Chapter 2

"THIS PORCH IS DECORATED ALL OVER WITH FRESCOES"(p.26).

23A

"SOME WERE SO OLD, SO BENT, THAT THEY COULD NO MORE RAISE THEIR HEADS TO LOOK UP AT THE SKY ABOVE"(p.28).

23B

"STRANGE OLD MONKS INHABITED IT"(p.27).

23C

"SILENT RECLUSES, BURIED AWAY FROM THE WORLD"(p.27).

Dazed by such a welcome, I was seized under the elbow by the mother abbess, a venerable, tottering old woman, whose face was seared by age as a field is furrowed by the plough.

Half leading me, half hanging on to me for support, she conducted me towards the open church-door. From time to time she would furtively kiss my shoulder, and in a sort of lowly ecstasy press her old, old face close to mine.

All the other nuns trooped after us like a flock of black-plumed birds, their dark veils waving about in the wind, the bells still ringing in peals of delight!

Within the dim sanctuary the lighted tapers were as swarms of fire-flies in a dusk-filled forest; the nuns grouped themselves along the walls, their dark dresses becoming one with the shadow, so that alone their faces stood out, rendered almost ethereal by the wavering candle-light.

They were chanting—fain would I say that their singing was beautiful, but that were scarcely the truth! Not as in Russia, the chanting in the Rumanian churches is far from melodious—they drone through the nose longdrawn, oft-repeated chants, anything but harmonious, and which seemingly have no reason ever to come to an end.

But somehow, that evening, in the forlorn mountainconvent far from the homes of men, there, in the low-domed chapel, filled with those sable-clad figures whose earnest faces were almost angelic in the mystical light, the weird sounds that rose towards the roof were not out of place. There was something old-time about them, something archaic, primitive, in keeping with the somewhat barbaric paintings and images, something that seemed to have strayed down from past ages into the busier world of to-day....

More pompous were the receptions I received in the larger monasteries.

Here all the monks would file out to meet me—a procession of black-robed, long-bearded beings, austere of appearance, sombre of face.

Taking me by the arm, the Father Superior would solemnly lead me towards the gaily decorated church, whilst many little children would throw flowers before me as I passed.

Not over-severe are the monastic rules in Rumania. The convent-doors are open to all visitors; in former days they were houses of rest for travellers wandering from place to place.

Three days' hospitality did the holy walls offer to those passing that way; this was the ancient custom, and now in many places monks or nuns are allowed to let their little houses to those in need of a summer's rest. This, however, is only possible where the convents are real littlevillages, where more or less each recluse possesses his own small house.

There are two kinds of convents in this country: either a large building where all the monks or nuns are united beneath the same roof, or a quantity of tiny houses grouped in a large square round the central church.

The former alone are architecturally interesting, and some I have visited are exquisitely perfect in proportion and shape.

One of these convents above all others draws me towards it, for irresistible indeed is its charm.

A convent ... white and lonely, hidden away in wooded regions greener and sweeter than any other in the land. Perfect is the form of its church, snow-white the colonnades that surround its tranquil court. A charm and a mystery envelop it, such as nowhere else have I felt. Sober are its sculptures, but an indescribable harmony makes its lines beautiful, and such a peace pervades the place that here I felt as though I had truly found the house of rest....

Whenever I go there the nuns receive me with touching delight, half astonished that one so high should care about so simple a place. I go there often, whenever I can, for it has thrown a strange spell over me, and often again must I return to its whitewashed walls.

The building forms a quadrangle round the church, three sides of which are composed of a double colonnade,built one above the other, the upper one forming an open gallery running round the whole. Behind these colonnades are the nuns' small cells: tiny domes, little chambers, whitewashed, humble, and still....

Large is the church, noble of line, rich of sculpture, fronted by a large, covered porch supported by stone pillars richly carved. Like the interior of the building, this porch is decorated all over with frescoes, artless of conception, archaic of design, and harmonious, the colour having been toned down by the hand of time.

