Armenia, Travels and Studies (Volume 2 of 2) / The Turkish Provinces

by H. F. B. Lynch

We returned to the house of the Kaimakam, where I joined the remainder of my party. All were in the saddle by ten minutes to four o’clock. We mounted the slope of the hill which forms the promontory, and which we found to be a spur of Mount Ardos. It is crossed at a point behind, or on the south of the castle; the ascent is steep and the decline none too short. Nearing the strip of shore on the opposite side of the barrier, we were impressed by the outcrops of red granitic rock and green serpentine, the beds lying side by side. At half-past four we gained the level, and proceeded at the foot of some hills which are interposed between the range and the shore. These recede after some distance, and circle away from the lake, leaving a spacious bay of low and, in places, marshy ground. On the further horn of the shore we were shown a group of trees and slowly-rising wreaths of smoke. It was Akhavank, known to the Turks as Iskele (the port), the residence on the mainland of the Katholikos of Akhtamar. Although the sand on the border of the water was rather powdery, we found it better than the broken ground inland. It was pleasant too to ride by the side of the crystal water, and look down into the blue depths. Several little villages could be seen at the foot of the hills; they appeared more clearly from the lake next day. We reached Akhavank at ten minutes to six, and I estimate the distance from Vostan at about eight miles.

A two-storeyed white-faced house, an upper room, built out, like a verandah, with large windows overlooking the lake; stables and appurtenances of various application—the whole relieved against a background of poplars and fruit trees—such is Akhavank, the residence of His Holiness the Katholikos Khachatur (given to the cross) of Akhtamar. The house was full of people, and the stables of horses; it so happened that the Kaimakam of Vostan was on a visit, accompanied by a numerous retinue. The interior of the building was bare and uncomfortable, rooms and passages alike. Full decadence was written large on the squalid furniture and cheerless walls. I was ushered into a long apartment, facing the bay, and composing one side of the first floor. A fetid smell of garlic, and the want of ventilation, almost overpowered me. At the further end of the room, on a Kurdish rug, spread on the floor at the foot of the divan, sat or squatted a fat priest, attired in a black robe edged with sable, and wearing the usual black silk cowl of conical form, to which a cross of dim rose diamonds was attached. His back rested on quite a little nest of cushions; a few papers and a little bag lay at his side. On the adjacent couch beside the wall were seated several persons of various types of physiognomy and styles of dress.

I saluted, and received the salute of the figure on the floor; it was the Katholikos of Akhtamar. He spoke of his advanced age and growing infirmities; he was seventy-four years old, and had been possessed of his dignity for no less than thirty years. His tomb was already built; nothing remained but to spend the interval and descend into the grave. This touching sentiment is often used as a becoming pretext for idleness by better people than Khachatur. But, as he spoke, the tongue lolled heavily from side to side, and the voice seemed to struggle with an advanced asthmatic affection. In reply to my enquiry why he did not reside in the island, I received the answer that at Akhavank he was in a better position to receive his guests and satisfy their wants. It is, no doubt, a paying business to keep such a monastery, provided always that you manage it well. You must personally superintend the arrangements for the picnic, or others of lesser station will abstract your clients. You must be careful to keep well with the Government officials, or pilgrims will be afraid to come.

So the Katholikos of Akhtamar discards his pomp, is seen and eats with his guests in the same room round the same tray. On this occasion he was the centre of what was certainly a curious party, assembled against the evening meal. Servants entered with a circular platter on which were arrayed the various viands, and placed it before His Holiness. Requested to seat myself on the right of our host, I endeavoured, as best I might, to fold my legs beneath my body on a carpet by his side. Opposite me sat a Kurd, an old man who was still a giant, with bony hands more than proportionate to his size. From his sunken cheeks projected the beak of a vulture between small and deeply-caverned eyes. One of the pupils had almost entirely disappeared, leaving a patch of red within the hollow of the contracted eyelid, from which a mucous fluid was discharged over the parchment skin. Of such a face smiling could scarcely be expected; my neighbour remained grave, taking his fill of each dish, and fixing me with his single eye. On my right was the Kaimakam, a little man of no particular characteristics, wearing a fez and European dress. Although a Georgian and a relation of the Pasha of Van, you would take him for a Turk. Towards myself he was profuse of compliments and attentions, expressing his regret that he had not been present in Vostan to receive us, and blaming the British Consul for not having written to announce our stay. An officer of zaptiehs whom I had brought from Vostan with me—a mad fellow who had lathered his pony by the wildest manœuvres as we rode along the sands—and some of the principal attendants of the Turkish official, completed the company who were privileged to share the meal of the Katholikos and sit at his pewter tray.

