The journey from Van to Bitlis may be performed in four days; it is a ride of about a hundred miles. But no traveller will desire to omit a visit to the isle of Akhtamar, which will occupy another day. Nor is it well to press in haste through a country of such manifold interest, and along a coast which for beauty of feature and grandeur of surroundings can scarcely have an equal in the world. It was at Van that, for the first time since setting foot upon Armenian soil, we had been introduced to a civilisation in any sense comparable to the scale and dignity of the landscapes through which we passed; and, although the monuments of that vanished culture belong to a remote antiquity, they are well calculated to divert our minds from the contemplation of the works of Nature, or at least to recall us to a sense of the power of man. The spirit of that race of iron which held in check the Assyrians still lingers over the scene of their exploits. You leave the ancient city with an added element of interest in a country which was the home of so great a people, and which still retains the memorial of their sway. But that country was also the centre of a mediÆval kingdom, the contemporary and sometimes the rival of the dynasty which has left us Ani as an example of their craft and taste; and, such is the concern of the modern Armenian in the history of his nation, that long before you will reach Van you will be familiar with the name and arms of the kingdom of Vaspurakan.1 It was therefore with curiosity that we set out upon our journey, and with regret that we were obliged by the season to narrow the sphere of our wanderings to the regular stages of our prescribed route to Erzerum.2

At a little before noon on the 16th of November we mounted our horses in the court of the American Mission, whither we had proceeded to take leave of our friends. We passed by the church of Arakh, and emerged from the zone of gardens upon the surface of the bare plain. The usual stoppages in connection with the baggage, which seldom fails to begin by slipping from the horse’s back to beneath his girth, enabled us to fill our eyes with the vision of the bay and beauteous city which we might never contemplate again (Fig. 138). We had purchased two new horses, one for the dragoman and the other to carry our effects. You require a good animal for the last of these purposes, who will trot along by himself. But throughout our journey we experienced the greatest difficulty in obtaining serviceable beasts at any price. Even at Van my choice was narrowed by the various ailments of the other candidates to a sturdy four-year-old who had not known work. This youngster, an iron grey, was no sooner set at large than he set off at full gallop across the plain. His career was cut short by the rapid overthrow of his load, which dragged him panting to the ground. But we trained him to perfection before reaching the northern capital, and I sold him at a profit in Trebizond. Worse fortune attended our second purchase, that of a seasoned horse of milk-white hue. I noticed that he was limping about an hour out of Van; and, to my surprise, when I came to examine him closer, he proved to be an ingenious substitute for the one I had bought. The colour was the same, and also the appearance; but not the points which had influenced my selection, although they would not appeal to the dragoman’s eye. The knave of an Armenian who had concluded the sale with me had abstracted his former property from my stable, and had put in his place this unsound hack. I sent him back in charge of the zaptieh with a letter to Mr. Devey; but I do not know whether our Consul ever recovered my stolen steed. He most kindly sent me on a fine horse of his own, which reached us safely at Vostan. Such are the tricks of these subtle Armenians, whom long centuries of oppression have ingrained with every kind of turpitude. As we rode along this shore, one regretted God’s covenant, that He would be patient with the hopeless race of man. To overwhelm them in these waters and people afresh the scene of their crimes, would, it seemed to us, be the kindest and wisest plan.

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).

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.

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 manoeuvres 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.

Besides the cliff and the tiny bay there is not much of Akhtamar; yet the little church looks small, even among such surroundings, the work of a jeweller rather than of an architect. In our company were two young clerics, deputed by His Holiness to escort us, the one a priest of the peasant type and with the ignorance of a peasant, the other a deacon who had been educated at Constantinople and who affected to despise his colleagues and superiors. In spite of his pale face, this second Khachatur (given to the cross) was not less stupid or less indolent than the rest. Two more priests were in residence upon the island; but neither belonged to a higher social or intellectual grade. None among them knew more about the place and its history than a few stereotyped words, learnt by heart. Press them further, and they would burst into an inane giggle, the vardapet of Akhavank giving the cue.