Within, the church is high, dim, mystical, entirely painted with strange-faced saints, who stare at one as though astonished to be disturbed out of their lonely silence and peace.

Many a treasure lies within these walls: ancient images, crumbling tombstones, a marvellously carved altar-screen, gilt and painted with incomparable skill, all the colours faded and blended together by the master of all arts—Time.

In shadowy corners, heavily chased lamps, hanging on chains from above, shed a mysterious light upon silver-framed icons, polished by many a pious kiss. In truth a holy sanctuary, inducing the spirit to soar above the things of this earth....

26A

"AN INDESCRIBABLE HARMONY MAKES ITS LINES BEAUTIFUL"(p.25).

The fourth side of the quadrangle is shut in by a high wall, with a door in the centre opening upon a narrow path that leads towards a second smaller temple, as perfect in shape as the greater building of the inner court. Here the nuns are buried; an idyllic spot enclosed by crumbling walls that wild rose-bushes, covered with delicate blooms, hold together by their long thorny arms. The strangely shaped wooden crosses that mark the graves stand amidst high, waving grass and venerable apple-trees that age seems to incline tenderly towards those slumbering beneath the sod at their feet.

All round—beech forests upon low, undulating hills; as background to these, mountains—blue, hazy, unreachable, forming a barrier against the outside world....

A place of beauty, a place of rest, a place of peace....

Many sites of beauty rise before my eyes when I think of these hidden houses of prayer. Countless is the number I have visited in all four corners of the land, and again I turn my feet towards them whenever I can.

Hard were it to say which are the more picturesque, the convents or the monasteries; both are equally interesting, equally quaint.

I remember a small monastery, nestling beneath the sides of a frowning mountain, surrounded by pine forests, dark and mysterious. The way leading there was tortuous, stony, difficult of access, yet the place itself was a small meadow-encircled paradise of tranquillity, green and reposeful as a dream of rest.

Strange old monks inhabited it—silent recluses, buried away from the world, shadowy spectres, almost sinisterin their aloofness, their eyes having taken the look of forest-dwellers who are no more accustomed to look into the eyes of men.

Noiselessly they followed me wherever I went, heads bent, but their eyes watching me from beneath shaggy brows, their hands concealed within their wide hanging sleeves; it was as though dark shadows were dogging my every step.

I turned round and looked into their obscure faces—how far-away they seemed! Who were they? What was their story? what had been their childhood, their hopes, their loves? For the most part, I think, they were but humble, ignorant beings, with no wider ideals, no far-away visions of higher things. Some were so old, so bent that they could no more raise their heads to look up at the sky above; their long, grey beards had taken on the appearance of lichens growing upon fallen trees.

But one there was amongst them, tall and upright, with the pale, ascetic face of a saint. I know not his name, naught of his past; but he had a noble visage, and meseemed that in his eyes I could read dreams that were not only the dreams of this earth.

I cannot, alas! speak of all the convents I have seen, but one I must still mention, for indeed it is a rare little spot upon earth.

Hidden within the mouth of a cavern, lost in the wildest mountain region, there lies a tiny wee church, so small,so small that one must bend one's head to step over the threshold; it appears to be a toy, dropped there by some giant hand and forgotten. Only a tiny little wooden chapel guarded by a few hoary old monks, creatures so old and decrepit that they seem to have gathered moss like stones lying for ever in the same place....

No road leads to this sanctuary; one must seek one's way to it on foot or horseback, over mountain steeps and precipitous rocks. There it lies in the dark cave entry, solitary, grey, and ancient, like a hidden secret waiting to be found out.

Behind the wee church the hollow stretches, dark and tortuous, running in mysterious obscurity right into the heart of the earth. When the end is reached a gurgling of water is heard—a spring, ice-cold, bubbles there out of the earth, pure and fresh as the sources in the Garden of Eden....

I have known of passionate lovers coming to be married in this church, defying the hardships of the road, defying nature's frowning barriers, so as to be bound together for life in this far-away spot where crowds cannot gather.

