The old caravanserai no
longer gives protection to the harassed traveller, it only cures his
boots, for it has fallen from sanctuary to shoemakers, and the leather
workers of Uskub cure their hides therein. Hence, despite its beauty, we
did not loiter long, for we have ever held a bad smell more powerful
than a beautiful view.
Why don't towns look tragic when their bricks reek of tragedy? Why is
industrial misery the only form in which the cry of the oppressed is
allowed to take visible shape and to make the reputation of Realist
artists? In Uskub is concentrated the whole problem of the Balkans and
of Macedonia. Her brightly painted streets are filled with Serb, Bulgar,
and Turk, each disliking the rule of the other, the Bulgar hating the
Serb only worse than the Turk because the Serb is master. To the
inquiring mind it is problematic how much of this hate is national, and
how much political. Deprive these peasant populations of their jealous,
land-grabbing propagandist rulers, and what rancour would remain between
them? Intensive civilization, such as has been applied to these
states--civilization which has swept one class to the twentieth century,
while it leaves the others in its primitive simplicity--seems always to
produce the worst results.
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