Passing under the guidance of the monk we ascend on the further side of the courtyard a long staircase and enter a huge empty room newly carpeted, which brings us to the curtained doorway of the bishop’s private apartment. On the walls, decorated with many figures in cut plaster of the Russian eagle (for the bishop is a Russian subject, and wisely takes care that the Persian authorities shall know it),[15] hang some twenty daubs in oil of saints and sacred scenes; these are more pretentiously framed than those in the monk’s room, but of equal value. A high chair, considerably ornamented with native carvings, is the bishop’s habitual seat, and at its side is a table covered with well-bound books, which at my first visit considerably impressed me; but I found out afterwards that they were always the same books, so my respect for the literary attainments of the Arachnoort somewhat diminished. After a decorous interval the bishop enters, a handsome man—a man who would create a _furore_ in England—a man with large, dreamy, black eyes, which he uses as much as the late Mr. Fechter, a pale and interesting face, and a long, silky beard, well combed, and black as the raven’s wing. From his neck hang an amethyst cross and a large portrait of the Virgin, in an oval enamel surrounded by paste. Clad in black lined with violet, his tall conical cap and flowing black hood give a fine stage picture, which is completed by a gentle raising of the hand (a white and delicate hand) as if to bless; a soft, whispering, almost purring voice, completed the charm of a man who in some other sphere would have doubtless achieved the success usually attained by great personal attractiveness. A sort of smile, as of a superior nature compassionating itself, spreads over his handsome face, and in a whisper he asks after one’s health. The glossy beard is stroked, the black eyes are rolled; coffee is brought, a kalian, and the visitor retires, after much bowing on both sides.