REVISIT ARMENIA
Four years had elapsed since the close of my last journey. Armenia
had in the meanwhile been the scene of tragedies which had touched
the conscience of the West. Petty disturbances among the mountaineers
in the wild fastnesses of Sasun, south of Mush, were magnified by
the provincial authorities into the appearance of a revolution,
and were suppressed with savage cruelty. The example of a single
massacre was not sufficient to overawe the Armenians; the Palace
had tasted blood, and their special agents throughout the provinces
were eager for the work and its rewards. Against the counsels of
their best officials and the entreaties of Turkey's truest friends,
the Palace organised a series of butcheries on a great scale. The
events in Sasun were followed by similar atrocities not only in the
towns and villages inhabited by Armenians but also in the capital
itself. Europe, deeply pledged to secure good government among the
Armenians, was unwilling to embark on a policy of decisive action,
paralysed by the mutual jealousies of the principal Powers. During
those dark times the country had been closed to travellers; and it
was only with the greatest difficulty that I was at length enabled
to complete the studies which had been interrupted on the former
occasion by the rigour of winter.
June 7, 1898.--On a day of early summer, when the air was fresh and
the sun warm, my friend Oswald and myself set out from Trebizond,
to perform the journey which forms the subject of the last chapter in
the reverse sense. I have already described the stages from Erzerum
to the Vavuk Pass; but it may be desirable to notice briefly the
intermediate section between the sea and that natural threshold of
the Armenian tableland. For a distance of over a mile the chaussée
follows the coast beneath the shadow of that table-topped mass of
dark porphyritic lava which is known as Boz Tepe. The view ranges
over the considerable delta of the Pyxitis--a strip of sand and
pebbles projecting far into the sea, which is discoloured for some
distance by the suspended sediment. But the large prospects are
at once lost as you enter the river valley and proceed at right
angles to your former course. The stream is swirling along, divided
into several channels, and overhung at a respectable interval by
tall cliffs. In places the outlines open and disclose a country of
rolling hills, as where the large and white-faced monastery of Aiana
is seen high-seated in a charming landscape on the right bank. It is
indeed an admirable approach to the recesses of the Pontic chain,
this valley of Deïrmen. It leads with much of the straightness and
space of a church's nave through the lofty and intricate outworks of
the range almost to its spine at the Zigana Pass.
Before we had completed ten miles the wooded heights on either hand
were dotted with the dark forms of the first spruce firs. The valley
narrows; the walls grow steeper, and tower to a greater altitude; but
you never lose the expanse of sky. If the scene recalls Tyrol you are
not conscious of confinement; there is none of the chill and darkness
of an Alpine glen. The character of the landscape is influenced by
the alternation of tuffs with lavas; the latter become much darker
and more compact. To the tuffs are largely due the softer spaces
of field and garden; while the lava, which has cooled into a roughly
columnar structure, produces parapets of immense height and precipitous
crags. A little below the town of Jevizlik we stood in wonder at the
foot of a cliff composed of a rock of this description. It fills the
angle between the main stream and a tributary to the left bank, and
it must be at least 1500 feet high. The columns of lava suggested the
appearance of an organ of colossal proportions. And what a romantic
feature, the bold perspective of the side valley, the cultivation
carried upwards by almost impossible gradients, the vivid green of
the young corn contrasting with patches of fallow land, coloured a
light purplish-brown! Along the summits of the wide amphitheatre of
ridges the forest rises against the field of the sky.
