Merchant of Venice, v.
Arrived at the summit of the pass, the endless panorama of a snow-covered, undulating tableland at our feet is as that of a mythical world, majestic, almost terrible in the total absence of all human habitations as far as the eye could reach towards the horizon—weird in its vast expanse, all covered with snow.
We reached Erzeroum in the afternoon of November 24. The grim-looking old fortress was dimly perceptible from afar through the dry wintry mist, dominated by a background of hills rising considerably higher than the plateau upon which it is situated. As we drew near, our cavalcade careered along ventre à terre, the horses of our cavalry escort foaming and bleeding at the mouth as their riders urged them on at a furious pace in order to enable us to reach our destination before dark—the only instance in all our journey when I saw horses at all hardly used. Here, as later at Bitlis and Diarbekir, our arrival had been expected: the roofs of the houses were crowded with inhabitants—women and children among them—eager to obtain a sight of the remarkable visitors as our cortège drove past and proceeded through the narrow streets to our quarters at one of the public offices or konaks in the town. Our camp-beds were promptly fixed up and we could look for a few days’ rest after the exertions of our journey. Here we found ourselves in the interior of Asia.
Professor Vambéry, visiting Erzeroum more than fifty years ago, gives a depressing description of the place. The houses were already built in Eastern fashion, the walls of stone and mud running irregularly in zigzag line, with windows looking out in the yard rather than the street, secret entrances, and other little things characteristic of Eastern houses.[[8]] “Evidences of the poverty of the inhabitants of Erzeroum meet the eye in whatever direction one may look. The dirt, the squalor, and the underground dwellings are unbearable. The smell of their food, which they cook by the fire made of a fuel called tezek (cattle dung), is especially loathsome.” This description tallies with our own experience. The hardships we had undergone—notably the unpalatable food spread out before us on the ground—quickened our longing to arrive at Erzeroum, which, to our imagination, fired by the contrast we expected it to offer to the places we had passed through, already presented itself in glowing colours. Dr. Hepworth and I had ceased to enjoy a meal long before we reached Erzeroum, and had it not been that M. Maximow, the Russian Consul, generously lent us his Armenian cook, who accompanied us during the remainder of our journey, we both might well have succumbed to its hardships.
[8]. “Life and Adventures of Arminius Vambéry.” London, 1890: p. 41.
Erzeroum is the capital of the vilayet of that name, and is situated on a plateau thirty-eight kilometres long by twenty-two broad, stretched out at an altitude of 6000 feet above sea-level. It is dominated by mountains of even greater altitude, near to which the Kara Sua, or Western Euphrates, has its source not far from the city. The town is a very old settlement. The word “Erzeroum” is a corruption of “Arzen-er-rum,” i.e. the town of Arzen of the Romans—in contradistinction to a neighbouring town of the same name which was a Syro-Armenian settlement in antiquity. In the beginning of the fifth century of our era Erzeroum was converted into a fortress by Anatolius, one of the generals of Theodosius the Younger, in honour of whom it was christened Theodosiopolis, a name it retained until the middle of the eleventh century. In more recent times it has been repeatedly occupied by the Russians, as in 1829 and 1878. To-day Erzeroum has 39,000 inhabitants, half of which are made up of Armenians, Persians, and a few Greeks. Persia, Russia, England, and the United States are represented by Consuls. It also contains a missionary station. Erzeroum is approached by a modern but rudely constructed chaussée.
We had looked forward to visiting the bazaar, in the hope of being able to get hold of some bargains in rare coins, old Turkish swords or daggers; but we were doomed to disappointment here, as also later on at Bitlis and Diarbekir. Whatever may have been the chances of bargains in times gone by, there was nothing left worth picking up when we were there. Of greater interest than the bazaar was the street in which the sword-makers plied their trade beside each other as in their guilds in the Middle Ages. They worked according to primitive methods, with rude tools and weighing scales, but apparently under dignified independent conditions, and seemed to take a pride in their art, which allowed of a workman putting his best efforts into his work and claiming a price in accordance therewith. They showed us some beautiful specimens of damascene blades and gold-inlay work, which induced us to have our names inscribed in Turkish characters by the same process on the barrels of our Winchester rifles. But even their trade, we were told, is not what it used to be. Many of their best workmen (Armenians) had emigrated to Russia, though some had since returned. Altogether the influence of Russia loomed large over the place. The driver of our sleigh, an elderly man, had been a prisoner in Russia. We were told there was a great scarcity of wood in the district, but though there are plenty of forests over the borders in Russia, the Russian authorities would not allow the timber to be exported to Turkey, as they pursued a policy of “drying up” all Turkish means of communication.
We next passed through a street almost monopolized by black amber workers. They drew their raw material from Persia, beyond Lake Van, but here again the workmen told us sadly that they had to procure their tools from Russia. Altogether, I gained the impression that the “Double Eagle” would not have much trouble in ousting the “Crescent” from these parts; though the more intelligent of the community, and, significant to note, Armenians among them, did not view the prospect with favour. The maligned Turk, if hopelessly backward from a practical point of view, is yet in many ways more pliable and conciliatory than the Russian. The market-place, with its endless array of carts and booths, was largely peopled by Persians, who do most of the carrying trade, the retailing business being here, as elsewhere, in the hands of the Armenians. Of Jews there was hardly any trace. We were told that they could not compete with the Armenians.
It would be difficult for people living under European conditions to realize the prestige which our party enjoyed in these distant parts. For the moment we figured as direct ambassadors from the Sultan and the public opinion of the outer world, thus eclipsing the status of the Governor-General himself. And yet in some respects there was a natural homeliness about our intercourse which is usually foreign to the Western world. Thus, when we had finished our dinner, at which we were waited upon by a host of servants—our six cavalry sergeants among others—and rose from our seats, those who had waited upon us sat down quite naturally in the places we had just vacated and proceeded to take their own dinner from the rich supply of viands left on the table as almost a matter of course. Nor did this unusual familiarity detract in the least from the extreme deference and goodwill with which we were waited upon by everybody deputed to our service.
With the object of our journey in view we called successively upon Mr. Graves, the British Consul; Mohamed Cherif Reouf Pasha, the Governor-General (Vali); M. Roqueferrier, the French Consul; and M. V. Maximov, the Russian Consul-General. To each of these gentlemen we put the question whether he believed in the truth of the tale about Chakir Pasha and the watch-in-hand episode. M. Roqueferrier ridiculed the story. “Ce sont des histoires inventées à plaisir,” he said, and added a few words of high personal appreciation of Chakir Pasha.