an in
ruins of the past, these old Serbian monuments leave so strange a memory
of a civilization suddenly cut off at its zenith that they have an
emotional appeal far apart from that of archaeology. These little oases
of culture preserved amongst a wilderness of Turk tempt the traveller
with a romance which is now vanishing from Roman and Greek ruins.

The Ipek monastery is a beautiful old place with the walls half buried
on one side. The old church, orange outside, is very dark within, but
contains many beautiful paintings. Surely here is the home of Post
Impressionism and of Futurism. The decorations of the bases of the
pillars are quite futuristic even orpeistic.

The pictures are Byzantine. But the Turks have picked out the eyes, as
they always do. One enormous painting of a head which filled a
semicircle over a door is particularly fine. Most halos are round, but
the painter had deemed the ears and beard worthy of extra bulges in this
saint's halo, which added to the decorative effect.

Beautiful apple trees were dotted about the big garden through which the
wriggly river ran. Ducks, geese and turkeys wandered around, so fat that
they were indifferent to the meal that was being served out to them. A
boy woke up the mother of a family of young turkeys and pushed her
towards the dinner with his foot. She hurried there involuntarily and
sat down for a nap with her back to the plate, the picture of outraged
dignity.

We got into conversation with a priest, who insisted we should call upon
the archbishop. The Metropolitan was a cheery soul, wearing a
Montenegrin pork-pie hat very much on one side, and black riding
breeches which showed as his long robes fluttered during his many
gesticulations.

While with him we lost the impression that we were living in the unreal
times of the Rose and the Ring. He was intensely civilized, spoke French
excellently, and had many a good story of his life in Constantinople and
other places. For the English he had great affection. The last
Englishman in Ipek, a king's messenger, had flown to the monastery to
escape from the Hotel Europe and its bugs. The next morning he would not
get up. The archbishop went to his room to remonstrate.

"No, no," said he; "I spent two nights under a ceiling which rained bugs
upon me, and I know a good bed when I've got it."

Coffee and cigarettes came in, of the best, and the rakia was a thing
apart from the acrid stuff we were accustomed to.

He