Jevizlik, the first station, is reached at about the twentieth mile;
it is situated just below the confluence of a considerable stream which
comes in on the right bank. A rough road diverges from the chaussée at
this point, and follows the course of the tributary. It leads to the
famous monastery of Sumelas, a ride or sharp walk of three and a half
hours. We passed bands of pilgrims on their way to this resort--whole
families, an entire village packed up and piled upon horses, the women
astride with their babes beside them, the men on foot. The monastery
is built on a ledge of an almost perpendicular wall of mountain,
at a height of 4450 feet above sea-level, and of 800 feet above the
torrent which hisses at the base of the rock. It is placed almost at
the head of the beautiful valley of Meiriman--a valley which, indeed,
is narrower than that of the Pyxitis, but which combines in its various
stages all the features of this fair land. Orchards and stretches of
forest trees clothe the easier gradients at the mouth of the opening--a
large circle of heights soaring up into the heaven above purple slopes,
where the soil is exposed by the plough. Clusters of wooden châlets
overlook the winding river, and each bolder eminence is crowned by
a white, stone chapel. As the valley becomes a glen--the term is
ill adapted to express the scale upon which Nature has worked--the
vegetation increases in luxuriance and changes in character, until
the scene assumes that strange and almost supernatural appearance
which has found such just expression in the weirdness of the Kolchian
myths. The foliage, which almost obscures the light of the brightest
day, is composed of alder, lime, walnut and elm, of beech and Spanish
chestnut, of ash and, on the higher slopes, of tall firs. Trees of
holly, of azalea and of rhododendron supply an undergrowth which at
this season is ablaze with bloom. In the autumn the pink, poisonous
crocus (colchicum) springs from the rocks, of double the length and
size of the ordinary flower. Fungus with crimson stools start from the
silver lichen, which diffuses an unearthly light. Long streamers of
grey-green lichen float on the lower branches, from which a profusion
of creepers are festooned. Here and there the thicket opens to an
expanse of lawn. The forest is fed by the clouds collected in this
caldron of Nature; and from the month of May to that of October the
windows of the monastery are seldom greeted by the rays of the sun
(Fig. 175).
The traveller to Erzerum who is in search of romantic scenery could
not do better than follow this valley of Meiriman. It is the route
which I selected upon our return from this second journey; but it
is not practicable during the winter months. A steep ascent from
the head of the glen leads to a country of grassy uplands, rising
gradually to the pass of the Kazikly Dagh. This pass is the more
easterly counterpart of the Zigana, but exceeds it in height by more
than 1000 feet (8290 as against 6640 feet). The barrier on the north
of the plain of Baiburt is crossed at the Kitowa Dagh by a pass
of 8040 feet (as against the 6470 feet of the Vavuk Pass). Beyond
the Kazikly Dagh there is a fair track which is used by caravans in
summer; but between that point and Trebizond they pursue a shorter
route. This approach to the plains of Armenia is almost in a direct
line, avoiding the long detour by Gümüshkhaneh. The journey from the
cloister of Sumelas to Baiburt may be performed in two days. [219]
On the present occasion we were constrained by perverse orders from
Constantinople to follow the chaussée. The tributary, which we crossed
at Jevizlik by a bridge of several arches, appeared to bring almost
an equal volume of water as the river which it feeds. The upper
stages of the main valley are picturesque in character, with none
of the gloom and savagery of the vale of Meiriman. The slopes on
either side terrace upwards into the haze of the sky; and for some
miles above Jevizlik they are alive with settlements. At mid-height
you admire the frequent clusters of the villages; the churches are
built on projecting pinnacles of rock, and consist of a group of
gables surmounted by a dome and approached through a belfry with two
storeys of open arches. A white-faced monastery is seen high up on the
opposite or left bank of the river; it fills a niche or natural recess
in a vertical wall of rock, and its roofs are overhung by the roof of
the cave. The stream is spanned at frequent intervals by little stone
bridges with single arches, the arches highly curved and the roadway
rising to the centre of the bridge. In one place the way which led up
the cliff-side to a village was flanked at its upper end by a strong
tower from which the inmates could resist attack from below. Above
this inhabited zone, at the foot of the firs, near the crests of
the ridges, sparse hamlets or isolated châlets are just discerned in
the vague detail of the uppermost slopes. A report of guns, sounding
distant, comes from one of those eyries where they are celebrating
a marriage feast. In the fields, with their strange gradients, men
and women are at work, the men lithe of limb, the women square-set,
with skirts to below the knee and thick stockings on their legs. It
is a dreamy southern scene, in one hand beauty, in the other squalor;
and it repeats on a large scale the characteristics of those transverse
cuttings which extend from the coast to the highlands of Asia Minor
and are inhabited by a population of Greek race.