On the way to this church, not far from the mouth of the cave, stands a lonely little cemetery, filled with crosses of wood. Here the monks who have lived out their solitary lives are finally laid to eternal rest. Dark are those crosses, standing like spectres against the naked rock. The summer suns scorch them, the winds of autumn beatthem about, and ofttimes the snows of winter fell them to the ground. But in spring-time early crocuses and delicate anemones cluster around them, gathering in fragrant bunches about their feet.

Meseems that, in spite of its solitude, it would not be sad to be buried in such a spot....

**—*

Once I was riding through the melting snow. The road I was following, like all Rumanian roads, was long, long, endlessly long, dwindling away in the distance, becoming one with the colourless sky.

It was a day of depression, a day of thaw, when the world is at its worst.

All around me the flat plains lay waiting for something that did not come. The landscape appeared to be without horizon, to possess no frontiers: all was dully uniform, without life, without light, without joy. Silence lay over the earth—silence and dismal repose.

With loose reins and hanging heads my horse and I trudged along through the slush. We were going nowhere in particular; a sort of torpor of indifference had come over us, well in keeping with the melancholy of the day.

A damp fog hung like a faded veil close over the earth; it was not a dense fog, but wavered about like steam.

30A

"A LONELY LITTLE CEMETERY, FILLED WITH CROSSES OF WOOD"(p.29).

30B

"ON LONELY MOUNTAIN-SIDES"(p.29).

30C

"GUARDED BY A FEW HOARY OLD MONKS"(p.29).

30D

"THERE LIES A TINY WEE CHURCHON LONELY MOUNTAIN-SIDES"(p.29).

30E

"TALL AND UPRIGHT, WITH THE PALE, ASCETIC FACE OF A SAINT"(p.28).

30F

"CREATURES SO OLD AND DECREPIT THAT THEY SEEM TO HAVE GATHERED MOSS LIKE STONES LYING FOR EVER IN THE SAME PLACE"(p.29).

31A

"WHEN FOUND IN SUCH NUMBERS THEY ARE MOSTLY HEWN OUT OF WOOD"(p.34).

31B

"THESE STRANGE OLD CROSSES.... THEY STAND BY THE WAY-SIDE"(p.33).

All of a sudden, I heard a weird sound coming towards me out of the distance, something the like of which I had never heard before....

Drawing in my reins, I stood still at the edge of the road wondering what I was to see.

Unexpected indeed was the procession that, like a strange dream, was coming towards me from out the mist!

Wading through the melting snow advanced two small boys, carrying between them a round tin platter on which lay a flat cake; behind them came an old priest carrying a cross in his hand, gaudily attired in faded finery—red, gold and blue. His heavy vestment was all splashed and soiled, his long hair and unkempt beard were dirty-grey, like the road upon which he walked. A sad old man, with no expression but that of misery upon his yellow shrunken face.

Close behind his heels followed a rough wooden cart drawn by oxen whose noses almost touched the ground; their breath formed small clouds about their heads, through which their eyes shone with patient anxiety.

It was from this cart that the weird sound was rising. What could it be? Then all at once I understood!

A plain deal coffin had been placed in the middle of the cart; seated around it were a number of old women, wailing and weeping, raising their voices in a dismal chant, that rang like a lament through the air. Their white hairwas dishevelled, and their black veils floated around them like thin wisps of smoke.

Behind the cart walked four old gipsies playing doleful tunes upon their squeaky violins, whilst the women's voices took up the refrain in another key. Never had I heard dirge more mournful, nor more lugubrious a noise. Pressing after the gipsies came a knot of barefooted relatives, holding lighted tapers in their hands. The tiny flames looked almost ashamed of burning so dimly in the melancholy daylight.

In passing, these weary mortals raised pale faces, looking at me with mournful eyes that expressed no astonishment. Through the gloomy mist they appeared to be so many ghosts, come from nowhere, going towards I know not what. Like shadows they passed and were gone; ... but through the gathering fog the wailing came back to haunt me, curiously persistent, as though the dead from his narrow coffin were calling for help....