But on that tray my eyes discerned with ill-concealed fright a spectre invisible to my fellow-guests. The shade of Hunger floated over the messes of meat and unpalatable vegetables, swimming in oil or ghee.[7] I could not eat the gritty pancake bread, or the salt cheese inlaid with pieces of green straw. Nor was I able with success to emulate the politeness of Julius Cæsar; a sickness came over me when I tried. The old priest was at liberty to dip his fingers into my dishes and pick the choicest bits. I could scarcely swallow a few morsels; but my host was much too stupid to see through the excuses which I made.

I felt that the cross might have joy of Khachatur, and left his presence when the dishes had been removed. On my guard against the prejudice of a bad dinner, I reflected that at Varag the pangs had been the same; yet what pleasant recollections remained of that visit and of the companionship of the quiet Daniel Vardapet! I sought out the steward of His Holiness, and of him enquired for a sleeping-place. Zadò was the name of this personage; he was an Armenian, but looked like a Kurd. He was the most influential of the clerical officials, and certainly smelt the worst. With him came Avò, the trustiest of his henchmen, proud of his antecedents as crossing-sweeper in Stambul. We were by them desired to spread our blankets in the draughty antechamber; but I made them surrender a large, unoccupied room. We were astonished to find within it a stack of cane-seated chairs, and puzzled our heads to discover the purpose for which they were used. Zadò informed us that they were arrayed on great occasions; but nobody was aware that they were objects of necessity to a European or even that they had come from Europe to these wilds.

Dawn had not yet broken when the boatmen we had ordered entered our apartment, and summoned us to avail ourselves of the breeze. In spite of our entreaties over night, the tea and eggs were not forthcoming; hungry we went on board the little bark. The sun rose above the horizon before we put off—a bright and joyous morning, the colours starting from land and sea, and the still waters of the lake becoming every moment more transparent and more blue. A light air, moving from the shore, just ruffled their even surface. The plank was drawn inwards, the broad square-sail set, and we glided easily away.

The crag of Akhtamar lay before us; behind us the sinuous shore at the foot of the parapet of the Kurdish range. Who would expect that these crystal depths should contain such nauseous elements, like a beautiful but poisonous flower? The water of Lake Van is charged with chemical matter, and is briny and putrid to the taste. You remark the absence of fish, and recall the contrast of the teeming inlets of a Lake Geneva or a Lake Lucerne. Nor are the coasts alive with boats and the expanse with white-winged vessels; you rarely find a shallop within the numerous creeks, although at times you may discover quite a fleet of lateen-sailed craft crossing the broad sheet of sea. They are manned almost exclusively by Armenian sailors; and when I asked the eldest among our crew whether there were any of different nationality, he said that with the exception of about five Kurds, only Armenians pursued this calling. They are simple, hardy fellows, easy to get on with; they conduct a small coasting trade. Those who had taken us from Arjish were at Akhavank when we arrived, and were full of joy, kissing our hands, to see us again. I had asked them to convey us to Akhtamar; but they told me it was impossible, as their ship was loading and, besides, it was not their turn.

The island is distant about two miles from the nearest shore and more from Akhavank. At its westerly extremity a bold cliff of hard grey limestone rises to a height of about eighty feet above the waters, in face of the monastic buildings on the mainland. From this crag the ground declines towards the east, and affords a level site for the church and cloister. The bight, where the vessels moor, is situated on the southern coast, not far from the bluff on the west ([Fig. 140]). Within the space of an hour we were nearing the inlet, and, a little later, stepped ashore.