How one regretted the society of the well-read monks of Edgmiatsin, from which community and spiritual government this monastery became dissociated during the religious quarrels of the twelfth century.8 We walked to the cloister on the south side of the church; the low mud wall joins the outer wall of the narthex on the west, and is produced so as to form a court. There is nothing interesting in the residence of the monks or in the apartments of the Katholikos. But the edifice which they face is indeed a remarkable monument and, so far as my experience extends, unique. Its dimensions are not large: a length of 48 feet 6 inches and a breadth of 38 feet (interior measurements). The characteristics which impress the eye, accustomed to the beauties of Armenian architecture, are the height of the composition with its lofty walls and central tower, and the elaborate mural decorations. As usual, the effect is marred by the additions of a later age. On the south side a belfry and portico, giving entrance to the interior, are due to the misplaced piety of a katholikos of the eighteenth century; and the same personage contributed the spacious narthex or pronaos which adjoins the church upon the west.9 The eye is obliged to remove these later excrescences before it is enabled to seize the merits of the design. My reader will recognise the first of these features in the illustration taken from the south-east (Fig. 141). The companion picture from the north-west corner exhibits the low narthex coming forward beyond the side of the church (Fig. 142).

A work of the first quarter of the tenth century is disclosed in all the freshness of its original appearance.10 Some of the figures which project from the walls have suffered partial fracture; but the rich friezes are almost intact. Beginning at the base, we have first a broad space of plain masonry, enhancing the value of the sculptures above, from which it is separated by a band of deeply chiselled stone. This band, like the friezes, is both continuous round the building and in emphasised relief. It consists of a spiral geometrical pattern, representing the vine. Life-size human figures, interspersed with the forms of animals, compose a series of pictures rather than a procession, and rest upon the moulding just described. They are also in relief, and stare out at the visitor with all the naÏvetÉ of the early Middle Ages. Subjects from Bible history succeed one another, varied by the gaunt figures of Christian saints. Here you remark the colossal figure of Goliath, armed with club and shield (Fig. 141); there it is Adam and Eve, standing naked beside the tree of life, and, a little further, the serpent tempting Eve (Figs. 142 and 143). The treatment of the human form is primitive and almost barbarous, recalling the Romanesque. One is impressed with the combination of naturalism, nay of realism, subdued, and at times checked by hieratic convention. These sculptures pass over into a restful region of unworked stone, and are succeeded by a row of heads, the heads of animals and birds, jutting out at irregular intervals from the face of the building. Above them, again, you admire the freedom and extraordinary intricacy of the most elaborate of the friezes. Hunters and wild animals and strange birds are represented, woven together by branches of vine with clusters of grapes. Higher still another band is drawn along the eaves of the roofs, except on the north and south sides of the apse. Rampant animals are the principal subject; but on the north side of the western arm you observe a row of human heads. A somewhat similar frieze is seen below the roofing of the central tower or dome.

It may perhaps be found that this exterior discloses elements which, blended together, are of high importance to the study of art. The form of the church, the geometrical ornaments are Byzantine in character; on the other hand, of all the churches which we visited during our wanderings none other was decorated with bas-reliefs of human figures after the manner of this edifice. Such treatment would be repugnant to the chaster spirit of the architects of Ani, and may denote that the standard of culture in the southern principality was not so high as in Shirak. The friezes partake of the nature of those with which we are already familiar; but they are more daring and much more freely drawn. They may constitute an important link between the art of the ancient Assyrians and the art of the Arabs and the Byzantines. Layard, who visited Akhtamar, has most pertinently drawn our attention to the resemblance between the principal frieze and the embossed designs on some bronze dishes which were discovered at Nimrud (banks of the Tigris); but he has not noticed that the bulls’ heads which adorned the ends of the arms of the king’s throne at Nimrud are almost exactly reproduced in some of the stone ornaments which project from the face of this church.11