Long after this strange vision had disappeared, I stood gazing at the road where traces of their feet had remained imprinted upon the melted snow. Had it all been but an hallucination, created by the melancholy of the day?

As I turned my horse I was confronted by a shadow looming large at a little distance down the road. What could it be? Was this a day of weird apparitions?

It was not without difficulty that I induced my horseto approach the spot; verily, I think that sometimes horses see ghosts!...

On nearing, I perceived that what had frightened my mount was naught but a tall stone cross. Monumental, moss-grown, and mysterious, it stood all alone like a guardian keeping eternal watch over the road. From its outstretched arms great drops were falling to the ground like heavy tears....

Was the old cross weeping—weeping because a lovely funeral had passed that way?...

**—*

I must talk a little about these strange old crosses that on all roads I have come upon, that I have met with in every part of the country.

As yet I have not quite fathomed their meaning—but I love them, they seem so well in keeping with the somewhat melancholy character of the land.

Generally they stand by the wayside, sometimes in stately solitude, sometimes in groups; sometimes they are of quaintly carved stone, sometimes they are of wood, crudely painted with figures of archaic saints.

No doubt these pious monuments have been raised to mark the places of some event; perhaps the death of some hero, or only the murder of a lonely traveller who was not destined to reach the end of his road....

Mostly they stand beside wells, bearing the names of those who, having thought of the thirsty, erected these watering-places in far-away spots.

Quaint of shape, they attract the eye from far; the peasant uncovers his head before them, murmuring a prayer for the dead.

At cross-roads I have sometimes come upon them ten in a row; when found in such numbers they are mostly hewn out of wood. Their forms and sizes are varied: some are immensely high and solid, covered by queer shingle roofs; often their design is intricate, several crosses, growing one out of another, forming a curious pattern, the whole painted in the crudest colours that sun and rain soon tone down to pleasant harmony.

Protected by their greater companions, many little crosses crowd alongside: round crosses and square crosses, crosses that are slim and upright, crosses that seem humbly to bend towards the ground....

On lonely roads these rustic testimonies of Faith are curiously fascinating. One wonders what vows were made when they were placed there by pious hands and believing hearts.

But, above all, the carved crosses of stone attract me. I have discovered them in all sorts of places; some are of rare beauty, covered with inscriptions entangled in wonderful designs.

34A

"MOSTLY THEY STAND BESIDE WELLS"(p.34).

I have come upon them on bare fields, on the edges of dusty roads, on the borders of dark forests, on lonely mountain-sides. I have found them on forsaken waters by the sea, where the gulls circled around them caressing them gently with the tips of their wings.

Many a mile have I ridden so as to have another look at these mysterious symbols, for always anew they fill my soul with an intense desire for tranquillity; they are so solemnly impressive, so silent, so still....

One especially was dear to my heart. It stood all alone in dignified solitude upon a barren field, frowning down upon a tangle of thistles that twisted their thorny stems beneath the shade of its arms.

I know not its history, nor why it was watching over so lonely a place; it appeared to have been there from the beginning of time. Tired of its useless vigil, it was leaning slightly on one side, and at dusk its shadow strangely resembled the shadow of a man.

**—*

Nothing is more touchingly picturesque than the village cemeteries: the humbler they are the more do they delight the artist's eye.

Often they are placed round the village church, but sometimes they lie quite apart. I always seek them out, loving to wander through their poetical desolation—feelingso far, so far from the noise and haste of our turbulent world.

Certainly these little burial-grounds are not tended and cared for as in tidier lands. The graves are scattered about amidst weeds and nettles, sometimes thistles grow so thickly about the crosses that they half hide them from sight. But in spring-time, before the grass is high, I have found some of them nearly buried in daffodils and irises running riot all over the place. The shadowy crosses look down upon all that wealth of colour as though wondering if God Himself had adorned their forsaken graves.