The chaussée follows the right bank, at some height above the stream,
in full possession of the views on either hand. The valley maintains
its width; but the nature of the landscape changes; cultivation ceases,
and the forest descends to the road. Thickets of rhododendron are seen
for the first time--the tree-like bushes with which we are familiar
in England and the large flowers. The brakes were a mass of bloom;
a little higher we met the azaleas; the yellow azalea and the pale
mauve petals of the rhododendron were in the splendour of their latest
blossoming. In the lush forest we noticed the beech tree, the walnut,
and the maple, the hazel, the oak and the elm; the elders were in full
flower, and the cherry trees were conspicuous for their number and
size. The more open spaces were covered with masses of forget-me-nots;
calices of hellebore, withered yellow, rested on the rank grass; and
yellow mullein, filling the air with its subtle perfume, rose from
among the rocks. Little waterfalls leapt through the deep shade of
narrow clearings; we were nearing the head of the valley. A bed of
sandstone, holding the moisture like a sponge, interrupts the lava
beds. The ridges circle inwards; the valley becomes an amphitheatre,
and its stately character is preserved to the last.
Upon a terrace of this amphitheatre the little settlement of Lower
Hamsi Keui commands the long perspective towards the north. It
is distant some fourteen miles from Jevizlik and thirty-four from
Trebizond. We made our stage at the Upper Hamsi Keui, over a mile
beyond the Lower, by a continuous ascent. It is situated above one of
the two larger side valleys which converge towards the hamlet first
named. It is from here that you commence the first portion of the
climb to the Zigana Dagh, through forest glades in which the spruce
firs alternate with the beech woods, and which are carpeted with an
undergrowth of rhododendron and azalea and tall palm-leaved bracken. As
we rose on the following morning above our surroundings we looked in
vain for the vista of sea, the horizon being veiled in mist. Our ears
were greeted by the song of nightingales, and by the clear call-notes
of the cuckoo; while the plashing of innumerable streamlets and
waterfalls mingled to a background of tremulous sound. Flocks of sheep
were passed on their way to their summer pastures, and we could hear
their liquid bells from afar. They were accompanied by shepherds with
dogs not much smaller than mastiffs, which had long white hair and
tails like a fox's brush. The side valley is left behind, and then
a second and still smaller valley; until the forest ceases and you
enter the region of dreary heights. But the azalea still continues,
mounting the ridge like our English gorse and not less riotous of
flower. Patches of snow remain unmelted even at this season. At the
saddle of the pass we had covered about 10 miles and risen nearly
2600 feet (Upper Hamsi Keui, 4060 feet; Zigana Pass, 6640 feet).
The slopes are inclined at an angle of about 30° and the rock is much
decomposed. Time was wanting for a careful examination; but Oswald
favoured the conclusion that it is hard and holocrystalline, similar
in character to that of the Kitowa Dagh further east. The descent is
long and gradual from the pass to the valley of the Kharshut, which
eats its way through wild mountains to the Black Sea. The road is
carried along the heights, on the east of a basin of ridges, by a
succession of terraces. In winter, when the snow spreads a carpet
at the foot of the fir trees, the view is at once inspiring and
superb. But in summer the long stretches of barren yellow talus--a
trachyte, decomposed and weathered a staring yellow, fatigue the eye
and repel the sense. There is a certain contrast in the vegetation
of the southern slopes. The luscious forest has disappeared, and so
have the rhododendra; but the azalea and the spruce firs still clothe
the walls facing the Pontic winds. On the other hand, the Scotch fir
takes the place of its slenderer rival on the parapets which are less
exposed to the moisture. At the foot of the main descent are placed
at intervals three hamlets with numerous caravanserais. The first is
Maden; the other two are known respectively as the Upper and the Lower
Zigana (4330 feet). The distance from the pass to the Lower Zigana
may be about 4 1/2 to 5 miles. Thence it is another 7 1/2 miles to
the bridge over the Kharshut (3100 feet). The landscape, of immense
extent and of the most savage character, is framed in the south by the
serrated outline of the Giaour Dagh, veined with snow and capped by
cloud. Between the pass and the hamlets we noticed huge volcanic dikes
seaming the hillsides with bold causeways of finely crystalline rock.