I have said that a narthex of later origin adjoins the building upon the west; it was from that side that we entered the interior. The faÇade of this narthex is as bald and plain as its inner walls and the rude flagstones of the floor. The ceiling is low; in the centre a shallow vaulting rests upon four arches and piers. It has a length of 32 feet 11 inches, and a breadth, from north to south, of 36 feet 5 inches. It does not contain an altar, and the only object which you remark within it is a large block of stone. Our companions informed me that it is placed over the grave of one Abdul Miseh, a king, as they supposed, of the Artsruni dynasty. If this block be the same as that upon which Layard saw some cuneiform characters, their Abdul Miseh may be a corruption of the name of the great king Menuas, revealed by the researches of Western scholars.12

Four steps lead up from the narthex to the little, undecorated doorway by which we entered the principal building. The interior may perhaps be described as consisting of four apses, the whole surmounted by the lofty dome. A feature are the deep recesses, narrow at the entrance, which are placed one on either side of each apse, and are seen from the outside between the arms of the cruciform figure. The apses on the west and east are deeper than those on the north and south; the most southerly contains a gallery of which the face is adorned with images, two heads of bulls and two of rams, the head of an elephant and of a tiger, carved in full relief out of the stone. In this gallery we were informed that King Gagik had been wont to pray. The walls had been adorned by rich frescos; but little of these remained. The apse on the north communicates with a vaulted chamber and a little chapel, where is preserved the holy oil.

A cemetery surrounds the church, from the south-east corner to the north side. Issuing by the portico on the south, we stopped to remark an ambitious tomb of which the stone was fresh from the chiseller’s tool. On the sides of the recumbent portion were represented the figures of apostles—a frieze which had probably been copied from some rude work of the Middle Ages, and which was coloured in gaudy reds and greens and blues. Upon the upper surface of the slab was engraved a long inscription, and beneath the inscription the grand emblem of the double-headed eagle, with cross and mitre, the eagle of Vaspurakan. The headstone was adorned with the portrait of a katholikos, wearing the cross of diamonds on his cowl. The features were those of our host; it was the tomb of Khachatur, into which he had told us that he was preparing to step. The legend set forth that the grave had been dedicated on September 12, 1893. Following this announcement, came a farewell message from His Holiness, conceived in the following terms:—

On the east of the building there is a little chapel, now in ruins. I was informed by the Katholikos that it is even older than the church. Returning to the monastic quarters, we asked to be shown the library, and were ushered into a small, whitewashed room. Five little shelves, occupying a single side of the apartment, hold all the manuscripts and books which the monks possess. Neither the vardapet nor the deacon was conversant with their contents; but the manuscripts, so far as we were able to examine them, were all concerned with Biblical subjects. Two stones, engraved with cuneiform inscriptions, are kept in this room.13 The treasure was carried off by the Kurds years ago;14 but our companions were able to produce several mitres and some rich embroideries, of which one piece, worked with the device of the double-headed eagle, appeared to be of considerable age.

After a last look at the remarkable church, with its many faces of fresh pink sandstone, mottled by the subtle reliefs with light and shade, our little party retraced its steps to the peaceful harbour, and embarked on the homeward voyage. The breeze had veered for our convenience to the opposite direction, and wafted us towards the mainland. We passed close to the bold crag, and to the tiny islet which, crowned by the remains of a fort and a diminutive chapel, juts out from the south-westerly extremity of the sea-girt cliffs. Before us lay the horn of the bay on the west of Akhavank, and in the foreground, a second islet, the rock of Arter, which, like its fellow, supports a little shrine. Sipan was seen in all his majesty, sweeping across the horizon, until the outline of the base was covered by the outline of the promontory. From that headland three little barks were stealing towards us, specks of white on the expanse of blue. In the south the snows of Ardos streamed with sunlight above horizontal layers of cloud. I could hear the heavy breathing of my fellow-passengers; the water eddied softly in our wake.

