lake. The Hakim read to me an Arabic inscription which is placed above this entrance; it was translated for me in the following sense. “This mausoleum belongs to the daughter of the ruler here in Vostan, Sheikh Ibrahim.” According to my companion, the name of the lady was Halimeh. I doubt whether her remains still repose within the enclosure of this jewel which is her tomb. The door is gone, and the vault yawns as though it were unoccupied, except by a heap of rubbish and debris. One admires the taste of the architect, who refrained from decorating the interior and left intact the restful influence of the spaces of wall.
From this cemetery we proceeded up the face of the hillside which juts out from south to north and meets the lake. The remains of the castle are situated upon the summit; the mosque and the ruins of the church lie beneath it, upon the middle slopes. The castle has no pretensions to architectural merit, and very little is left of the church. Some stones engraved with crosses in the old Armenian fashion could still be seen in the masonry of the last of these buildings, a mere chapel rather than a church. But the mosque is an edifice of respectable proportions, having inside dimensions of 65 feet 7 inches by 64 feet 4 inches. From the outside it is nothing more than four walls of hewn stone, surmounted by a dome of clay. But when you enter the spacious chamber the eye is pleased by the vaulted ceilings, and by the double series of open arches which support the roof. These arches are three in number in each series, and between each there is a space of wall veil. In this manner one may say that there are a nave and two aisles; but these aisles are of greatest length in the opposite direction to that of the altar, which faces the entrance door. In fact the arrangement is that usual in a Christian church, except for the position of the altar. The ceilings are built of plain kiln-burnt bricks, and neither they nor the walls are decorated in any way. A fine feature is the dome, in the aisle furthest from the door. The membair, or pulpit, on the right of the altar is a richly-wrought structure of wood. An inscription records that it was the gift of Khosrov Pasha, and that the donor restored the mosque in the year of the Hegira 850 (A.D. 1446). I have almost forgotten to mention that between this mosque and the castle is placed a little building with three windows, said to be the tomb of Sheikh Ibrahim.
Who was Sheikh Ibrahim, who was Khosrov Pasha? The answers which I received to these questions did not go far to dispel my ignorance. The Hakim called them Arabs, and connected them with the caliphate; yet he admitted that they were a branch of the family which reigned in Konieh, that is to say, of the dynasty of Seljuk Turks. To Sheikh Ibrahim he attributed the foundation of both mosque and church, with the intention of inducing his Moslem and his Christian subjects to tolerate and respect each other’s creed. He added that the last of this line of rulers was one Izzeddin Shir Bey.