At Krusevatch we halted for the next day. After a discussion with the
station-master, who asked us to come down first at six p.m., then at
four, then at one, and lastly in two hours, at nine a.m. we strolled up
towards the town. There was an old beggar on the road, and he was
cuddling a "goosla," or Serbian one-stringed fiddle, which sounds not
unlike a hive of bees in summer-time, and is played not with the tips of
the fingers, as a violin, but with the fat part of the first phalanx. As
soon as he heard our footsteps he began to howl, and to saw at his
miserable instrument; and as soon as he had received our contribution he
stopped suddenly. We were worth no more effort; but we admired his
frankness.
Krusevatz market-place is like the setting of a Serbian opera. The
houses are the kind of houses that occupy the back scenery of opera, and
in the middle is an abominable statue commemorating something, which is
just in the bad taste which would mar an opera setting. There was an old
man wandering about with two knapsacks, one on his back and one on his
chest, and from the orifice of each peered out innumerable ducks' heads.
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