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 in the morning, but I have often enough rejoiced at his indifference to the clock. There is so much to sketch from our front door: an unused cemetery, with moss-covered stèles (tombstones) lying in picturesque confusion; a tumble-down shepherd's hut; a crumbling mosque; mud houses in need of repair; and for background, a steep hill crowned by Timourlin's tomb.

"There is so much to sketch from our front door."

While painting, I have counted just four passers-by—two men leading their fruit-laden donkeys, and two women taking their asses to drink. No artist can resist Oriental landscapes; and genius, I suppose, would hardly remember to share my longing for nice warm "Western" baths in an atmosphere that means "microbes" in summer and in winter all kinds of discomfort.

The "sights" for tourists do not delay one many days. There are excellent "Red Cross" hospitals, a military hospital, an école normale for girls, a military school, the Ministries, town gardens, the Armenian