In the space of about an hour the plank was again lowered and the stern allowed to graze the sand. The Kaimakam and his retinue were assembled on the shore—the high officers mentioned in the message on the tomb. I received their greetings and good wishes, and, promising to rejoin them, passed with the dragoman to the apartment of the Katholikos. I found His Holiness seated on the same rug at the foot of the divan, in the same posture and attired in the same ceremonious dress as when he had received us the preceding day. The same cowl with the diamond cross enveloped the forehead, which, judging from the thick lips, flat nose and little eyes, was better hidden than revealed. He beckoned his people to withdraw; we were alone with the Patriarch; Turkish contempt still shrinks from converting the chamber of a Christian prelate into a permanent lodging for a Kaimakam. So our host was free to answer the questions which I addressed to him without fear of being reported by malevolent tongues. He informed me that his patriarchate was quite independent, both of Edgmiatsin and of Constantinople. But he was in the habit of consulting with the Patriarch of Constantinople in respect of such Church matters in which collaboration was mutually useful. Artemid is the easterly limit of his spiritual kingdom, and is included within its area. On the west it comprises a portion of Garchigan, but does not extend as far as Kindirantz. On the south, the cazas of Mukus and Shatakh are either its boundaries or contribute constituent districts.

The practice of their religion he assured me was quite free, emphatically he repeated, “quite free.” The political troubles which convulsed the country were caused by scamps (chapkiner) on the side of the Armenians, and by bad Kaimakams. I questioned him closely as to whether, when he was young, the Armenian population was not much more numerous along this shore. He answered that the country on the south was at that time inhabited by them in far greater numbers than now; but there was no perceptible difference along the coast. He admitted, however, that during his youth there were Armenians residing at Vostan.

At this point in the conversation my host pronounced the name of ZadÒ; and forthwith divine fragrance announced the presence of the major-domo, attentive to the faintest call. Obedient to his master’s behests, he proceeded to unlock a large wooden box, and to lay out upon the floor a number of tawdry State Orders and Firmans of investiture. Es Khachatur i Khachis ku-pakchim! Some of these objects the Katholikos regarded with especial reverence, devoutly pressing them to his lips. Religion has become a trade with such as this prelate, and they themselves hotel-keepers and show-mongers. Each pilgrim leaves the equivalent of double what he costs. Placing a suitable present in the hands of his Holiness, which he accepted after many protestations, I took leave of Khachatur for ever.

Resuming our journey at four o’clock, we crossed the high land on the west of Akhavank, and again descended to a strip of plain, bordering the shore. On the opposite side of the deep inlet, which was now disclosed to its furthest recesses, lay the arm of the long promontory which encloses the landscape in the neighbourhood of Akhtamar. About halfway in, along that coast, we saw a considerable village, said to be an Armenian settlement, called Mirabet.15 Further inland, at the head of the gulf, is situated the Armenian village of Norkeui; while on the rising ground, at the extremity of the plain, a little to the east of Norkeui, the Kurdish hamlet of Sarik receives the torrent of a long cascade, descending precipitous cliffs. We turned our backs to the lake and passed between the two last-named settlements, towards an opening of the hills on the opposite shore. A stream or little river issues from the cleft and flows towards Norkeui. A single telegraph wire, taken across the plain, followed us on our left hand. At half-past five we were in the fork, entering a long and stony valley, with a main direction from south-east to north-west. It is well watered, and what soil there is has been rendered productive by artificial channels. The swirling current swept past us at the foot of a sparse grove of golden-leaved forest trees. The vista backwards was closed by the broad-shouldered Ardos, with gleaming snows and precipitous sides. Our destination was Enzakh, an Armenian hamlet of some dozen burrows, in a lofty situation at the head of this valley. It was nearly seven when we arrived, having covered a distance of some thirteen miles, and attained an elevation of about 6900 feet.

When we issued from our fetid quarters on the following morning (November 19), a frost lay on the ground. At nine o’clock we were in the saddle, proceeding in a westerly direction in order to cross the wall of the valley. It is lofty, and is scaled by a precipitous path. Before taking the main ascent, we passed by a lonely chapel, surrounded by a stone enclosure. It is known to the Armenians under the name of Surb Yakob (or Agop), and to the Kurds under that of Gubudgokh. The interior consists of a dome, resting on four arches, and a deep apse. The priest was not forthcoming, having left his eyrie to purchase bread. It was nearly ten o’clock when we reached the summit of the ridge at an altitude of about 7600 feet.