The Rumanian peasant is averse from any unnecessary effort. What must happen happens, what must fall falls. Therefore, if a cross is broken, why try to set it up again?—let it lie! the grass will cover it, the flowers will cluster in its place.

On Good Friday morning I was roaming through one of these village churchyards. To my astonishment I found that nearly every grave was lighted with a tiny thin taper, the flame of which burnt palely, incapable of vying with the light of the sun. Lying beside these ghostly little lights were broken fragments of pottery filled with smouldering ashes, that sent thin spirals of blue smoke into the tranquil spring air. On this day of mourning the living come to do honour to their dead according to their customs, according to their Faith.

A strange sight indeed! all those wavering little flamesamongst the crumbling graves. Often did I find a candle standing on a spot where all vestige of the grave itself had been entirely effaced; but it stood there burning bravely—some one remembering that just beneath that very inch of ground a heart had been laid to rest.

An old woman I found that morning standing quite still beside one of those tapers—a taper so humble and thin that it could scarcely remain upright—but with crossed arms the old mother was watching it, as though silently accomplishing some rite.

Approaching her, I looked to see of what size was the grave she was guarding, but could perceive no grave at all! The yellow little taper was humbly standing beside a bunch of anemones. All that once had been a tomb had long since been trodden into the ground.

The cloth round the old woman's head was white, white as the blossoming cherry-trees that made gay this little garden of God; white were also the flowers that grew beside the old woman's offering of love.

"Who is buried there?" I asked.

"One of my own," was her answer. "She was my daughter's little daughter; now she is at rest."

"Why is the grave no more to be seen?" was my next inquiry.

For all answer a shrug of the shoulders, and the dim eyes looked into mine; complete resignation was what I read in their depths.

"What is the use of keeping a grave tidy if the priest of the village allows his oxen to graze about amidst the tombs?"

I looked at her in astonishment. "Could not such disorder be put a stop to?"

Again a shrug of the shoulders. "Who is there to put a stop to it? The cattle must have somewhere to feed!"

I saw that she considered it quite natural, and that which lay beneath the ground could verily be indifferent to those passing hoofs, as long as on Good Friday some one remembered to burn a taper over her heart!

On Good Friday night, long services are celebrated in every church or chapel in the land.

Full of mystical charm are those peasant gatherings round their humble houses of prayer. Men, women, and children flock together, each one bearing a light. Those who find no place within stand outside in patient crowds.

A lovely picture indeed.

From each church window the light streams forth, whilst weird chants float out to those waiting beyond. In front of the sanctuary hundreds of wavering little flames, lighting up the visages of those who, with ecstatic faces, are hearkening for sounds of the service that is being celebrated within.

Custom will have it that, on Good Friday nights, flowers shall be brought by the worshippers—flowers that are reverently laid upon an embroidered effigy of the crucified Christ which is placed on a table in the centre of the church.

38A

"QUAINT OF SHAPE, THEY ATTRACT THE EYE FROM FAR"(p.34).

38B

"SOMETIMES THEY ARE OF QUAINTLY CARVED STONE"(p.33).

38C

"STRANGE OLD CROSSES THAT ON ALL ROADS I HAVE COME UPON"(p.33).

38D

"THEIR FORMS AND SIZES ARE VARIED"(p.34).

39A

"NONE OF THE GREATER BUILDINGS ATTRACT ME SO STRONGLY AS THOSE LITTLE VILLAGE CHURCHES"(p.40).

39B

"THE ALTAR IS SHUT OFF FROM THE REST OF THE BUILDING BY A CARVED AND PAINTED SCREEN"(p.42).

Each believer brings what he can: a scrap of green, a branch of blossoms, a handful of hyacinths, making the night sweet with their perfume, or a bunch of simple violets gathered along the wayside—first dear messengers of spring.

When the service is over, in long processions the worshippers return to their homes, one and all carefully shading the tapers, for it is lucky to bring them lighted back to the house.

No more light shines now from the church windows; all is swathed in darkness; the church itself stands out a huge mass of shade against the sky.

