We passed beneath the shadow of Shar Dagh, the highest peak in the
peninsula, six thousand feet from the plain, springing straight up to a
point for all to admire, a mountain indeed.
We reached Uskub at dusk, found a hotel, and went out to dine. The
restaurant was empty, but through a half-open door one could hear the
sounds of music. The restaurant walls were--superfluously--decorated
with paintings of food which almost took away one's appetite; but one
enormous panel of a dressed sucking pig riding in a Lohengrin-like
chariot over a purple sea amused us.
In the beer hall a tinkly mandoline orchestra was playing, and a woman
without a voice sang a popular song--one thought of the women on the
Rieka River--a tired girl dressed in faded tights did a few easy
contortions between the tables, and in a bored manner collected her meed
of halfpence--we thought of the cheery idiot of Scutari. Was it worth
it, we asked each other, this tinsel culture to which we had returned?
And not bothering to answer the question went back to our hotel and to
bed.
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