Although the ground was flecked with snow in the immediate neighbourhood of where we stood, the sun had already warmed the mountain air. We halted for half-an-hour in order to realise our position. We had come a little south of a westerly course from Enzakh. Our ridge appeared to be a spur from the barrier in the south; but it increased in height as it approached the invisible lake. The mass of rock in that direction was called by our guides Ak Kul; they knew nothing of Kiepert’s Mount Gubudgokh. These heights compose the promontory on the west of Akhtamar, and, in a country of railways, would no doubt be pierced by a tunnel. In the east we could discern the summit of Varag; a succession of ridges lined the west, pursuing an almost meridional direction, the most distant covered with snow. Continuing our march at the back of Ak Kul, I counted no less than six of these parapets, without including those of lesser significance. They appeared to be inclined a few points towards the east. I hammered off a fragment of the characteristic strata, a mica-schist, weathered a pale reddish hue.

For over an hour we were involved in this sea of mountains, our course being clearly indicated by a line of telegraph posts, dipping and rising to the troughs and up the crests. But at a quarter before twelve we emerged from this wild and uninhabited district, and again overlooked the lake. We were approaching the easterly end of the beautiful bay of Baghmesheh (garden of oak), and were about to follow the upper slopes of the lofty block of hills which confine the narrow respite of the shore. Our present position was about two miles distant from the calm water, and at a considerable elevation above its level. We rode for half-an-hour along these slopes, through a bush of oak which nowhere attains the proportions of trees. A few boats were moored against the sand, and we could descry a few huts. Zenith and sea were intensely blue; but grey vapours came floating towards us, concealing all but the shining summit of Sipan. From the further extremity of the bay we again saw the isle of Akhtamar, and, behind it, dimly perceived, the rock of Van.

It cost us little effort to ascend from our track on the hillside to the summit of the ridge which forms a headland on the west. The view from that eminence in a westerly direction recalled none of the landscapes through which we had passed. At our feet lay a plain of perfectly level surface, enclosed on all sides by hills. On the side of the lake a line of heights shut out this plain from the shore, resembling a huge dam. After a descent of half-an-hour we reached the floor of the formation, which is a little more elevated than the surface of the lake. Under this eastern wall lies the Armenian hamlet of GÖli, while, on an opposite slope, at the head of the valley into which the plain narrows, is situated the village of Kindirantz. We rode for half-an-hour from the first to the last of these settlements, deviating south of our direct course. I was anxious to visit in his capital the Kaimakam of Garchigan. For Kindirantz is no less a place than the seat of government for that caza, although it cannot boast of more than thirty houses.16 We arrived before two o’clock, having completed a distance of some seventeen miles from Enzakh.

The Kaimakam was at his post and delighted to receive us. We found in him an official who did honour to his country, active and strenuous in spite of his white hair. He had built himself a house with solid walls of masonry, a rare luxury in these wilds. It had of course been erected by Armenian workmen; but he complained of the backwardness and laziness of the Armenians inhabiting his administrative district. He told me that it comprised no less than seventy-six villages, of which only twelve were peopled by that race. But I noted that of the five settlements in the plain of Kindirantz, three, including his place of residence, were Armenian. The largest village in his caza was, he said, Kordikran, inhabited by Kurds. But it was not so well situated for purposes of administration as Kindirantz. The Kurds in his district were all settled on the land, and formed the large majority of the population. They sent recruits to the Nizam or regular army. He assured me that since his arrival in the country complete security for life and property prevailed. I have no reason to doubt his word.

Kindirantz must be five or six miles distant from the lake, and the plain may have a length from north to south of five miles, with an average breadth of about two miles. A nice stream descends from the hills in the neighbourhood of the little town. In connection with this plain I may mention a natural phenomenon which repeats itself every year. When the snows melt in spring and the torrents rush down from the mountains, the plain becomes completely submerged. The line of heights on the side of the lake prevent the egress of the waters, which attain in places a depth of about ten feet. The flood ultimately escapes through three principal subterraneous passages, besides several minor outlets. The water rushes through these natural tunnels in the dam formed by the cliffs, but it takes a considerable time for it all to disappear. When the land is again revealed, the peasants sow their crops, which, in some years, yield an excellent harvest. But it often happens that they are withered by the fierce sun of summer, which has already commenced by the time that the lake has run out. To this cause the Kaimakam attributed the poverty of the neighbouring villages. I have no doubt that the little stream, if properly utilised, would go far towards irrigating their lands; and if a proper tunnel were cut, and reservoirs constructed, the soil might be made as fertile as any in the world.