But the graveyard beyond is a garden of light! Have all the stars fallen from the heavens to console those lying beneath the sod? or is it only the tiny tapers still bravely burning, burning for the dead?...

**—*

There are some wonderful old churches in the country, stately buildings, rich and venerable, full of treasures carefully preserved from out the past.

I have visited all these churches, inquiring into theirhistory, admiring their perfect proportions, closely examining their costly embroideries, their carvings, their silver lamps, their enamelled crosses, their Bibles bound in gold.

But, in spite of their beauty, none of the greater buildings attract me so strongly as those little village churches I have hunted up in the far-away corners of the land.

One part of the country is especially rich in these quaint little buildings: it is a part I dearly love. No railway desecrates its tranquil valleys, no modern improvement has destroyed its simple charm. Here the hand of civilisation has marred no original beauty; no well-meaning painter has touched up the faded frescoes on ancient walls. A corner of the earth that has preserved its personality; being difficult to reach, it has remained unchanged, unspoilt.

The axe has not felled its glorious forests, the enterprising speculator has built no hideous hotels, no places of entertainment; no monstrous advertisements disfigure its green meadows, its fertile inclines.

Therefore, also, have the tiniest little churches been preserved. They lie scattered about in quite unlikely places; perched on steep hill-tops, hidden in wooded valleys, often reflecting their quaint silhouettes in rivers flowing at their base.

Seen from afar, tall fir-trees, planted like sentinels before their porches, are the sign-posts marking the sites wherethey stand. The churches behind are so diminutive that from a distance the trees alone are to be seen.

These fir-trees seemed to beckon to me, promising that I should find treasures hidden at their feet—they stand out darkly distinct in the landscape, for it is a region where the forests are of beeches, not of pines.

Often I wandered miles to reach them, over stony paths, over muddy ground, through turbulent little streams and endless inclines, and never was I disappointed; the dark sentinels never called me in vain. The most lovely little buildings have I discovered in these far-away places.

Some were all of wood, warm in colour, like newly baked brown bread, their enormous roofs giving them the appearance of giant mushrooms growing in fertile ground.

There is generally a belfry on the top, but with some the belfry stands by itself in front of the church, and is mostly deliciously quaint of shape.

Indescribable is the colour the old wood takes on. It is always in harmony with its background, with its surroundings; be it on a green meadow, or against dark pines, be it in spring-time half concealed behind apple-trees in full bloom, be it in autumn when the trees that enclose it are all golden and russet and red.

The wood is dark-brown, with grey lights that are sometimes silver. Green moss often pads the chinks betweenthe beams, giving the whole a soft velvety appearance that satisfies the eye.

Within, these rustic sanctuaries are toy copies of larger models; everything is tiny, but disposed in the same way. In orthodox churches the altar is shut off from the rest of the building by a carved and painted screen that nearly touches the roof, and is generally crowned by an enormous cross. At the lower part of these separations are the pictures of the most venerated saints. There are three small doors in these screens; during part of the service these doors remain closed.

Women have no right to penetrate within the Holy of Holies behind the screen.

Beautiful icons have I sometimes found in these forsaken little churches, carried there no doubt from greater ones when so-called improvements banished from their renovated walls the old-time treasures forthwith considered too shabby or too defaced.

Well do I remember one evening, after having climbed an endless way, I came at last to the foot of the pine-trees that had beckoned to me from afar, and how I reached the open door of the sanctuary at the very moment when the sun was going down.

The day had been wet, but this last hour before dusk was trying by its beauty to make up for earlier frowns.

The villagers, having guessed my intentions, had sent an old peasant to open the church. As I approached, the sound of a bell reached me, tolling its greeting into the evening air.

42A

"THE ROOFS ARE ALWAYS OF SHINGLE"(p.44).

The last rays of the sun were lying golden on the building as I reached the door. Like dancing flames they had penetrated inside, spreading their glorious light over the humble interior, surrounding the saints' painted effigies with luminous haloes.

It was a wondrous sight!

