Fig. 158. The Two Chapels at Surb Karapet.
We left the cloister—which is generally known under the name of Changalli, from its bells, heard in the plains from afar[8]—on the morning of the first day of December, a little before noon. Snow lay thickly upon the ground; but the thermometer at eleven o’clock stood at four degrees (Fahrenheit) above freezing point. The atmosphere was free of vapour, and a kind sun shone. We made our way to the heights behind the monastery, and kept zigzagging up and along them for over two hours. When the process had been completed after a tedious ride to the pass, during which the horses would often flounder in the snow, we had not ascended to a difference of level of more than 1500 feet, nor had we progressed more than 3½ miles. The better course, I feel sure, would have been to proceed in an easterly direction along the level terrace or open valley in which the cloister stands, leaving the neighbouring hamlet of Pazu just on our right hand. We could then have climbed the parapet which shelters these lofty uplands; or we might have scaled it in the immediate vicinity of Changalli. The black chaoush and his three myrmidons were indifferent guides.[9]
Because the pass is no pass in the ordinary sense; it is merely the edge of a tableland. Mile after mile towards the north stretched the undulating snow-field, swept by the winds, pierced by spinous blades of grass. We stood at an elevation of nearly 8000 feet. Below us, infinitely deep, lay the magnificent plain of Mush, bounded on the further side by the barrier of the Kurdish mountains, crossing the landscape from the invisible waters of Lake Van. In one continuous wall they swept across the horizon, serrated, sharply chiselled above the deep valleys opening transverse to the line of the wall. Taurus they call the range, adopting a nomenclature which the West must have borrowed from the East. Taurus was very high where the Murad dives into the mountains; nor did the peaks appear less lofty on its right bank. We saw them circling towards the river from behind the plateau upon which we stood; but I was unable to trace the origin of this northern chain. It formed a marked exception to the outlines north of Taurus, which were vaulted or horizontal. Nimrud was seen to join the two contrasting landscapes, placed across the head of the plain. The neighbouring Kerkür looked more rounded than when we had first observed it, while, north of the Nimrud caldron, the swelling contours of the Sipan fabric were doubly soft in a robe of recent snow.
This was our last complete prospect over that great depression which is known as the plain of Mush.[10] We proceeded at half-past two, and rode at a trot over the plateau, first on a northerly and then on a north-easterly course. The rock appeared to be of an eruptive volcanic description. By half-past four we arrived upon the opposite margin, where the ground abruptly sank to a wide trough of broken country, with a small plain, level as water, at its western end. We ascertained that this fresh depression had an elevation of about 5000 feet, or a difference in height of 3000 feet from the pass at which we measured that of the plateau. On the further side rose a cliff of such gigantic proportions that, when we reached the middle slopes of the descent into the hollow, it reminded me of the landscape in the narrows of the Araxes, with those cliffs raised to double their size. From a distance we had wondered at the strange appearance of this flat-edged mass, which seemed to embrace us in a wide segment with precipitous sides. A nearer view disclosed the direction it was pursuing, and enabled us to trace, although in a most imperfect manner, its connection with the orography of the eastern districts. That direction was approximately latitudinal, but inclined a little towards the south. The further east the mass proceeded, the more it lost its cliff-like character, the nearer it approached to the characteristics of a mountain range. In this form it was protracted to dimly visible limits, joining the distant outlines of Sipan.
I had read many accounts of the famous Bingöl Dagh, the parent mountain of the Araxes and of the principal tributaries of the Euphrates, and, in some sense, the roof of Western Asia. None had prepared me for the vision before our eyes. The actual walls of the crater were not, I imagine, visible; but those cliffs had no doubt been covered by deep beds of lava which had added to their height. The greatest eminence on the extinct volcano is that of Demir-Kala, which must be situated not far from the edge of the cliff. It has an elevation of 10,770 feet.[11] But the mountain proper is but a wart on the face of the lofty tableland from which it rises, and which it has contributed to shape. I tried to examine the relation of this tableland to the plateau which we had crossed, but was prevented by the lie of the land upon the west.
While descending into the plain, we passed through a Kurdish village of some size, called Randuli. We now opened out the whole extent of the even surface—a floor at the foot of towering cliffs. The plain may have a length, from west to east, of about three miles and a breadth of two miles or less. Water serpents through it in all directions, to collect in a little river which our people knew under the name of Dodan Chai, but which is apparently more generally known as the Bingöl Su.[12] Four villages of some importance are situated in the plain—Baskan, Gundemir, Diyadin and Dodan. The last-mentioned is placed at its eastern extremity and close to the river which bears its name. All four are inhabited by Armenians. Having gained the level, we forded the stream above the village, and at six o’clock rode through Dodan. Night was falling; we followed a track which had been made by the bullock-carts, at some little distance from the left bank of the river. We were skirting on an easterly course the base of the northern heights, along the trough of irregular surface which we had overlooked. The soil was deep and black, covered in places by a crop of stones. It seemed as if the valley were choked by the shapes of hills. We were over two hours in reaching Gumgum.
The village or little town—for it is the capital of a caza, the caza of Varto, belonging to the sanjak of Mush—is situated in the long valley of which I have been speaking, between the Bingöl and the block of mountain on the north of Mush. A small river flows below it at some little distance, which joins the Bingöl Su some two or three miles south of the town. The united waters issue into the Murad or Eastern Euphrates about eight miles south-east of Gumgum. The direct road to Mush is taken along the Murad, which, after the confluence, finds a passage through the hills. It reaches the plain at the village of Sikava.
We were received by the Kaimakam, who lodged us in his room of audience, a chamber of which the stone walls were daubed with whitewash, while the massive logs of the ceiling were left bare. A single window, with panes of greased paper, diffused a dim light by day. A little lamp revealed the burly figure of our host, seated on the divan. Beside him, but in shadow, we might just discern a face and features which were recognised as familiar to us. We identified this pleasant countenance and chiselled lineaments with those of the silent chess-player at Mush. It was in fact the Hakim Effendi, learned in the law; though for what purpose he had travelled to these unruly wilds we were unable to ascertain. He had brought his law books with him in a khurjin, or little saddle-bag, which was placed by his side on the couch. So he travels from place to place, the name and shadow of a dispensation which he has not the power to enforce. Even under the eyes of the Kaimakam cases of theft, and even of robbery, are of daily occurrence and go for the most part unredressed. Entering the stable allotted to our horses, I was met by an Armenian woman, a poor old hag with bare feet and in rags. She moaned and wrung her hands, explaining, in answer to my enquiry, that her cows had been displaced to make room for us. She would never see them again—and, in fact, next morning I was grieved to learn that two had been stolen.
The town occupies a fairly high site in the valley, having an elevation of about 4800 feet. A few houses, in the more proper sense of the word, serve to magnify the appearance of the place. But the tenements are for the most part the usual ant-hill burrows; and I do not think that in all there can be more than eighty dwellings, of which ten may be inhabited by Armenians. The Kurds have a large preponderance in the caza; they are, for the most part, of the Jibranli tribe. This tribe furnishes three regiments of Hamidiyeh cavalry, recruited in Varto. The tribesmen spend the summer on the pastures of the Bingöl Dagh, and the winter in villages of their own in the plains. They travel as far as Diarbekr, and even Aleppo, taking their vast flocks to those markets. Or they sell the sheep to middlemen who travel from all parts of Turkey, and establish their headquarters in Khinis.