We proceeded on our journey at four o’clock, accompanied by the Kaimakam, who rode a fiery grey horse. His saddle rested on a light blue cloth, bordered with a yellow fringe; the trappings and bridle were adorned with yellow tassels. He himself was attired in the civil dress of Europe, and wore the fez. He could not control his steed, although a good horseman; the youngster who carried our baggage became enlivened by the example, and set off at a canter with his load. The Kaimakam galloped after him; but our colt was in condition, and showed him his heels until he was arrested at an adjacent village. This escapade cost us time, and it was nearly half-past five before we had scaled the heights on the west of the plain. At our feet lay the lake, about two miles away. It is the peculiar favour of this fascinating seaboard that, often hidden, it is always new and always fair. Not a patch of ragged coast disturbs the impression of ideal beauty, resuming and blending the choicest features of other shores. Our landscape of this evening embraced the westerly extremities of the white, unruffled expanse (Fig. 144). The sun was declining beyond the colossal crater of Nimrud, a true caldron rising from the lake on the opposite margin. Deep shadows clothed the promontories between our standpoint and the mountain, among which a bold headland, seen on the left of my illustration, jutted out in the form of a peninsula. It was named to us after a neighbouring village, the cape of Vanik. During my second journey it was found to conceal a small crater. In the foreground we overlooked the soft foliage of the village of Surb, with fertile fields and a little bay of U-shaped curve. It caught the light from the western sky, and reflected the tender tints on the very threshold of the pale water and gloomy rocks. I was informed that it is inhabited by Armenians and Moslems. We left it on our right hand as we descended by a precipitous path.

West of Surb the mountains descend to the immediate border of the lake, and the track is taken at no great height above the water along their steep and rocky sides. It follows every bend in the outline of the shore. This characteristic was new to us, a crowning variety of the manifold features which rendered memorable our journey along the coast. As we advanced along this path we opened out the majestic Sipan, seen from foot to summit in the failing light. Night was closing when we arrived at a recess in the barrier, harbouring some fine chestnut trees. There is situated the village of Garzik, with thirty small tenements, of which twenty are inhabited by Armenians and ten by Kurds. The Kaimakam had sent forward a horseman, and our arrival was expected; a stable of unusual loftiness had been prepared. Hay had been laid on crates, and rugs spread upon this primitive mattress, destined to be our bed. Our horses rested near us, my colt and the Kaimakam’s show-horse munching peacefully side by side. Our kind friend of Kindirantz related stories to us, while we watched the smoke wreathing upwards to the central aperture in the roof of logs.

One of these stories was suggested by a question which I put to him, whether monogamy was strictly practised by the Christians. He told me—and his statement was confirmed from Christian sources—that the possession of several wives was not an infrequent occurrence among them, in spite of the ban of the Church. Not that the priests were a model of chastity according to his experience, which agreed with the conclusion arrived at by a bishop of Rumelia, his friend and countryman. That prelate had told him that four wives were allotted to a Mohammedan, one to a Christian and all to a bishop. I asked whether the Armenians intermarried with the Kurds in a village of mixed population like Garzik. His answer, which was in the negative, explains the stories of abduction which make such a show in our Blue-books. A Kurd sees a pretty Armenian girl of his own village, and, as often as not, a mutual passion arises between them. The lady is not always an unwilling victim, as our Armenian friends would lead us to suppose.