On the threshold stood an old peasant, all in white, his hands full of flowering cherry-branches, which he offered me as he bent down to kiss the hem of my gown.

Within, the old man's loving fingers had lit many lights, and the same blossoms had been piously laid around the holiest of the icons, the one that each believer must kiss on entering the church.

The sunlight outshone the little tapers, but they seemed to promise to continue its glory to the best of their ability when the great parent should have gone to rest.... Sitting down in a shadowy corner, I let the marvellous peace of the place penetrate my soul, let the charm of this holy house envelop me like a veil of rest.

The sun had disappeared; now the little lights stood out, sharp points of brightness against the invading dusk.

Hard it was indeed to tear myself away; but time, being no respecter of human emotions, moves on!

Outside the door an enormous stone cross stood likea ghost, its head lost amongst the snowy branches of a tree in full bloom. This cross was almost as high as the church....

Varied indeed are the shapes of these peasant churches. When they are not of wood, like those I have just described, they are mostly whitewashed, their principal feature being the stout columns that support the porch in front. There is hardly a Rumanian church without this front porch; it gives character to the whole; it is the principal source of decoration. Sometimes the columns have beautiful carved capitals of rarest design; sometimes they are but solid pillars, whitewashed like the rest of the church.

Quaint indeed are the buildings that some simple-hearted artist has painted all over with emaciated, brightly robed saints. I have seen the strangest decorations of this sort: whole processions of archaic figures in stiff attitudes illustrating events out of their holy lives. Then the front columns are also painted, often with quite lovely designs, closely resembling Persian patterns in old blues and reds and browns.

The roofs are always of shingle, with broad advancing eaves of most characteristic shape.

A church have I seen in the middle of a maize field. The roof had fallen in, the walls were cracked, in places crumbling away, tall sunflowers peeped in at its paneless windows, and the birds built their nests amongst the beams of its ruined vaults. Pitiable it was, indeed, tocontemplate such desolation; yet never had I seen a more magical sight.

The walls were still covered with frescoes, the colours almost unspoilt; the richly carved altar-screen still showed signs of gilding; hardly defaced were its many little pictures of saints. The stalwart pillars separating one part from the other stood strong and untouched except that in parts their plaster coating had crumbled away.

Quite unique was the charm of that ruin. The blue sky above was its roof, and the solemn saints stared down from the walls as if demanding why no kindly hand was raised to protect their fragile beauty from storm and rain.

I know not why such a treasure was allowed to fall to pieces—perchance there is no time to look after old ruins in a country where so much has still to be done! Indeed, the church was rarely fascinating, thus exposed to the light of the day, yet distressing was the thought that, if not soon covered in, the lovely frescoes would entirely fall away.

There was a figure of the Holy Virgin that especially attracted my attention; she stared at me from her golden background with large, pathetic eyes. Upon her knees the Child Christ sat, stiffly upright, one hand raised in blessing; the child was tiny, with a strange pale countenance and eyes much too large for its face.

I could not tear myself away from this forsaken placeof prayer; again and again I made the round of it, absorbing into my soul the picture it made.

At last I left it, but many times did I turn round to have a last look.

The sunflowers stood in tall groups, their heads bent towards the church as though trying to look inside; a flight of snow-white doves circled about it, their spotless wings flashing in the light. It was the last I saw of it—the ruined walls, and, floating above them, those snow-white doves.

**—*

Much more would I delight to relate about these little churches. For me the topic is full of unending charm; but there are many things that I must still talk about, so regretfully I turn away to other scenes.

The most lonely inhabitants of Rumania are the shepherds—more lonely even than the monks in their cells, for the monks are gathered together in congregations, whilst the shepherds spend whole months alone with their dogs upon desolate mountain-tops.

Often when roaming on horseback on the summits have I come upon these silent watchers leaning on their staffs, standing so still that they might have been figures carved out of stone.

46A

"VARIED INDEED ARE THE SHAPES OF THESE PEASANT CHURCHES"(p.44).

46B

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