k 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. Nations can only crawl to knowledge and to
the possessions of riches, for politics to the simple are like "drinks"
to the savage and equally deadly in effect.

[Illustration: A WINE MARKET IN USKUB.]

Can the problem ever be resolved? Can Serbia with half her manhood wiped
out stand against her jealous neighbours? The creation of a lot of
small states on republican principles seems a far-fetched idea, and yet
it seems the best, especially if the menace of Turkey were removed, for
there is little doubt that Turkey, rearmed by the German, might make one
more effort to regain her lost territory under conditions vastly
different from those which ruled in the Balkan conflict. Macedonia,
Albania, and what is now Turkey in Europe, each made self-governing
under the shield of the Alliance--why not?--and Serbia as compensation
allowed to expand towards the north into territories which are wholly
Serb in nationality and in feeling.

We went through the pot market, whose orange earthenware was glowing in
the sun, and came upon an old house with such a wonderful ultramarine
courtyard that we went in to look. Over the door was written OLD
SERB CAFE JANSIE HAN. After sketching there we entered the inn for
coffee, and sat at tables made of thick blocks of marble smoothed only
at the top. The innkeeper said it was built in the days of the Czar
Duchan. If this were true, one would say that never had the interior
been whitewashed since then. But there was an air of cosiness about it,
and we visited it several times after. Near by was a little church with
a wonderful carved screen and a picture of Elijah going to heaven in a
chariot drawn by a pink horse, with the charioteer bumping along on a
separate cloud, which served as the box. We watched the sun set from one
of the tipsy-cake hills, sitting on a gravestone with an old Turkish
shepherd, who seemed to derive great comfort from our company.

The mountains around reflected the rosy lights of the sun in