The little town of Ardasa on the banks of the Kharshut affords shelter
for the night. It is placed at a distance of about 2 miles above
the bridge, and of about 24 1/2 miles from the Upper Hamsi Keui. The
straggling settlement is overtowered by a cliff some thousand feet in
height, perhaps a limestone and coloured a rusty brown. On the summit
are seen the fragments of a mediæval castle. Between Ardasa and the
pass of Vavuk we followed next day the winding river, tracking it
up almost to its source. The valley is fairly open, with a number
of side valleys; but the scene is desolate and bare. Not a remnant
of the azalea enlivens the landscape; the vegetation adheres to
the margin of the water--fruit trees and willows, the large mauve
flowers of the field-iris, hawthorn in bloom, the yellow blossoms
of the barberry. There is a certain air of comfort in the pretty
wooden houses with their gables and wooden roofs, shining white. But
this note is often and quickly lost in the sounding discords of a
chaotic Nature--the shales and limestones compressed into almost
impossible contortions and baked and uplifted by huge bosses of
igneous rock. Beyond such a devil's gorge, which is overhung by a
robber's eyrie, is situated the considerable town of Gümüshkhaneh,
famous for its silver mines, now no longer worked. You leave it on
your right and pass through a lower suburb, at a distance from Ardasa
of about 16 1/2 miles.
Another 10 miles brings you to the large village of Tekke; and about
2 miles further a bridge crosses the Kharshut. It takes a road which
here diverges to follow a tributary to the left bank, and which
leads across the Giaour Dagh to Erzinjan. We slept at Murad Khan, a
comfortable shelter, having made a stage of about 33 miles (alt. 4430
feet). On the morning of the 10th of June we again pursued the river,
now become shallow, and were soon passing beneath the castled crag
of Kalajik, one of the wonders of the journey to Erzerum (Ch. X.,
Fig. 174, taken in winter). The size of the ruin and the scale of
the outworks, which defend each ledge of the limestone precipice,
far surpass the similar fastnesses in this wild valley. At 7 miles
we left the stream to ascend by easy gradients the gentle slopes of
the Vavuk Pass (6468 feet). At the saddle we had covered a distance
of rather over 10 miles.
We stood on the threshold of the Armenian tableland, beneath a new
climate and in face of a new scene. The contrast impressed Oswald,
who saw it for the first time, and who at once seized the special
features of this new world. We had crossed the zone of sparse fir
trees; the summit is completely barren; the plain before us, as well
as the rounded outlines of the opposite hills, devoid of vegetation
of any kind. Only by the margin of a slowly-flowing river beneath us
beds of buttercups marked out in patches its idle course. Limestones
and shales are the material of this and the further eminences; it
is a country of soft, swelling downs on a large scale. The clouds
stand arrested on the higher summits of this barrier; the sky beyond
is pellucid, the air bracing, the tints warm. As we made our way
beneath the night to our distant goal beyond Baiburt the evening star
was shining with the brilliance of a beacon, and my friend mistook
the milky way for a luminous cloud. When we arrived in Erzerum (6168
feet) on the 14th of June the lilac filled the gardens with its heavy
scent. It was commencing to blossom in our native country before we
left its shores behind.