We slept soundly in spite of the fleas which made a meal upon us, and were again in the saddle at a quarter before eight. After taking leave of the Kaimakam, who returned to Kindirantz, we continued our journey along the path on the mountain-side. For three-quarters of an hour we made our way beneath the precipices, until we again emerged upon a strip of plain. Vanik it is called, after an Armenian village; it has a depth of about a mile. We crossed it in a quarter of an hour, and entered a natural passage between a promontory of the lake and the main range. This passage became a valley of bleak and rugged aspect, and we did not see the lake again. At half-past nine we left the telegraph wires, which we had been following for some distance; they stretched away on our right hand. They are taken by Elmali to Tadvan and Bitlis by a more northerly and less direct course. The prospect opened towards the north; we were in face of the mass of Nimrud, no longer separated by an arm of the sea (Fig. 145). A little later we arrived upon the banks of a stream which flowed along with us for some way. We crossed it by a ford near an ancient bridge of hewn stone which had been allowed to fall into ruin. Pursuing a westerly course, we passed through a considerable village, inhabited by settled Kurds. It is called Gotok, and is distinguished by some caves, adjoining the track, with artificial niches and chambers. It contains no less than seventy tenements, and is included within the limits of the vilayet of Bitlis. It seems a prosperous place. Our stream, which they named Sapor, now flowed off upon our right towards Lake Van. We ourselves took an almost south-westerly direction, while our rugged valley became more spacious and more fair. It assumed the form of a strip of plain, between opposite ridges, stretching away to snow-clad mountains in the south. It is known as the GÜzel Dere, or beautiful valley; we thought it deserved the name. We met and saluted a shepherd at the head of his flock; as usual in the neighbourhood of Bitlis, he was armed with a rifle. At half-past eleven we entered a side valley, almost at right angles, on a course a little north of west. We could see our track, climbing the side of a lofty ridge of mountain at the head of this opening. The GÜzel Dere was lost to view, extending towards the spine of the chain. A ride of a quarter of an hour brought us to the Armenian village of Sach, situated at the upper end of this side valley. It is composed of fifty houses and possesses a church; but its inhabitants are extremely poor. They subsist on cakes of millet seed, and have little corn or barley, although the soil in these valleys is extremely rich. When I upbraided them with their indolence, I received the answer that labour was useless so long as the peasant was not permitted to enjoy the fruits of his toil.

We halted in this village for three-quarters of an hour, and then commenced the ascent of the ridge. The pass has an elevation of about 1900 feet above Lake Van; and one can readily appreciate the reasons which have influenced traffic to prefer the easier if somewhat lengthier route by way of Elmali. The actual scaling of the parapet occupied half-an-hour; patches of snow clung to the rocks about the summit. It is called the Pass of Bor, from an Armenian village in the opposite valley. We reached that settlement at three o’clock; it lies in the watershed of the Tigris, to which a stream flowed from the further side of the ridge we had crossed, a tributary of the Bitlis Chai. The people of Bor appeared to us to be on the verge of starvation; the women had for the most part been reduced to mere skeletons. It is a place of some size, and I afterwards heard of some interesting tombstones which were said to belong to this township. This upper portion of the valley has a breadth of three-quarters of a mile, and expands as you proceed. We pursued a westerly course, and arrived at the junction with the road from Tadvan. The telegraph wires are carried across the heights on the north of the valley, which at this point are insignificant. We stopped to visit an ancient khan, built of hewn stone and of considerable size. Beside it is a new bridge, also of finished masonry, recalling the grand old days. I was informed that it had been constructed by the present Vali of Bitlis, though, heaven knows! he has no excuse for such lavishness. The stream which it crosses and which flows in a deep gorge is spanned by a less presumptuous structure which might suffice for all ordinary needs. Further evidence of this childish but truly Oriental habit of embellishing your capital while your kingdom is quaking about you was furnished by a metalled road which commences at this point and puts the traveller in a good mood. After passing a second bridge, traversing the chasm of a torrent which came towards us on our right hand, we turned with the valley to a south-westerly direction, which was maintained for about 1½ miles. We then defiled into the deep recesses of the network of valleys in which repose the castle and town of Bitlis. It was after four o’clock, and I estimate the distance from Garzik at 27 miles. Between Kindirantz and that village we covered about 9 miles, which gives a total of just under 100 miles from Van.